Hello again, folks, from London UK

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Hello again from London UK,

I recently said that was planning new editions of my collections as well as at least two new ones. Well, I have changed my mind, having realised that most of the poems on my blogs were revised from the originals as I published them to the blogs; sometimes revisions only minor, others more substantial, but always significant.

Browsing previous collection, I have realised that no small number of poems belong to the times in which thy were written, both from sociological and personal points of view.

I have therefore decided to prepare new collections, under new title, but including some of the best poems from previous collections that reflect nature and sentiment, but don’t lean on a sociological context from which both poet and society have moved on... to a greater or lesser extent, as the case may be.

Having said that, no few of my poems reflect certain socio-cultural-religious points of view in which I am not entrenched, but which I feel the need to express personal as well as public concerns; the latter applies especially to my gay-interest poems, given that LGBT folks are still given a hard time in some communities and societies worldwide.

I don’t often add to my gay-interest blog these days, but the reason for that is that years of hormone therapy for my prostate cancer have left me asexual.  

At the time I started writing it up, it was very difficult to find poems on an LGBT theme that were non-judgemental, and I decided to try and correct this.

There is nothing unnatural or shameful about same-sex relationships; those of us who engage in them do so, not as a life-style choice, but as a result of our genetic make-up. The many bigots – all ages, from all walks of life and various socio-cultural-religious persuasions – are either acting out of ignorance or simply looking for an excuse to attack us – morally, physically or both.

The arts, of which poetry is more concerned with opening minds to concerns other than those to which they may well have been introduced, even indoctrinated, by well-meaning elders, especially during the all-important formative years. Life, though, is about becoming our own person, not as others might prefer us to be. Growing up is about coming to terms with the inner self and that may well mean having to compromise with or replace certain attitudes with which the chances are we were never quite able to enter into, even as children.

In my own mind, as regular readers will be familiar, a poem is a poem is a poem, regardless of its theme/s. I do not discriminate between gay-interest poetry and general poetry. At the same time, I could see that I stood a better chance of making this point by appearing to contradict myself in writing up separate gay and general blogs. (Even so, I have included the same poem on both blogs from time to time, especially when the theme address bigotry of any kind.)

Consequently, the majority of gay-interest poems that specifically address LGBT readers can be found in the blog archives, accessible on most servers on the righthand side of any blog page at https://rogertab.blogspot.com

When I started writing up the blogs, I did not expect much interest. Today, however, my general poetry blog reached and passed 2000,000+ views. Not a lot compared to what users on social media have come to expect, but I feel very encouraged and can but hope that more readers have enjoyed than been disappointed by the sentiments expressed in many poems, whether they agree with those sentiments or not. A poem is a poem is a poem, but they hope to offer food for thought, and agreeing to differ can provide no less hearty a meal as empathising with the poet.

I will continue to post poems, but now I need to concentrate more on preparing new collections, as I promised myself I would once my general blog passed 200,000 views as it did today. Blog statistics register almost 160,00 views for the gay-interest/LGBT blog, considerably less but well worth the effort as emails from readers of both blogs continue to confirm now and then.

Take care, everyone, many thanks for your company, as always, and be sure to nurture a positive-thinking mindset, whatever...

Hugs,

Roger

[Note: This post appears on both poetry blogs today.] RNT

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fly-past

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

I didn't have an unhappy childhood, although it was marred somewhat by my not getting on well with my father. I used to dream then, more than I do now, but they were dreams enough to help me sleep; rarely did I have nightmares. I would often confide these dreams to my mother, and asked why I dreamed at all. She was of the opinion that dreams are ways by which the human spirit seeks to bring us respite from everyday cares of the world. This made sense, even to a 10 years-old boy, but it was not until later years that I began to appreciate the truth in what she said. 

Few if any of us can say we are never touched by the more unkind, even cruel examples of life and human nature that home in on us throughout our lives. This is where the arts so often come into their own, perhaps, feeding us comfort food, inspiring dreams about that to which all art aspires, both encouraging us to open our eyes to the harsher facts of life if only to make us even more aware of its kinder, beautiful aspects to which the artist aspires to help us keep in mind. 

The act of creating any work of art, in any form, demonstrates a beauty that the work itself may appear, at first glance, to all but deny. On further reflection, though, we are taken between the lines of its prose, poetry, paint etc. into the mind-body-spirit of the artist which, more often than not is a beautiful experience. 

An art teacher at my old school once told the class that art is a “felt experience”. I would hear that same expression bandied about many times over many years before I began to experience for myself what it mean;  it was an art class, after all, and I have never been good at drawing or painting, too young then to appreciate how much the same sentiment applies to all art forms. 

While some or many of my poems may not ‘work’ for some or many readers, hopefully something of what has gone into writing them may yet provide a not unwelcome experience of sorts...?

 FLY-PAST 

We fly over oceans, rivers and streams,
whatever the weather, sunny skies or dark,
day or night, whenever the call comes
to mark a celebration of life, whether for real
or just to colour in any blanks 

We will touch base with various leafy trees,
all species, sure to home in whenever we can
on where we’ve been before in a life span
made for coupling, birthing, teaching our young
to make their own life journeys 

We fly under eagle eyes of any looking out
for us, perchance to shoot and bring us down
or - learn something of Earth Mothers ways,
though free to ignore, dismiss for no more or less
than a whim of art’s perspective 

We are birds of the air, a welcome distraction
for the mind-body-spirit left troubled by the ways
of a common humanity sure to leave scars
on a global consciousness whose essential goodness
they are inclined to wear down 

We are dreams, winging human landscapes
whatever the weather, sunny skies or darkening,
day or night, whenever, wherever, called on
to mark a celebration of life, whether in real-time
or just to colour in any blanks 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

Teller of Tales, Second to None

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber 

What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall in the Corridors of Power, just about anywhere in the world! 

There is a saying, ‘Truth will out’ and it invariably will, if only in bits and pieces for us to make of them what we will, our own bias making no less a contribution to our interpretation of those same bits and pieces as whatever personal agenda various sources releasing them may be following. 

As England prepares to enter a second lockdown on Thursday, the local gossips are having as much a field day as party politicians. As ever, I can’t help recalling what my mother used to say of national politics and local gossip alike, “Never rely on one source, and always try to keep an open mind.”

This poem is a kenning.

TELLER OF TALES, SECOND TO NONE 

I mingle with the rich and famous
every day, but am rarely in the public eye
although you may glimpse me
on the telly now and then helping to set
the scene for an interview,
a silent witness never anything to say there
and then, although the chances are
you’ll hear more from me, and openly,
no anonymity 

Politicians have always had my ear,
along with icons of sport and other masters
of their art, whether he or she
be a movie star or small screen celebrity,
writer of novels, poems, recipes
to try at home or travel tales sure to tempt
even a diehard stay-at-home
to roam beyond house and garden, by courtesy
of imagination 

I rub shoulders with kings and queens,
help lift the lid on various world intrigues
(if better late than never);
I can travel past, present and future as easily
as hailing a cab, catching a bus,
free to fly air corridors, saol oceans wide,
summon emotions good and bad,
play such games with the human psyche anyone
engaging with me 

No more sworn to secrecy than bound by time
or place, your everyday bookcase

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

 

 

 

 

 

 

Storm Birds OR Inspirational

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Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2012.

Since a bad fall about 10 years ago,  I have been physically disabled - if only slightly compared to many people - and had to spend  a good year or so learning to walk again. I will be 75 later this year and  manage to get out and about quite well in spite of various problems with the same foot that suffered a complicated ankle fracture. I use a walking stick which might as well be invisible for all the notice many able bodied people take of it when I am out and about. Cyclists on the pavements and people more interested in their mobile phones and/or listening to music on headphones invariable expect me to get out of their way because they have no clear appreciation of their immediate environment. Heaven forbid they should try looking where they are going! Even so, I remain a Happy Bunny...most of the time. wry bardic grin

There are, of course, disabled gay men and women worldwide; among them, those determined to follow their dreams in various areas of achievement, including sport and the arts. All, like everyone else, can do no more or less than get on with the daunting task of daily life even if - for many if not most - that is likely to prove even more daunting.  

As someone who has suffered significant hearing loss all my life (much improved with digital hearing aids) I often have balance problems. Given, too, that deafness is an invisible disability, with which many hearing people quickly lose patience, it is perhaps not surprising that I have always felt a considerable affinity with disabled people who are frequently - intentionally or otherwise - put down by the less enlightened among the able-bodied majority.

It is great to see more - if relatively few - disabled people represented in the occasional popular TV series like Vera and Silent Witness; mobility problems don't necessarily mean the brain is also affected (as so many people seem to assume.) 

Disabled people worldwide are an inspiration, ordinary folks, just wanting to be treated much like anyone else and encouraged to pursue their natural human potential as far as possible; is that so much to ask?

I am dedicating today's poem to disabled people everywhere.

This poem is a villanelle. 

STORM BIRDS or INSPIRATIONAL

Where able bodied folks go

in a brave new world

the less able, too, dare follow

Nor must we ever fail to show

respect for the D-word

where able bodied folks go

Find inspiration’s brilliant glow

in a storm bird;

the less able, too, dare follow

Love challenges all in the know

(Theatre of the Absurd)

where able bodied folks go

For dreams hid under a rainbow,

hope deferred,

the less able, too, dare follow

Life-force (now ally, now foe)

at best a gift shared...

Where able bodied folks go,

the less able, too, dare follow

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

An Autobiography of the Human Race

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We are all past-present-future in the flesh. We inherit certain genes and much of our approach to life is taken from historical figures who have made a deep impression on just as we, in how we live our lives, make an impression on others for better or worse; family, friends, casual acquaintances, even complete strangers. It only takes one moment in time when something we say or do strikes a chord in someone’s life that will play out forever.

We won’t all make the national archives, of course, but there is another, more extensive to the point of being inexhaustible archive that is the human mind-body-spirit, that key player in human nature that should never be underestimated; whoever and wherever we are, whatever our socio-cultural-religious background, gender or sexual persuasions, it is the backbone of a common humanity that has seen the human race also rise above all history has thrown at it, just as it will continue to do, even as the C-19 coronavirus continues to impact on us all.

This poem is a kenning.

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE HUMAN RACE

I walk with ghosts, night and day,

a presence as real to me as my own reflection

greeted in mirrors, shop windows,

still waters in dream-places keeping memories

and sometime companions alive,

urging mind-body-spirit like voices in the ear

egging urging me on, regardless

of any obstruction fallen or placed in my way

whether by accident or design

I talk with ghosts, night and day,

and they listen without interruption, just a nod

or shake of the head occasionally,

sufficient to persuade or dissuade any thoughts

to action or inaction gathering pace

demanding I look again or press on, regardless

where inspiration has landed a hit,

missed its mark altogether, deserves discussion

or better left to gather dust

I bare all to ghosts, night and day,

far more even than to those who know me best

if only because I dare not share

any part of me that takes its cue from the dead

for fear of being misunderstood

or (worse) denied a voice, left with less of a life

to speak of than even a ghost,

reduced to a skeleton in someone’s cupboard,

exhibit for some eager archivist

I am that past-present-future making of humanity

what it will, and am called History

Copyright R. N. Taber 2018; 2020

[Note: This post/ poem also appears on my gay-interest poetry blog today.]

P-O-E-M-S, Life Forces OR Poetry, Landscape of the Arts

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Today’s poem first appeared on the blog in 2015. I am only re-posting poems  that I have recently revised by changing the title, amending aspects of the poem itself if only slightly, or both; to explore the blog archives further, simply click on links you will find on the right hand side of any blog page.

Last year, a reader e-mailed to ask if I would mind if I recommend my blogs on social media. Not at all, be my guest., the more, the merrier. I should point out, though, that I no longer use social media myself. I found myself getting frustrated with a lot of 'fake news' and trolls objecting to the fact that I am gay yet write general as well as gay-interest poetry. (Do they really not appreciate there is more to anyone - whatever their gender, ethnicity or creed - than their sexuality?) I am not ashamed of being gay, but neither will I be stereotyped into any box, whatever shape or form. I am especially delighted, therefore, that some straight readers have taken the trouble to let me know they visit and enjoy my gay blog from time to time.]

Oh, and many thanks to those readers who have been in touch to say they have enjoyed some of the novels serialized on my fiction blog:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com

I hope to upload them as e-books at a later date. [I had such plans for retirement, including travel plans, but have felt overwhelmed from time to time by various health issues. There were initial problems with my prostate cancer during the early days of hormone therapy in 2011 followed by a bad fall the following year which left me with a smashed heel and unable to walk for months. Last year a venous ulcer left me housebound for months and I now need to wear compression stockings. However, I am on top of all that now if still experiencing some difficulty walking, even with the aid of my trusty walking stick, and get out and about as much as I can. More recently, of course, the Covid-19 coronavirus arrived, and I am but one among millions worn down by its consequences for all of us, although I am still alive so must be glad for that ... and count my blessings rather than whinge my woes. wry bardic grin

Meanwhile ...

There are few scenes more amazing about any landscape that particularly captures the imagination than sunbeams dancing on the back of a blast of rain.

They may well strike at the heart, those sunbeams, and open it up for nature, human nature and our own self-consciousness to make of their findings what they will ...

P-O-E-M-S, LIFE FORCES or POETRY, LANDSCAPE OF THE ARTS

Glorious landscape under a rainbow;

life-force sun come again, Apollo

re-asserting a hold on humanity as old 

as the evergreen slopes of Parnassus,

a landscape of life forces ever creating  

and re-creating us 

Birdsong, a bouquet of happy hearts

sending out a message

of hope and joy, offering sad souls

some respite from pain,

dreams to aspire, well worth recalling

where any rainbow’s turning

reveals no ages-old mythical ending

likely to help compensate

for some bleak, unfulfilling spring

(summer, too?) till autumn

takes its cue from our tears, prelude

to a wintry season of longing

for a (far) kinder spring and summer

than once came upon us

like opportunist magpies to egg-birds,

leaving a trail of blood

more likely even than Joseph’s coat

of, oh, so many colours

to be misunderstood by those of us

anxiously looking to the poetry

of a common humanity for ways

to re-invent ourselves 

Let cloud faces make what they may

of all they (and we) see, hear, say,

and do, if only for sharing in a feeling 

for the poetry of humanity, its arts,

sciences, and natural forces creating

and re-creating us 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem under the title 'A Feeling for Poetry' appears in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.]

Nature v Human Nature (Winner takes All?)

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‘It’s a life for a crust!’ my mother would often exclaim with mixed amusement and stoicism to us kids.

More than half a century on, and growing old, I understand only too well what she meant.

An earlier version of this poem has appeared on the blog before; in 2000, at the turn of the century, it was published in an anthology the same year and has resulted in a number of emails from readers (of all ages) to say how much they can relate to it. Some years on, I have to say I don’t find much changed for the better ... 

Oh, well, c’est la vie.

My maternal grandfather would often say "Better a plodder than a plonker be." Oh, and why not? We plodders are (on the whole) a happy breed if struggling sometimes to rise above the chaos of battles between nature v human nature. We try to make the best of things, refuse to be cowed (for long) by the worst, and trust common sense will (eventually) impose a benign order (of sorts) on our surroundings ... whoever and wherever we may be in a century that has come far, but still has as much to learn about as from nature and human nature, not least regarding the (all-inclusive) art of nurture.

NATURE V HUMAN NATURE (WINNER TAKES ALL?)

Can’t get on a bus, schoolkids

won’t walk half a mile;

stuck on a train, points failure,

(blame the weather);

arrive at work later than usual,

half the staff phoned in sick;

Start to get things done - and

the IT system goes down;

mad rush to meet Management’s

deadline, only to discover

it's been extended yet again;

no relief (or lunch break);

long afternoon, more than ready

to make the Home Run, left

fuming how quirks of modern life

always ganging up on me

Soon, feet up, relaxing (I wish!)

but family strife, no easy life;

a stressful stroll through streets

paved with fool’s gold,

feeling old, and youths sneering

at wrinklies in designer gear;

cyclist hurtling along the pavement

sends shoppers running for cover;

resentment boils over. I stand firm;

cyclist takes a nasty tumble;

a cop across the street rushes over,

takes my details, warns me

I’ll get a letter, says folks my age

really should know better ...

Oh. and when did mind-body-spirit

ever let age get the better of it?

Peace at last on a quiet hill as dusk

settles on this, my cruel city;

world without pity, but so beautiful;

kite flier, taking on a rough wind

with laughter, joy and pride, proof

(as if any needed) of humanity's

predilection for turning a blind eye

and/or deaf ear as and whenever,

the better to give mind-body-spirit

every chance of making good

and breaking free of what 'society'

would have us take for gospel,

since that’s the way it is, we can take

or leave it ... except we can't, won’t,

because humanity has a conscience,

that would have the last word

Much as a swallow will fly warmer climes,

shall the human heart wing kinder times  

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2020

[Note: An earlier version under of this poem first appeared under the title ‘Citizen 2000’ in an anthology, Through Life’s Window, Poetry Today [Forward Press] 2000 and subsequently in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001.]

Engaging (positively) with Personal Space

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Since I hit my 70’s (five years ago) I sometimes find myself wondering … why bother? Living alone, even with the support of a few good friends, can often seem a heavy-going, lonely battle to rise above health issues and other slings and arrows of daily life.

My mother died in 1976. We were very close, and her spirit remains as much a part of me as it ever was. I am especially grateful for having inherited her positive approach to life,being able to put any negative thoughts on hold, close my eyes and wish myself back to better times, let them comfort, reassure, inspire me to understanding full well that nature intends that we live and die  so it’s up to us to make the most, each in his or her own way, of what lies in-between. 

Instead of brooding on woes, better by far (surely?) to count our blessings in the shape of those family and friends we have known and loved, any places we may have visited that are as flowers on the evergreen Banks of Memory whose perfume we have but to inhale to be transported away from whatever moment of contemporary crisis may have struck ... temporarily perhaps, but long enough to rise above its worse moments, pause the downward spiral into despair, self-pity, whatever … and rise above it all, slowly but surely emerging from the experience better equipped not only to start looking on the bright side of life again, but actively participate in it. 

I am so grateful to my mother for her philosophical approach to general well-being that has helped me through some of the worst periods of my life, never more so than now as we all struggle with multiple consequences of the coronavirus pandemic.

Did I say it was easy …?

ENGAGING (POSITIVELY) WITH PERSONAL SPACE 

There is a place I go

known only to me, where time,

no longer counting

along lines of arithmetic

or measure of its pace,

takes me beyond known parameters

shows me who I am

There is a place I go

whenever thought cannot reason

nor sensibility rely

on some abstract morality

to come to the rescue

if only to attempt justifying whatever,

or pointing a finger

There is a place I go

where bigotry on grounds of gender,

race, sexuality, creed

(and, yes, age too) but voices

falling on cloth ears

flagging up referrals for creative therapy

(hope springs eternal)

There is a place I go

where I am free to think just about me,

well-meaning advice

(from any perspective but mine)

given short shrift

by an alter ego weary of always being lost

in translation by ‘betters’

There is a place I go

where mind, body and spirit take a break

from running rings

around me, engage with each other

and help me connect

with that whole which is the sum of my parts

(amateur self-portrait)

It’s in my personal space

that I consider and reconsider my actions,

hopefully preventing

any future systems failure down

to taking fake news

for gospel and spreading it without due care;

(garbage in, garbage out)

Ah, but personal space

cannot be contained for long in any one

persona, but needs must

journey through time and space;

rites of passage

for artists, historians, anyone with an interest

in fitting jigsaw pieces

Copyright R N. Taber 2020

T-I-M-E, Charging Up for Change

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Oh, but I remember the frumpy fifties so well…as if they were but a few years ago instead of half a century…! The leap in to the 1960 gave us all a welcome shock. Looking back, though, how much do we recall as it really was and how much has been airbrushed along the way by a cult mythology...?

Oh, but where DOES the time go, eh?

T-I-M-E, CHARGING UP FOR CHANGE

Oh, those formal, frumpy fifties!

BBC TV announcers

in evening dress even in the afternoon…

Glued to the radio (hangover

from a bleak wartime) while the likes

of Bronco, Cheyenne, Wells Fargo

and Wagon Train harvest rich myths  

of the old American West

for future generations to look back

with pride, the shame

of Wounded Knee left to Hollywood

with poor excuses

Off ‘n’ away with post-war blues,

we’re looking good…

Enter, skiffle and Lonnie Donegan

before rock and roll began

to take root and Juke Box Jury

woke us all up from days

of ballroom dancing to bold frontiers

of disco (forget the Lone Ranger

and Tonto); Mods and rockers fighting

each other for tabloid headlines,

girls adapting their hemlines to more

than simply fashion…

boys discovering drainpipe trousers

and winkle-picker shoes

Off ‘n’ away with post-war blues,

let the good times roll…

Along came Z-cars, eagerly elbowing out

dear old Dixon of Dock Green

(shortly doomed to bite the dust along

with Bronco and the rest);

the sixties taking over, Beatlemania

on a par with world religions,

politics fair game for anyone free

(supposedly) to indulge controversial

opinions of their own

so long as nothing likely to offend

Cold War ethics among gentlemen spies

and old boy networks

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2014

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in  A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.] 

The Last Word

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Regular readers may recall that, in my late 60's, I had a bad fall that saw me housebound for several months and having to deal with a nasty clot in my left leg. I made a reasonable recovery, however, and am thankful I can get out and about again, albeit with the aid of a walking stick. Last year (my 73rd) I developed venous problems, resulting in a very painful ulcer on the same leg. I endured, persevered, and eventually came through it all still managing to take my cue from Monty Python and  keep looking on the bright side of life.

Lately, so much has been going wrong that, given certain health issues as well,  I even began to wonder if it was time to let go, and hive the Grim Reaper carte blanche do with me what he will.

Yet again, an inner voice chastised me mercilessly for being negative and demanded I find a way to recover a more positive consciousness. Eventually, I succeeded; not out of the woods altogether yet...but getting there, resolved to give old age a good run for its money, and let love have the last word.

Love, of course, comes in all shapes and forms; human relationships, bonding with nature and the arts, an affinity with the animal world including, naturally, our pets ... 

Nothing and no one has a monopoly on love, whether or not we subscribe to any religion.

Peace Be, regardless of any socio-cultural-religious differences, and let's work at being kinder to and more understanding of each other as, each of us in our own way, needs must runs the gauntlet life throws down. 

As my old English teacher. 'Jock' Rankin warned many years ago, "Never assume anything of anyone until you know them well enough, and that can take a lifetime."

THE LAST WORD

Old age,

hovering like some glittering sword

just above my head

inviting the unkindest cut of all

(before my time)

grown worse in later years, defaulting

to tears

Escape,

promising an eternal peace and rest

from the complications

of everyday existence, made worse

by new technology,

progress, (inevitably) leaving some of us

behind

Streets,

living nightmare, zombies doubling

for human beings,

glued to mobile phones, laptops,

whatever mind games

best distracting from the Here-and Now’s 

demands

Often,

(like me) needing a seat on train or bus,

fishing for eyes

alert to someone else’s struggling

to stay on top of things, only catching sight

of headphones

Old age,

an everyday see-saw, few roundabouts

and swings in play;

ups and downs, sometimes sick

at heart, always having to push down harder

on positive thinking

Memory,

fading fast, the sweeter ones sure to last

If only in part

where the human heart persists

in saving best for last, halcyon days in no hurry

to pass 

Death,  

hovering like the most beautiful thing,

barely out of reach,

and just as well since temptation

no match for a mind-body-spirit set on rescue

mode

Life,

worth every convincing heartbeat for years,

no matter its defaulting

to tears of pleasure, pain, whatever

till I’m up for leaving this mad world, giving love

the last word

Copyright R.N. Taber 2020

Engaging with the Abstract

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I have really never understood abstract art, but always been fascinated by it without knowing why. One day, at a Picasso exhibition, I commented as much to the person (a total stranger) standing next to me. “It’s not about making sense as we know it,” the woman said, “but letting it take us on a journey, wherever our senses choose to take us; it is the journey that counts, and at the same time completes the artwork. There's nothing like abstract art for giving the alter ego a wake-up call." She had moved on before I could quite digest this, but digest it I did, and have enjoyed taking more such journeys since. The mind operates along lines of its having to make sense of things' the heart, on the other hand, accepts that we don't.

Every time I engage with abstract art, it feels like it is taking me on a magical mystery tour around my inner self ...

I like to think at least some of my poems have much the same effect on those who engage with them, but maybe that's just wishful thinking ...

This poem is a kenning.

ENGAGING WITH THE ABSTRACT

I lead the mind a merry dance

across lesser known parameters

simply for their being red lines

drawn across localised elements

of human nature by ‘betters’

intent on feeding their own egos

(under the heading ‘Education’)

inviting any free, independent thought

to engage, comment, pass on

I invite the body to fly all time

and space, consort with pterodactyls

regenerating through time-space

to give poor history a pat on the back

for lending a poorer humanity

its spectrum of lost opportunities,

not only excused but redeemed

by all socio-cultural-religious dogma

ever written on tablets of stone

My task, to let the human spirit

enter into a global self-consciousness,

no matter its sensibilities fear

to see-hear-feel whatever hurt inflicted

on its own and natural worlds

by way of posing as a superior species

for its strength, intelligence,

or cunning wherever pure self-interest

put down to native ingenuity

Mind-body-spirit, actively taking part

in all that comprises abstract art

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

Nature, Poetry of Remembrance

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Update (May 2016): A reader has been in touch to ask for the link to an interview I recently gave a student at my old university (some 40+ years ago) about my poetry for a multi-media project on 'an interesting person'. It was fun. Moreover, it warms the cockles of this septuagenarian's heart to know people still find me interesting. Unfortunately, this reader used the Comments button, but did not include an e-mail address so I am posting it again here.]

https://r224e31251.racontr.com/index.html  (NB. Copy into your browser to access this link.)

Meanwhile…

My mother died in 1976. I once asked her what she wanted out of life. She replied, ‘All I ask is that people remember and think well of me after I’m dead. I'd so like to be more than a photo on the mantelpiece," she added almost as an afterthought. 

What more can any of us ask for, eh?

Oh, I didn't quite get it at the time. I do now. Oh, yes, especially in springtime when I go for a walk in the countryside; I can see her smile and hear her voice everywhere I look... or... when I get home and listen to Shirley Bassey, her favourite singer...or... visit an art gallery and enjoy the Turner landscapes she loved...

Art, like nature, is always with us. Nature, though, is very much a living organism in its own right while art relies on the observer (or listener) to achieve much the same. Memories, too, are always with us, especially those surrounding loved ones. Yes, art can stir memories. Nature, though, offers a more direct route, reminding us that all living things, not just people, have their seasons, pass away and come again...

For me, it is this sense of spirituality that nature offers which transcends precious memories into a life-force in a way no religion ever could, and gives the poem its title.

NATURE, POETRY OF REMEMBRANCE 

Come a time I’ll close my eyes forever,

never again observe a waking day,

think of me with love as a new sun rises,

and weep not, but look for me there

Come a time I’ll close my ears forever.

hear dawn’s sweet chorus no more,

think of me as heavens make glad music,

and weep not, but listen for me there

Come a time my senses fail me forever,

never again smell a rain-kissed earth,

think of me as flowers open their petals,

and weep not, but walk with me there

Come a time we’ll have run life’s gamut,

may the dream that was ours never fade,

but merge into Earth Mother’s natural art

created for all our sakes and we for it

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2016

[Note: This poem first appeared under the title, 'Rhetoric of Mortality, Poetry of Life' in Accomplices to Illusion: poems by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

Pictures in an Exhibition

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

A reader from Switzerland has emailed me to ask - as people often do - why a poet writes fiction. Well, there is poetry of a kind in fiction too. I needed to try my hand at writing novels, partly because I knew I would enjoy it (as I did) and partly because i suspected it would bring me closer to an understanding of human nature...as it has; as, indeed, do all the arts, each in their own way. Take fiction; it is not all about plot, but creating characters, good and bad. The writer needs to explore the various interrelationships of mind, body and spirit. Hopefully, this has also made me a better poet... but that, of course, is up to you, my readers, to decide.

Most of my novels - published and unpublished - remain in serial form on my fiction blog. Each serial is preceded by a separate synopsis post. It wa my original intention that as each complete novel  would be published to Google Play in e-format and removed from the blog. but a number of readers have emailed to say they cannot access Google Play. For this reason, I will be publishing my gay-interest crime novel 'Blasphemy' to the blog again while continuing to make it available on Google Play. All my novels on the blog are listed at:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2016/05/news-updates-fiction.html 

It seemed a good idea to publish today's poem here (see below) at the same time as answering a number of queries about publishing my novels (and poetry collections) as e-books to Google Play over the next few years, thereby, making those that have only ever been on sale in the UK available to readers worldwide. UK sales were not too discouraging; first (and only) print runs sold quite well. Even so, I am definitely more of a poet than a novelist, although I enjoy writing fiction, and sheer enjoyment has to be as good a motivation as any.  [Few publishers have shown much interest in my fiction and not all those serialised on the blog have been published in print form; copyright to each, though, remains exclusively mine.]

A librarian in public libraries most of my working life, it would both amuse and sadden me to see hot-blooded heterosexual readers hovering  near the counter until no one else was waiting before presenting any gay-interest items (a novel,  DVD, biography of a gay icon etc.) to be issued or discharged. Many libraries have now installed issue/discharge machines that will spare them any such embarrassment. Yet, why be embarrassed?  Imagination is an Open House. I can only put it down to human nature’s preoccupation with a ‘guilt by association’ ethos and habitual inclination to jump to conclusions.

I wrote this poem while thinking about writing my first novel, ‘Dog Roses; a Gay Man’s Rites of Passage.’ The book was never published except on the blog. No publishers were interested, but that did not matter. By the time I had finished writing it, I realised why I had so needed to write it in the first place. Putting aside aspirations of fame and fortune (just as well) I needed to stop thinking about exploring human nature through fiction as with poetry, and just get on with it, give it my best shot. I have no regrets; it provided no less as rewarding an experience as poetry but via different routes and from different angles. (As for so much as a hint of talent, well, that’s something else altogether…and up to you to form your own opinions.)

I used to regret not being able to paint, draw, compose or play music... until it came home to me how all the arts share a common source; the writer, composer, painter, whatever. needs must get as close to human nature as any gardener or farmer to the very soil we feed and which, in turn, feeds us. How far the analogy can be carried, of course, depend as much on the nature of the soil or genre as that of any of us reaping its rewards; reader, listener, observer, all have no less a part to play than whomsoever's hands planting whatsoever seeds.

This poem is a villanelle.

PICTURES IN AN EXHIBITION

Exploring the human condition,

its good, bad and ugly

life forces stranger than fiction

Any flaws demanding attention,

(for all a subtle simplicity)

exploring the human condition

Nature, its greater contribution

side-lined by humanity;

life forces stranger than fiction

Exposed, a common retribution

(reasoning a moral propriety)

exploring the human condition

Satirised, a political observation

of this life’s tragicomedy;

life forces stranger than fiction

Society, pictures in an exhibition

for whomsoever cares to see;

exploring the human condition,

life forces stranger than fiction

Copyright R. N. Taber 1997; 2016