Art Forms, Life Forces

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“A picture is a poem without words”. - Horace

“Creativity is intelligence having fun” – Albert Einstein

“Art enables us to find and lose ourselves at the same time. “– Thomas Merton

The first time my mother took me to the National Gallery on a day visit to London, I could see by her expressions that she was so engaged with the art work on display that I had the strangest sense that I had all but ceased to exist for her.

Later, she asked if I had enjoyed the paintings.  I said I had, yes, but “...most of then sort of made my head swim...”, I confessed.

 “And did your head enjoy the swim?” she asked with an engaging smile.

I didn’t understand the question, but an inner self prompted me to say, “Yes, I did,”

“We’ll make an artist of you yet then...”, she laughed.

I laughed, too, not least because art was but one of many subjects throughout my schooldays at which I was considered hopeless, although I always enjoyed having a go...

More than half a century on, I continue to enjoy art forms, engaging with them as intimately as I would a close friend with whom there is, more often than not, no need for words to express pleasure in each other’s company, mutually intuitive mind-body-spirits enough. For the life of me, I cannot explain why; if asked, I would probably lose my way among mixed feelings of which I could barely scratch the surface even in a poem.

Do I consider any of my poems great works of art? I suspect few if any critics would say so, and I would be inclined to agree, but do I regret writing them? Not at all for they are who I am, love me or leave me.

Whatever, for me, personally - as regular readers well know - poetry is a form of creative therapy without which my quality of life, as I grow old and contend with various health issues, would be very much the poorer.

ART FORMS, LIFE FORCES

Art forms depicting nature,
are but inviting us to reach out
and embrace it

Similarly, life forces reflecting
various shades of mind-body-spirit,
take us forward - or to the edge
of crisis, making of us a punchbag
for mixed feelings to fret over and try
to reason the how and why

Art forms depicting nature
can but encourage us to reach out
an embrace it

Similarly, life forces reflecting
the ups and downs of everyday life,
demand we confront them
or risk losing sight of rights of way,
for an ever-thickening fog of self-pity,
enduring bane of humanity

Art forms depicting nature
can but pose questions we prefer
to ignore or defer

Similarly, life forces reflecting
the proactive mind-body-spirit urges
heart and soul to rise above all
that’s threatening its very survival,
to reset, restart, revisit such motivation
as driven to all but annihilation

Art forms enable Earth Mother
to so engage with human nature
as to shape its future

All nature and human nature
resists reproduction in quite the way
art forms may choose to portray,
but for a common denominator asking
that we engage with such senses as native
to us all – a will to live and let live 

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

 

 

 

A Measure of Creativity OR Nature-Nurture, Life Forces for All Seasons

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This poem first appeared on the blog in 2014. [I do not intend to repeat all earlier poems, but readers are welcome to explore the blog archives as indicated in the far right column of any blog page; poems published again here have been removed, and in some cases, revised.]

The cover for my collection On the Battlefields of Love (see the first pic below) was photographed by my friend Graham Collett, a graphic designer who also films and edits my YouTube channel, working wonders with my barely fit for purpose video camera; it shows the folly by the lake at Virginia Water just outside London. There was much evidence of repair work going on at the time that Graham had to Photoshop out to convey the bigger, better, picture. We were both struck by the sheer creative power of illusion; it was like hanging on to a dream and experiencing it at its very best only seconds before having to wake up and let go…

Virginia Water was first dammed and flooded in 1753. Until the creation of the great reservoirs, it was the largest man-made body of water in the British Isles; the woodlands surrounding it have been continuously planted since the middle of the 18th Century.

Nature, like human nature is both a life force for good and bad, yet predominantly for the good in the sense that both share a predilection and talent for nurture, since its earliest beginnings; for humanity,  it is left to the human spirit to engage with nurture; for better, for worse, depending on that old standby for inspiration (or excuse) - circumstances.

[Virginia Water: photos from the Internet]

A MEASURE OF CREATIVITY or NATURE-NURTURE, LIFE FORCES FOR ALL SEASONS

Like nature throughout history,

love takes on its worst fears,

act of immeasurable creativity

Glistening like a vision of eternity,

a sea of glad-sad tears

like nature throughout history

Home truths, the blackest comedy

imposed on we poor actors.
act of immeasurable creativity

Find Earth's last laugh on humanity

falling mostly on cloth ears
like nature throughout history

Watch how feisty skies effectively

feed on the world’s prayers,

act of immeasurable creativity

Find illusion but cascading prettily

down centuries of applause

like nature throughout history,
act of immeasurable creativity

(Virginia Water, UK. May 9th 2009)

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2009; 2020

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'A Measure of Creativity' in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]

Art, a Measure of Home Truths

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An art teacher at my old school once told the class that we should not only learn how to look at art but how also to feel it. That was a good half century or so ago, but I am grateful for the tip to this day.

When we look at a painting, for example, it is obvious what we are looking at; less obvious is what lies behind the painting, how the painter saw his subject through inner eye and various absorbed impressions. The artist’s choice of colours and their shades, the force of certain brushstrokes, all are clues to what he or she is saying not only about his or her subject but  also about themselves.

The best art forms are not only delightful on the eye (or ear) but also draw us into them and thereby into ourselves. In this way, many art works survive centuries and a posthumous consciousness remains available to be tapped into by the discerning art lover who may not even be an expert, simply open to ‘live’ impressions. When we look at a work of art, we inevitably if subconsciously, look into ourselves ... and what do we see?

The Ancient Greeks, of course, produced one of the earliest well-developed examples of gay art. Going their own way from other ancient cultures, the Greeks considered free adult male sexual attraction to be both normal and natural. Gay people  like me were spared tortuous closet years imposed on us by public/cultural opinion; it is one of many modern tragedies that it remains the case for far too many of us worldwide.

ART, A MEASURE OF HOME TRUTHS

Studying me, it’s likely
that far more
than all you see will touch
mind, body and spirit,
sufficiently firing imagination
to give inspiration
a voice for home truths
ghosting paths of times past
and present…

Observing me closely, find
the inner eye
homing in on brush strokes,
the lighter here
and heavier there, colours
chosen for warmth
or cold, and touches of light;
dark, dreamy twilight,
moody gloom…

Seeing is not always (quite)
believing that creativity needs
an audience;
desires one, yes, if only to share
impressions of mind,
body and spirit laid bare
in such a way
as to make a presence felt
that would out

Art, a psycho-creative presence
redefining subject and audience

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016

Never let a Wrinkle have the Last Word

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I was 70 on the last winter solstice, and more than one person has expressed well-meaning sympathy for my growing old. Well, I am happy enough...most of the time.

Yes, I get aches and pains in unexpected and often inconvenient places and, yes, my treatment for prostate cancer doesn’t exactly agree with me. Even so, whenever I start feeling sorry for myself, and lamenting my lost youth, I recall a lovely old lady in her 90s whom I used to visit when I was on the staff of a local Home Library Service. She was housebound, and suffered with severe arthritis, but had a smile for everyone. I asked her once how she coped with not being able to get out and about. "Oh, but I do," she said without hesitation. "I read, watch videos and TV, listen to the radio...and let my imagination take me places you cannot imagine. Yes, I miss walking, of course I do, and neither my eyesight or hearing are are too good these days, but imagination...well, that lasts forever just so long as we give it its head and don't let real life have its wicked way with us..."

Life is what we make it at any age.  We all want different things from life, and it is down to each and every one of us to get the most out of the time we have, on the best terms available to us, instead of constantly brooding on the worst.

Did I say it was easy?

NEVER LET A WRINKLE HAVE THE LAST WORD

Growing old can be scary,

but there’s not much we can do

about it…?

So shall we take the dog

for walkies, put the world to rights

with next door’s cat, indulge

in some chat TV, watch a DVD

and leave it at that?

Ah, but there’s more

to life than our practising

the art of killing time

even if time is no friend

(or real enemy either)

Oh, and I haven’t heard

from so-and-so for ages so time

to get in touch and find out

when we can meet up, catch up,

(maybe even make up?)

The grapevine has it

a new class is starting up;

Now, was it art, crafts

or yoga? No matter, time enough

to find out more

I’ve always wanted

to do things folks said I couldn’t,

see places they said

I really shouldn’t ‘at my age’

(Yes, even then...)

Although time does us

no favours (or is it vice-versa?)

we can put records straight,

marginalise wishful thinking

and regret

Time to wake up, get up,

make up for missed opportunities,

(at least in part) though aches,

pains, and all sorts may have lots

to say about that

Time to call on an old pal

(Will Power) to haul him out

of his comfy armchair

and make damn sure he’ll start

pulling his weight

If growing old can be scary,

there’s no end to what we can do

about it…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013; 2016

Catcher in the Eye done Good

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Years ago, I saw a painting in an art gallery that has made me reflect on the beauty of memory, capturing and preserving a precious moment in time. Yes, a photograph can do much the same, but a painting is so much more than a photograph; it reads aloud to the inner ear, thus inviting the inner eye to appreciate its every deliberate brush stroke in much the same sense and sensibility as one might appreciate iambic meter in a poem. As with all creative endeavour, the art lies in its artlessness, artist rewarding observer with an insight to a process that requires we tap into reserves of feeling of which the chances are we are not consciously aware.

Memory may fade, but the art-poem remains a part of us and will be sure to manifest itself in our approach to life, love, nature and human nature…; indeed, to  just about everything.

‘Oh,’ I hear some people say, ‘but that’s only if you have the imagination…’ Bollocks, to that! Imagination can and does work on our consciousness, yes, but it also works on the subconscious, possibly to even greater effect. So never let anyone lead you to believe you have no imagination; the human condition is better than that even where, sometimes, human nature fails us. 

Imagination is that Catcher in the Eye of which we may or may not be well aware but which, in any case, remains one of the sweeter mysteries of the human condition. 

CATCHER IN THE EYE DONE GOOD

Young girl with daisies
in the hair darts across a greeny field;
though brooding sheep
keep a sidelong watch on playful lambs,
the merry scene
attracts a frisky foal, prancing
at a boundary fence

Innocence

Young girl with daisies
in the hair glimpses a pretty butterfly,
gives laughing chase;
one tangent wing at a finger's tip,
angel face glowing
hope’s pink blushes, elusive happiness
caught on canvas

Copyright R. N. Taber 1974; 2001

[Note: An earlier version of this poem - under the title 'Brush Strokes' - first appears in Love and Human Remains: poems by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]

An Affinity with the Spiritual Nature of Ancient Woodlands

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Where Earth Mother has held a mirror to human nature for centuries, it is small wonder that even great artists struggle to capture glimpses of its reflection, relying on the inner eye to explore its similes and metaphors just as a space probe might home in on moon craters…

AN AFFINITY WITH THE SPIRITUAL NATURE OF ANCIENT WOODLANDS

Leafy dome, a spread of crystal prisms;

like a familiar cheek deflecting its tears

Stained glassiness, images of a sunset;

pink flesh betraying shades of ageing

Moon, shining through, beacon of hope;

human spirit anxious for inspiration

Stars, drawing on mythology and religion

to engage the human mind’s potential

Clouds, siding with the world’s sceptics

shaping like endings to like beginnings

Dome, engaging with our metamorphoses,

inciting we creative dreamers to waken

Glassiness, flushed with dawn’s promises;

pink flesh, responding to nature’s kisses

Birdsong, like distant bells ringing changes;

humanity, left trailing old gods and new

Between earth and sky, our time and space;

to each of us, a prism (some call it Heaven)

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015

Notes on the Physiology of Art

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I have often wondered why it is I seem to write my best poetry when I am feeling low, heading nowhere, and life a burden. 

For many years, I have suspected that the deeper into nowhere we go, the stronger the human spirit’s anticipation of finally getting somewhere comes into play; to this purpose, we may yet be close to if not at our best, albeit unknowingly, just for encouraging the human mind to shed its load and travel light - until the next time we enter into the realms of what invariably goes by the name of 'inspiration' for want of a more detailed, personal explanation...
This poem is a kenning.

NOTES ON THE PHYSIOLOGY OF ART

No burden on my back,
heart lighter for the notes
of a love song
embracing a friendly darkness
like a falcon’s feathers
before unhooded and set free,
imaging winged grace, 
challenging infinite space
in your place

The thrill of uncertainty,
potential for an epiphany  
on the inner eye
cause and effect ever on call
(metaphor for the soul?)
pointing to forfeit and reward,
endgame, peace,
once time ready to yield up
its secrets

Mind, emptied of desire,
body, exhilarating in flight
from temporality,
vulnerable to a spirituality
custom made
to nature’s specifications,
shaped and reworked
by humanity’s native genius
for anticipation

Find me, art's eternal poetry,
flying in the face of mortality

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015

Artist Unknown OR Smoke and Mirrors

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As a child, I was fascinated by a tramp who always sat on the same bench blowing various shaped smoke rings. People would often pause to watch, and then go on their way without even a kind word for the poor man although a flat cap at his feet would fill with a significant number of coins (various denominations, even the occasional note) as the day progressed.  

One day, I asked him why he just sat there blowing smoke rings. "Because I can," he said. But why, a 9 year-old Roger T wanted to know, did people give him money?  "Because they can," he said. Besides, he added with a wry smile, "They either like or don't like what they see, but it makes them feel better, for reasons best kept to themselves, to pay me anyway. I'm a good deed, lad, and nothing beats it when it comes to compensating for ...whatever."

His words meant nothing to me ... then.

 ARTIST UNKNOWN or SMOKE AND MIRRORS

Every day for years…

a tramp sat on a wooden bench

on the edge of town, no party to its life,

of smoke and mirrors

Passers-by were privy

to glimpses of have-a-go heroes

for peace and love, war and hate, chasing

smoke and mirrors

Audiences would gather,

see-feel wrong moves and right,

failures and successes, catching them out

in smoke and mirrors 

Smiles and laughter

(public fronts for private truths)

last seen grabbing at defence mechanisms,

all smoke and mirrors 

Every day for years…

Tramp on Bench, a live sculpture

shaping tell-tale coughs and dragging feet

in Smoke and Mirrors

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

[Note: This poem has since been significantly revised since first appearing in the January-June ed.'of CC & D magazine published by Scars (US) 2014. See http://scars.tv/ccd.htm for the CC &d D web page; the poem's original title was 'The Artist' and I am encouraged that feedback suggests some readers have enjoyed both versions.]

The Music Makers

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[Update, 26/9/2019: Aware that I do not use social media myself, readers often ask if they can post a link to any of my poems on social media or simply recommend any of my blogs by title. No, I don’t mind at all.  If you want to recommend, go ahead, and many thanks; the more readers, the more feedback. The only reason I do not use social media myself is because I am in my 70’s now and not well these days so simply do not have the time as everything takes so much longer; working on a poem can take days anyway, and there is always shopping and housework to be done besides regular visits to my GP surgery or the Macmillan Cancer Centre (for my prostate cancer) and replying to any feedback that gives an email address and has 'Poetry' in the subject field. (I ignore spam.)]

This poem, a kenning, has mysteriously vanished from the blog and I am reinstating it today by popular request.

THE MUSIC MAKERS

I am the lovesick composer at the keys

of a Stradivarius, the man or woman

swimming against the tide in a splendid

sea of laughter, wondering if maybe

he or she who taught them how to play

will come after them today, tomorrow,

or another time, sing a love song as old

as the sea in the ear of one who longs

for even more

I am the lark soaring to welcome the sun,

bringing hope to sleepyheads stirring

on tearstained pillows, man or woman

daring to trust in another, demanding

answers to questions haunting the mind

like ghosts striving to clear a pathway

to love for the living, lift the last obstacles

remaining, sing among larks and rise

into clear skies

I am the nocturne sent to lure us along

the Milky Way, leaving trails

few astronomers will rush to identify

for fear of exposing such secrets

as men and women have found in stars

reading like notes of a love song

since Creation, inspiration for generation

upon generation, signatures of nature

to love’s endeavour

I bring to the spirit of music and dance,

an expertise called Endurance

[From: On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

First Symphony, Play On ...

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Who can ever forget the first time they made love, and discovered that religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality...? 

'If music be the food of love, play on...' [Shakespeare, Twelfth Night]

FIRST SYMPHONY, PLAY ON ....

Our very first lovemaking 
saw me nervous, shy,

and very unsure of myself,

scared you might

feel let down, disappointed

in me, that I wouldn’t

send the same electric shocks

through your whole body

as you were passing into mine

with every deft caress,

each lingering kiss on my lips,

gently tongued apart

for strawberries and cream

on as glorious a summer’s day
as to waken the dead

My fears, they melted away

the more I felt at ease 
and safe with you, learning 
how best to respond 
to the all-inspiring rhythm 
of a your nakedness
teaching me that same symphony

of sex as composed

by the twin spirits of Passion
and Desire, worshipped 
by lovers across all time and space;
fine men and women 
creating brave new worlds
for future generations to explore, 
and leave their mark

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]

Poetry, Rites of Way OR Engaging with Mind-body-Spirit

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Now, I am often asked why I write poetry. While I think of myself as a poet who happens to be gay rather than a gay poet, the gay input to my poetry is especially important to me. Hopefully, gay readers will enjoy relating to it, if only in part, while the less gay-friendly heterosexual reader is invited to put aside any outdated, misleading, and often offensive stereotypes that continue to attach themselves to the whole gay ethic in the minds of the less enlightened.  Much the same can be said of my approach to fiction; I haven't written many novels and none have been bestsellers although they sold well and feedback was mixed but on the whole appreciative; as with my poetry, I have tried to reach a mixed readership, and enjoyed every minute of it.   Anyone interested can read my fiction in serial form on my Fiction in the Subject Field blog; synopses at:

Now, although I enjoy socialising, I am also a very private person. I have never kept a journal because I hate the idea of anyone accessing details of my private life and thoughts when I am no longer around to qualify what I wrote. At the same time, my poems are journal pages of a kind; few are strictly autobiographical, but each and every one turns on the kind of person I am, warts ‘n’ all.

Many of my poems have been inspired by conversations with all sorts of people - men and women, gay and straight alike - who have told me about themselves as this bar, that bus queue…wherever. The subsequent poem is as much their story as mine. At the same time, how I chose to write the poem illustrates my train of thought upon hearing and often relating to what they had to say and mulling it over for hours, weeks, months, and even years. My fiction takes shape in much the same way although I, personally, find poetry both more expansive and inclusive. Any readers interested, may like to visit my fiction blog sometime, details at:

https://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/2016/05/news-updates-fiction.html

Writing poetry, like any creative process, exercises the inner eye in seeing even what is sometimes considered (by whom?) best overlooked. We all need to see and feel in order to try and understand; every artist wants to share his or her insight, feelings, and subsequent understanding - flawed though it may well be - with others.

Past-present-future, the poetry of yesterday-today-tomorrow, the stuff of dreams and personal space, seeing as through ... whatever.

Oh, and, by the way, I was born on a sloping dead-end street.

POETRY, RITES OF WAY or ENGAGING WITH MIND-BODY-SPIRIT

When this life ceases to be,

my spirit left to feed on eternity,

what will they think of me

who drank my wine at table,

doubted I was even able

to write at all or, at least, as well

as one might who always

kept Mount Parnassus in sight,

despite the English climate?

Oh, I dare say they were right,

but I’ve so enjoyed being a poet,

lapping up all criticism, praise,

scepticism, quips about simplicity,

a serious lack of intellectuality,

how gay-interest poetry undermines

a proud genre’s finer integrity,

compromises the very aesthetic

of its history and spirituality

I've heard it’s a cardinal sin

to lower the tone, let anyone in

on a poem, its place in the arts

intended to impress, access

only partly allowed or its mystery

all but solved, and that way

(surely?) anarchy lies. Whatever,

a poet will always have the edge

on Mr, Mrs, and Ms Average

Although but mortal, mind and body

expect more of the human spirit

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2012

[Note: An earlier version of this poem was mistakenly published under its draft title 'Requiem for a Poet' in A Feeling for the Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.]

Variations On A Theme

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Hello from London UK.

I am fine, folks, (thanks to many of you for asking) but feeling very tired again after another restless night. [For the benefit on first time readers, I am being treated for prostate cancer and doing okay.] .

Now, my late mother was always singing around the house and there was a time I thought it was because she was happy. In later years, I realized that she sang to think herself into happy mode; singing, for her, was a kind of escapism just as reading was for us both. My mother always wanted us to be a happy family unit, which we never truly were. I mostly blamed my late father, but I dare say he and my brother would put the blame on me.

I stopped playing the blame game years ago and can see now that I was not an easy child to live with. I suffered from depression (no one acknowledged depression in children then) that brought on awful migraines. In addition, I had significant hearing loss that no one ever appreciated, including me, until I was much older. As a teenager, being removed from my childhood friends at 14 years-old and forced to live in a god-awful backwater called Hoo (in Kent) did not help, especially as it coincided with my realizing I am gay; gay relationships would not be decriminalized for a few years yet.

Yes, I was a ‘difficult’ child and youth although no one knew just how troubled I was. [My perception is that family members sit down and talk to each other even less than we did then so heaven help future generations!] The only surprise about my having a severe nervous breakdown in my early 30’s was that it hadn’t occurred years earlier. It was a messy business. By then my mother was dead and neither my father nor brother ever asked me for my side of events that took place during that terrible time. They made assumptions and I was expected to live with them. I recovered sufficiently to find another job nearly three years later, but it took me a good ten years or so to recover fully and get my life back on track. [Even so, my breakdown still haunts me just as those closet years of awakening sexuality always will.]

There was something very wistful about my mother’s singing, yet positive too; it helped her rise above the trials and tribulations of everyday family life just as writing helps me. How many of us, I wonder, find similar outlets for their frustrations? For my own part, as regular readers will know, writing as an art form comes a poor second to its means to a very effective form of self-help therapy.

VARIATIONS ON A THEME

One long-ago spring,

I heard an old flower seller

hum a song my mother

would always sing to me

whenever I felt sad

and lonely, evoking a line

from a poem about

a pretty robin left sobbing

(for all innocence?) as autumn
starts to turn

I was so innocent then,

listening to Mother singing

a song to lift my heart

though I’d often wonder

why it sounded so sad

and lonely, like the flower

in a poem, rejected

for pretty rose tree blooms
begging a poet’s eye find excuses 

for its thorns

One long-ago winter,

I heard another flower seller

hum the song my mother

still sings to me whenever

I miss her, feel so sad

and lonely for no one even

trying to see how it is;

song, mother, child, robin,

rose, poet, poem…but variations

on a common theme

Life forms, art forms, companions

to wishful thinking

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

[Note: References to ‘a poem’ in stanzas 1 and 2 relate to The Blossom and My Petty Rose Tree  found among William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience, but whether or not readers are familiar with these should (hopefully) make little or no difference to any appreciation of the poem.]

Inspiration

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One of the nicest compliments I receive is from readers who say that as a rule, they don’t like poetry but enjoy reading the blog.

So can we try a little experiment? Please send the blog URL to at least one person you know (especially if they don’t like poetry) and ask them to do the same. Then we’ll see what happens:

http://rogertab.blogspot.com/

Meanwhile…

This poem was written with a woman in mind whose courage in the face of serious health problems as well as her natural beauty is truly inspiring. She is also a dancer. Oh, she’s not rich or famous, just one of thousands of ‘ordinary’ people who are far from ordinary.

This poem is a villanelle.

INSPIRATION

Dancer in the gloom

with angel poise

lights up any room

Sunshine in a storm

spreading its rays,

dancer in the gloom

A music all her own

across stone floors

lights up any room

To Penelope’s loom,

her soul she bares,

dancer in the gloom

Like heaven’s broom,

our fears she clears,

lights up any room

Mere flesh and bone,

our joy and tears,

dancer in the gloom

lights up any room

[From: The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004]

Lasting Impressions

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Today’s poem last appeared on the blog in February 2009 and has been requested by ‘Louisa and Richard’ to mark the birth of their daughter Charlotte Anne. Congratulations!

We owe so much to the Arts and its artists. Who would want to live in a world without music, theatre, paintings, sculptures and other such labours of love? They are always there to  remind us of takes on life, love and death that comprise humanity, men and women creating lasting impressions that we should never take for granted.

Update (March 2016): Some readers may be interested in my reading of the poem - along with another - on Brighton beach for my You Tube channel (see below) albeit in the early days of the channel before Graham and I discovered how to insert a voice file so I could read a poem over the video. [For other videos, visit https://www.youtube.com/user/rogerNtaber ]

LASTING IMPRESSIONS

Once I heard a story
about a dream that never dies;
of all we hope to see
beyond love’s tears and lies

Once I read poetry
about a love that never ends,
its spirit set free
from all the body but lends

Once I heard a song
that let fly my heart like a bird
soaring proud and strong
on the wings of every word

Once I saw a painting
of lovers in some long-ago time
yet as real as if still living
the dream now yours and mine

Once I saw actors bring
love’s ageless story to the stage,
a poem about our writing
its every word, turning every page

Come cut and thrust of all creation,
it’s to love we look for inspiration

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

[From: Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]