L-I-F-E, Target Practise OR True Grit

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

I have often been asked why I write poetry and, yes, it is creative therapy, but just how therapeutic, I underestimated for many years. 

I’ve always been more of an outsider than an insider, in practice if not at heart. I would blame my perceptive deafness, once it was finally diagnosed in my early 20’s, not least because it can make group situations and human relationships generally, a (very) trying experience for all concerned. More recently, I have felt inclined blames the side-effects of hormone therapy for my prostate cancer among other health issues, as well as simply growing old. 

Yes, writing has always been an escapism of sorts, but it would be many years before I saw it as part of the very reason I needed to ‘escape’ in the first place. 

One of the first poems I wrote appeared in my secondary school magazine, at the end of the summer term, 1956. I was 11 years-old. My English teacher, “Jock” Rankin asked me why I not only clearly enjoyed, but also wrote poetry. “It always  makes me feel better, sir,” was all I could think to say, and it was true even then. 

“Ah, Taber,” he said with a sigh, “All art forms are a gift, and well may they see us through just about anything. Bear in mind, though, there’s no such thing as a free gift.” he gave me wry smile. 

“Thank you, sir.” I said,” but it would be many years before I’d even begin to understand what he meant. 

L-I-F-E, TARGET PRACTISE or TRUE GRIT

Once, I would regret
how good times fly, leaving me
stranded in some dream place,
having not yet had my fill of company
of the kind all wishing and hoping
in sweet dreams aspires to bring
elements of nature and human nature
to near perfect harmony 

Once, I was too caught up
in the thrill of simply doing things,
going places, smiley faces
taken as read, happy to take potential
at face value, let it make a fool
of me if it will, more stars in my eyes
than tears if only for new skills duly noted
for future reference 

Once, there came a time
when the world would elbow me
into regions of personal space
to which I had all but closed my eyes,
tried to turn a deaf ear,
needing to be part of a Here-and Now
to which I can not only relate, but also see 
past any closet fantasy... 

Mind-body-spirit, refusing
to despair, though standing accused
of giving itself a free hand,
failing to grasp the essentials of a life
for which the price we all pay
is death, so... making a case for those
seeking to improve on a more common feed
without reasoning the need 

Discernment, target for any mind-body-spirit
engaging with true grit

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Rule of Thumb

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

When I failed to get enough A-levels to take up the place at Library School that I had been offered, I was in despair as to what my next step should be. My English teacher told me “Never lose hope, Taber, or you will lose everything.” It sounded somewhat trite at the time, and I took little comfort from the sentiment, but over the years I have learned the wisdom of it. 

Emigrating to Australia in 1969 was more impromptu desperation than a plan, doomed to failure from the start. Even so, it gave me six weeks to think things over during a voyage on the good ship, Southern Cross. I couldn’t get a job, ran out of cash, and ended up sleeping under Sydney Harbour bridge. Then I met an old Aborigine who not only gave me hope, but also told me how to get back to the UK (without having to get into debt) and make a fresh start … which I did. 

A few years after I returned to the UK found me at university and doing OK.  Seven years later, mother died, the only member of my family who really understood the problems I faced with perceptive deafness and how it had contributed to my not having achieved as much as I’d hoped at the ripe old age of 30. Consequently, three years on found me doing battle with a nervous breakdown. Again, I am ashamed to say my first instinct was to run away and I took an overdose. Life, though, had other plans for me, demanded I get real, let hope back in and make the best rather than the worst of my situation. I started writing again, and that was a GOOD start. With the encouragement of several people in my life (not family) providing an invaluable support network, I eventually got another job as a librarian four years later, and stayed there until I retired in 2008, although I went part-time after 13 years in order to make time for more creative writing,  a life-saver  as depression was starting to take over again. 

I will be 75 in December, not a good age to find oneself in the midst of a pandemic, but I continue to seize the day, give depression the old heave-ho, and let hope take its course if only because there is no workable alternative. After my nervous breakdown, I had promised myself that I would never again wake up wishing that I hadn’t. So far, so good...

A RULE OF THUMB

Dour mist lifting,
late morning sun, a smile on its face,
rescuing us from doldrums,
whisking us to a better, kinder place,
encouraging divisions 
to reconcile, religions to come together
in the same love and peace
whose rhetoric its peoples would have us
engage with its principles 

Birds singing,
as if telling us not to despair of winter,
but remember best summers,
look to spring, when the chances are
Earth Mother will bring
new leaves for our trees, new flowers
to cheer home and planet,
a burst of incomparable colour
having us engage closer with Earth Mother
and also with one another

Humanity, waking up,
resolving to put aside any cares of the day
long enough to listen
to what mind-body-spirit has to say
about how best to rise
above dark scenarios closing in
on the Spirit of Morning,
re-engage with a sense of hope-faith-charity
that characterises humanity

True, we well may argue “Easier said than done …”
but that’s a rule of thumb for everyone 

 Copyright R. N. Taber, 2020

 

 

In the Frame (Again)

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

Many people in denial are not consciously aware of it. Ask someone if they are homophobic or racist, for example, and the chances are they will deny it even if their behaviour suggests otherwise. Yes, they may well not want to openly admit they are guilty of something they know in their hearts is morally indefensible, but some people are genuinely in such denial they cannot and will not accept any such accusations. 

The subconscious, however, has no such inhibitions and it can lead to a sense of confusion that, in turn, can cause depression. Take yours truly, I was never in denial of being gay from about the age of 14; not to myself, that is. True, in those days, LGBT folks were not, on the whole, well received by society so I  I decided it was better to keep my sexuality to myself. It was not until after my mother died when I was 30 that I came to realise that it was not my sexuality that had kept me in what had been, for the most part, a very lonely closet for years but my family. I'd had no doubt in my mind that - with the exception of my mother – my family would not be supportive.

Maybe I was wrong, maybe not. More than 60+ years on, I'll never know for sure any more than I suspect they will either.

So … what did this say about me, as much as my family? It took a nervous breakdown to finally admit that I had no real sense of family, and my subconscious had been wrestling with this since my schooldays. If we had been a family that talked things through and could really talk to each other, things might have been different, but it was as it was; no one to blame except perhaps ‘society’. Whatever, the emotional estrangement I’d felt with my family took a physical turn, and I doubt whether any of them will every understand why. I blame myself for not standing up for, LGBT rights, letting anger, hurt and resentment get the better of me …and more. But any attempt at reconciliation would be a waste of time, nt least because I don’t want one any more than I suspect, at heart, they do. 

If I could put the clock back, the one thing I would definitely do would be to insist we talk to each other as a family, no rushing to judgement. Sadly, though, 1950’s society was inclined to rush to judgement on many matters that continue to haunt even a so-called ‘progressive’ e 21^st century when it comes to prejudice and discrimination to which, notwithstanding Human Rights and Equal Opportunities, many societies and communities around the world remain in denial.

IN THE FRAME (AGAIN) 

Whenever I am feeling low,
I stroll in a field where sunflowers grow,
reaching for the sky, as do I
when moods have me slump in an armchair,
wondering where I go from here,
searching a wall for answers
finding none, inspired to go searching in a field
of sunflowers  

Engaging with me, my sunflowers
talk me through all that a mind-body-spirit
in free fall needs to know
if to prevent a battering from the such winds
and rain as even humankind 
finds hard to bear, all but beaten to a pulp
by mixed emotions, times changing for the worse,
no easy solutions 

They will touch upon ancient myths,
these giants of their kind, rework them for me,
place them in a Here-and Now,
where, just as Apollo failed to win Daphne
for his own, so, too, must I home in
on any suspect motivation and blind speculation,
fuelling apprehension and self-doubt, obey instincts,
make a decision 

All thought processes now hopefully
more open to home truths and common sense,
time to focus, get real,
leave a field of  sunflowers on my wall
to its fading, antique frame,
shake off my slump, demand all mind-body-spirit
pull together, reason the need and dare give it a name,
put it back in its frame

Yet another existential traveller, looking for answers  
in a field of sunflowers...

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2020

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where the Keyword is Self-Awareness

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

A new poem today, probably brought on by my having too much time to think during such days of Covid-19 coronavirus that the world is waking up to every day, but none of us know how any day will end; even so, 'Hope springs eternal' ...  which definitely has to be my all-time favourite among corny truisms. wry bardic grin

Some of us, for whatever reasons, get off to an uneasy, if not downright unhappy or bad start in life; some blameworthy fate seems to have it in for us.  I felt this way for years as a teenager and young man, not least because I was gay and same sex relationships were illegal at the time; other influences, too, mostly from family and peers, saw my younger self in something of a psychological mess for which it suited me to blame some existential fate rather than take responsibility for myself.

Eventually, I came to realise that any hell I was in was of my own making; it was the start of my finding a way back to a self with whom I was (and still am) more comfortable.

“I have always believed, and I still believe, that whatever good or bad fortune may come our way we can always give it meaning and transform it into something of value.” 
- Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha

“You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.”  often attributed to C. S. Lewis

WHERE THE KEYWORD, IS SELF-AWARENESS, 

There is a part of me

that no one ever gets to know

for my living out

its fantasy, a nightmare fiction imposed

on mind-body-spirit

Mind, it can but fight

as best it can to get the better

of forces as unremittingly

as uncaringly infiltrating the human body

time after time

Spirit, it can but resist

until worn down by nightmares 

passing for home truths

by certain elements of human psychology

worn on its sleeves

The better part of me,

struggling with secrets and lies

it’s made to house

in a heart hell bent on betraying appearances

behind closed doors

The years, they but pass

in tears for needing  to break free

of a mind-body-spirit

that would ransom me to Reason, but Reason

is having none of it

Finally, Reason pays up,

returning me to the kind of self

that is a kinder person,

if vulnerable to life forces that can get the better

of you, me, anyone

I grow old, but less haunted

by secrets and lies putting me down

than by other ghosts, 

old allies in adversity come to rescue me again,

and dry my tears,

That's life, and human nature;

we may well seek to nurture a natural 

predilection for peace 

and love in a world open to taking on all-comers,

but… who knows…?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

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

Past-Present-Future, Tales told by a Looking Glass OR Look and Listen

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

This is an early poem, written some years ago and only slightly revised some years later. 

Many thanks to those of you emailing to ask how I am getting on with compiling a new collection of poems. Progress remains slow but sure. Years of hormone therapy for my prostate cancer having messed with my thought processes and want of a good night's sleep combined with the stresses we are all under due to the coronavirus pandemic ... well, they don't help. wry bardic grin But I plod on, not least because I have no choice but I genuinely enjoy writing up the blogs and compiling poetry collections, not only for the welcome distraction they provide, but because they encourage me to keep looking on the bright(er) side of life.

Now, while many of us may well look in a mirror and see beyond the image confronting us, how many of us, I wonder, actually go there?  It took me a good while to understand that being gay is an integral part of who I am and to deny it meant letting voices from my past dictate my future. Those same voices were already responsible for a serious mental breakdown (some 30+ years ago) and the road to recovery led to my deciding that it was high time I found a voice of my own and let it take me wherever …

"If you go through life only seeing what you want to see and hearing what you want to hear, much of it will simply pass you by...," thus commented my old English teacher, 'Jock' Rankin on the subject of poetry appreciation during a lesson in which the class was not responding very well to a poem by one of my favourite poets, Robert Frost, that he had read out to us.

Education is hanging around until you’ve caught on. – Robert Frost

To be a poet is a condition, not a profession. – Robert Frost

PAST-PRESENT-FUTURE, TALES TOLD BY A LOOKING GLASS or LOOK AND LISTEN

Looked in the mirror, and what did I see?

Tears where a smile should be;

walked into the mirror, and where did I go?

Back to a place I used to know;

put an ear to the mirror, and what did I hear?

Nothing I had not heard before

Looked around that place, and what did I see?

Dark shadows ganging up on me;

(nowhere to run, hide or expect sanctuary);

fear would be the death of me;

put an ear to my heart and what did I hear?

Nothing I had not heard before

Such love in my heart, and where did it go?

Out of the closet I used to know;

closet slammed behind me, what did I do?

Began making things right with you;

confronting a sorry world, what did we see?

Home truths in the grip of hypocrisy

Looking love in the eye, and what does it say?

‘Never let bigotry win the day…’;

walking out in the world, where do we go?

Wherever its kinder faces on show;

put an ear to the world and what do we hear?

Nothing we have not heard before

Copyright R. N. Taber 1982; 2015; 2020

Clouds

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

As a child (born 1945) I was stroking a cat one day, happened to look up and could make out a cloud in the shape of a cat. I asked my mother what a cat was doing in the sky. She told me that cloud is a gauze curtain that takes many shapes through which God can see what we humans are up to on Earth. Rain, she added for good measure, is His tears because he rarely likes what He sees, especially when little boys misbehave.

I was very close to my mother. She was a very Christian woman, and although she was far from being one of those people inclined to inflict their own views on others, her words put me off religion forever if only because I did not like the idea of any God spying on me; nor did I much care for the implied threat that I should behave myself … or else. Even so, her words haunted me for many years as I grappled with various concepts of religion and God, eventually discarding both in favour of nature. Nature would offer the young (gay) man I became, a sense of spirituality that came free, no strings (or dogma) attached yet contained within the organised chaos of a time frame-cum-continuum to which the Muse in me could easily relate.

It took me many more years to even begin to articulate on that offer, but was happy to settle for the warm glow it awoke in me and the subsequent poetry it has never ceased to comfort, teach and inspire. Whatever our race, creed or sexuality, we are all but human and - where we like it or not - we are all in the swim of life together. 

This poem is a villanelle.

PHOTO: from the Internet

CLOUDS

Cloud cover

come another dawn

(like cats' fur)

All a-shimmer

(a lonely, weepy sun)

cloud cover

Quicksilver

heavens for everyone

(like cats' fur)

‘Live’ mirror

(humanity looking in);

cloud cover

Analogies

demanding our attention

(like cats' fur)

Fine promises

caught out on the turn?
Cloud cover

like cats' fur

Copyright R. N. Taber 1999; 2016

[Note: revised (2016) from an earlier version that appears in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; revised ed.in e-format in preparation.] 

Insight, the Twinkle in Time's Eye

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

Rarely are our thoughts processed more intensely and tested than as we ponder questions about life and death, especially the latter if only because it represents The Great Unknown and we human beings prefer to know (for sure) what we are up against. Throughout our lives, we have at least the semblance of some control, but over the time and nature of our death we have little or none. More disturbing still, what happens once we are cut free of a life that so loves to play us like puppets on a string and go into free fall? Something or nothing…?

Those who subscribe to a religion think they have the answer while those of us who don’t take hope from nature’s cycle of renewal.

Whatever, thinking about such things, homing on any conclusions (however arbitrary) we may reach and acting on them, is probably as good a preparation for life and death as we can aspire. 

There is much to be said for the old adage, look before you leap, but it has to be said that the looking eye does not always see; it is the inner eye, as prompted by searching thought, that is more likely to home in (or not) on not only what is it looking at but also looking for.

Looking, finding, reworking, making reparation, whatever ...  life, art and science owe much to its wannabes and wanna-knows. As for what anyone really thinks about all they see and hear, few will ever get to know unless they have access to his or her personal space.

INSIGHT, THE TWINKLE IN TIME'S EYE

Squatting on a patch of waste land,
imaging the growing emptiness
of wishful thinking feeding streams
of consciousness running through
alleys, backyards and housing estates,
watching the living and the dead
vying for time's favours in diaries
and poems they were always meaning
to write

Addressing the insubstantial nature

of shadows, inner sight focusing

on the human spirit playing host to body

no more or less than the flow of blood

feeding its veins as myth's muddy waters

close in, re-assessing attitudes scrawled

in everyday graffiti or glued to pasteboard

points of view; scientific, religious…

(does it really matter?) ever attempting

to win us over by fair means or foul

since that first day at school, now exposed

for the saddest, cruellest trick of all

Articulating on life as mind-body-spirit 

preparing mind and body to chance

a coming of age, despite envious gods

and their petty tyrannies if upstaged

by human selfishness, stuff of immaturity
feeding an ego-led imagination
(Oh, and whatever happened to that?)
and leading us astray who so love to think
we know it all

Focusing on and interpreting the purpose

of one starry eye watching out for us

who are frantically rummaging mortality,

for a kinder fate (surely?) than to be left

drifting in full view of old gods gathered

to gloat, our humanity come less than right

for running the gamut of human history

posed by selective readings between lines

of cautionary tales told by one, Jonah,

from the belly of a whale last seen spouting

gobbledegook to hunters well up for the chase

no more or less than for its own sake

Mind-body-spirit, cultivating the wry twinkle

of all-seeing eye

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2016

[Note: This poem has been revised from an earlier version that appears under the title ‘Death Star’ in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber 2010.]

Mentor for a Learning Curve

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

Several readers have emailed to ask why I do not use social media to promote my poetry. Well, I no longer use social media because I got fed-up with stupid trolls taking up my digital (and personal) space.

One reader asks if it is because I fear criticism. On the contrary, I thrive on genuine criticism, for better, for worse. Similarly, I do not publish comments on the blog although I read them all and will reply if readers include an email address.

I am 73 now (since the winter solstice) and have known better days, but always looking on the bright side of life. Even so, I don’t socialise much now so enjoy exchanging emails all the more as it helps me feel in touch with the world beyond my own four walls. (Spammers beware, though, as I have learned the hard way to spot whether or not an email is genuine …)

MENTOR FOR A LEARNING CURVE

I will take your hand

through good times and bad,

help dry your tears

come happy days and sad,

lend a shoulder whenever the need

never knowingly intrude

You have my ear

should you ever want to offload,

confide any fears,

or doubts about which road

to take whenever the way ahead a blur,

mind-body-spirit unsure

I but ask for your trust

whenever needs must we share

the consequences

of doing this, going there,

as advised against by family and friends,

conscience justifying ends

Let us reason with any need

so confronting the human mind

that the human heart

feeds on desires of a kind

it once thought well and truly risen above

if never (quite) left behind

I am Discernment, come to teach you how

to best grapple with any Here-and-Now

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

I-D-E-N-T-I-T-Y, Parts of a Whole

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

A reader has emailed to ask why I frequently refer to mind-body-spirit as a whole in my poems (and subsequently in the Labels column for the purpose of word searches) rather than mind, body and spirit as separate phenomena if only for convenience or (as I see it) paying lip service to convention.  The poem below is by way of offering an answer. 

We are all of us different, each in our own way, and it is our differences that make us human.The inner eye discerns this, that, or nothing at all; the body has different demands depending on how we prefer to define our sexuality; the human spirit turns on how the sum of those differences occupies our personal space whether (or not) inspired by socio-cultural-religious conventions written on tablets of stone. 

Like the human heart, the mind-body-spirit is a free country; sadly, for many people, it is only truly accessible by way of personal space, that part of us where Freedom really keeps its word; people may well do their best to intrude, even force an entry should we not wish to let them in, but no one can altogether usurp or even destroy it however much they might try. 

Those who would (and do) exploit our weaknesses, invariably underestimate our strengths; strengths supplied by mind-body-spirit as a whole, not its parts. Whether we identify as Gay, straight or transgender, human nature is likely to harass us from time to time because it is a complex organism for which there is no standard template; fortunately, that whole comprising mind-body-spirit provides an open-all-hours sanctuary from its worse aspects while encouraging us to appreciate and enjoy its kinder side. Moreover, something about it is clearly capable of infiltrating human thought in the form of remembrance after it ceases to occupy the human form; death as loss, is hard on all of us, but as a posthumous consciousness it may well continue to inspire is ... if we let it.

We are, each and every one of us, the sum of our parts; it is, of course, the whole that really counts; we should not dissect to make a point, homing in on any those parts with which we may take issue, although human nature being what it is, we are often inclined to do just that.

This poem is a kenning.

I-D-E-N-T-I-T-Y, PARTS OF A WHOLE

I am Mind, part of a whole

bent on solving crises,

finding ways to neatly avoid

the slings and arrows

of human nature, rise above

even its worst flaws.

look on the bright side of life,

through thick and thin, stay true

to a kinder philosophy

I am Body, part of a whole

whose every heartbeat

is listening out for like souls

made to run the gamut

of prejudice, discrimination,

and, yes, even worse,

finding solace in those sins

certain world creeds and cultures

oh, so love to hit out at

I am Spirit, part of a whole

where personal space

provides the ‘live’ poetry of peace

and love insisting Mind

and Body direct the inner eye

where it needs must go

to avoid jumping to conclusions

comprising circumstantial evidence

provided by stereotypes

I am Mind-Body-Spirit, the person

often dissected for being human

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

Engaging with the Abstract

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

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

The Yellow Balloon

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

Children across the world are expected to take its worst tantrums in their stride, but for how long…?

For the many caught up in its conflicts, the world must often seem a bleak place, any worthwhile future, for them at least, an all but impossible dream.

Of course, it is not all doom and gloom, but children should not have to snatch at happiness as and when they can; it should be the greater part of growing up. Yes, even playtime has its ups and downs, good times and bad, but that’s life, a learning curve for all of us at any age. 

True, the world today is a dangerous place, but children need to be reasonably prepared for, not scared of it. Besides, is not having to deal with parental and peer pressures enough without having to contend with being made to feel they are a disappointment for not fully participating in someone else’s second hand life or, far worse, struggling to survive a war zone? 

Whatever, indeed, happened to playtime?

THE YELLOW BALLOON 

Children
playing with a yellow balloon,
mothers calling   
back home, as a mocking wind 
snatches it from tiny fingers,
dispatching it to drift mottled skies
weepy with satire?

Children
chasing after a yellow balloon,
father calling
back home, but they play deaf
among innocent cries
inciting adventures, welcome respite
from secrets and lies

Children
trying to catch a yellow balloon
beyond either reach or ken,
no sense of direction, quickly
consumed by angry skies,
menaced by cloud figures waving
smoking guns

Children
observed in tears over a balloon
burst by a phoenix
rising from its everyday ashes
to heavens where sunlight
last seen glancing off shrapnel
slowly killing them

Children, in near and faraway places
picking up the pieces…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

Figures in a Landscape OR Home Truths, Chief Protagonists in Art Forms

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

Regarding my You Tube channel, it appears that some viewers have not realised they should keep the sound on to catch the poems I read over the latter videos nor that the poem is also included in the description that accompanies each video. Hopefully, this information will add to your enjoyment as Graham and I have a lot of fun shooting the videos and writing the poems. We don’t have a state of the arts video camera, though, so don’t expect a BBC level production:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Meanwhile...

Among all art forms, it is possibly a painting that brings us closest to considering home truths we prefer to keep at bay...? Could that be because all art probes the secrets of nature and human nature that, as we connect with and relate to it, in one way or another, we cause at least some to surface? T

Art, indeed all the arts, are one of the rare occasions when time really does wait for us to make our mark (for better, for worse) and make ourselves heard... whether or not anyone chooses to look, see, hear, listen...

FIGURES IN A LANDSCAPE or HOME TRUTHS, CHIEF PROTAGONISTS IN ART FORMS 

Colours, plain enough

to see, tricks of light

portraying the same scene

if differently, discerning inner eye

homing in selectively

Familiar enough backdrop;

humanity busy scrapping,

hell-bent on settling old scores

under the very noses of arguably

elected ‘betters’

Society stripped of dignity,

its integrity left wide open

to question, hypocrisy ripped

away like ozone, ways of seeing

increasingly less clear

Earth Mother going it alone;

world conforming

to tribal identities, a conflicting

evolution, pictures in an exhibition

up for speculation

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2014

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]

Lines on the Extraordinary Nature of Ordinariness

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

‘I’d love to write poetry, but…how do I find something to write about?’ people often ask.

Well, try looking all around and letting your senses loose on sight and/or hearing and/or smell and/or touch and/or taste...

[e.g. See also: 'Puddles' ]

The chances are the inner self will respond, and that response is called inspiration.

As for a choice of genre into which to channel inspiration, whether it is writing, music, art...just go for what appeals to you most and never be afraid of someone trying to put you down for a poor result (there will always be someone) because there is no such thing as a poor result where someone has put their inner self on the line by creating something. Success is relative, and a bonus; it is finding inspiration and learning to use it as a creative tool that counts. 

My personal experience, as someone who has suffered serious bouts of depression since early childhood, is that making this particular journey is also very therapeutic.

LINES ON THE EXTRAORDINARY NATURE OF ORDINARINESS

Clouds, magic carpet rides

away from it all…

Birdsong, calling to mind

bathtime rituals

for potential divas to woo

an audience, willing captives

of imagination  

Grass, littered with daisies,

sunspots of memory…

Trees, leafy arms signing,

telling us off for things

we’ve done, forgotten, never

meant to happen

A broken fence, urging us to

repair old friendships…

An empty chair, in memory

of someone who’ll never

sit there any more, words in

the air left unsaid

Crisp, clean pillowcases, all

to ourselves…

Watching a damp patch on

the ceiling spread,

fill the eye like a weepy sky

passing judgement

Ordinariness, the extraordinary
nature of poetry...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2014

[Note: This poem has been revised (2014) since its first appearance in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]

Artist Unknown OR Smoke and Mirrors

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

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.]

Curtain Rising on a Sense of What's What

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

This poem could just as well been published on either blog, given that people are people are people, whatever their sexual orientation or socio-cultural-religious background. Many if not most of us would agree, of course, while just as many others continue to judge LGBT people differently.

Sometimes we wake up and wonder,  we bother? Time then to force ourselves to prepare for another day, throw open curtains and windows, breathe in deeply, imbibe the sweeter sounds and smells of life and let them inspire us...in spite of everything that seems to be working against us.

Now, nature may well be as fickle as humankind, but we have but to open our minds to acknowledge its capacity for life, love, and peace to feel invited and inspired to share in it all … and let sheer willpower do the rest, albeit with a native inclination for positive thinking in the driving seat.

No? Try it, and see. It has worked wonders for me over all of 70+ years, even getting me through a bad nervous breakdown in my 30's.

Did I say it was easy ... ?

CURTAIN RISING ON A SENSE OF WHAT'S WHAT

Human hearts top-heavy,

so needing to give expression
to an ache in the soul,
but no one to listen, everyone
playing pass-the-parcel
with us to avoid being put
on the spot or delivering us up
to an answering machine

Come, let's at least try

to appreciate how Earth Mother
does her best for us

Sunshine in a misty rain

making pretty flowers grow;
heavens shedding tears
for us even while raising smiles
on human faces
etched with pain if only
for having gone that extra mile
and been let down

Longing for loved ones

far away (or dead) to give us a hug,

make everything all right

Listen! The trees are singing

in country, city, and town;

Look! Children laughing, playing,
lovers wishing on stars,
Life forces ever reaching out to us,
inviting us to share in it all,
though human nature play us
fair or foul

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2014

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Curtain Rising in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

Spinning Yarns

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

As a child, I loved reading myths, legends and fairy stories. As an adult, I began to realise that many are an entertaining metaphor for real life. Even so, not all magic is wishful thinking. Yet, the same imagination that fed on those stories so long ago continues to see me through the same need for escapism some 50+ years on.

The trick, of course, lies in learning to separate fact from fiction, wishful thinking from reality, naked truth from bare-faced lies....

SPINNING YARNS

Storytellers would have us believe

that once there was magic in the world,

a time when we all sang songs

of peace and love till a twilight fell

that had us playing hide-and-seek

among ruins of halcyon days confined

to make-believe

Storytellers would have us believe

that once there was chivalry in the world,

a time when men opened doors

for ladies without their being accused

of sexism, nor would a lady mind,

but take pleasure in being noticed so,

by way, too, of common courtesy  

Storytellers would have us believe

that once there was the stoicism of Penelope

who contrived to remain faithful

to the love of her life without being accused

of pandering to her man,

rather of ingenuity for putting a unique

spin on love

Storytellers would have us believe

that the old gods were jealous of each other,

interfering in the ways of humankind

that played them at their own games and won,

tore down their temples,

created a copycat Olympus

on Capitol Hill 

Storytellers would have us believe

that once there was magic in the world,

a time when we all sang songs

of peace and love till a twilight fell

that had us playing hide-and-seek

among ruins of an innocence confined

to childhood

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

[Note: While I never made it as a successful novelist, I confess have really enjoyed trying my hand at fiction from time to time; if interested, go to: http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2016/05/news-updates-fiction.html on my fiction blog where most of my novels (published and unpublished) are serialised.]