Living with Dragons

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

A reader writes that it is all very well for me to encourage positive thinking in the face of adversity, but it is easier said than done. True enough, and have I ever suggested it was easy? We all need inspiration and hope to see us through the harsher facts of life we are likely to have thrown at us from time to time from one source or another. 

As a child, I loved fairy stories and legends, and still do. I have met parents who forbid their children to read them on the grounds that they are not true-to-life and leave them ill-prepared for such trials and tribulations as they will invariably encounter as they grow into the adult world. Not unusually, I disagree. 

More often than not, fairy tales and legends have happy endings, heroes getting the better of villains and everyone left living the Happy-Ever-After that is their hallmark.  Not so, in real life for much of the time. Even so, the best tales see good overcoming bad, heroes defeating villains etc. Like many children, I used to love role-play, even on my own, when I would play the imaginary hero sure to get the better of whatever villain I would pick from whatever story or (as would happen not infrequently) a real-life experience at home, at school, wherever. 

The death of a loved-one or close friend can take us to the edge of reason, sending us into battle with the most fearsome of all dragons, our own mortality; even as we grieve,  we find ourselves fighting on two fronts. Some find inspiration in their religion. Me, I take heart from Happy-Ever-After tales whose endings are but new beginnings. No? Well, disprove it if you can.

Such role-plays would serve me well as I grew to face the harsher realities of teenage years and adult life. At 75, I can honestly say they still do. Mind over matter, much of it well may be, but if it works… who cares? I have lost count of how many times I have become a favourite storybook hero in my head and it has lifted flagging spirits just to feel that I can and will get through a bad time and learn from it… eventually. 

“I believe in everything until it's disproved. So, I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it's in your mind. Who's to say that dreams and nightmares aren't as real as the here and now?"― John Lennon. 

LIVING WITH DRAGONS

Some ghosts, they haunt
shadowy corners of the mind
while others would keep us
safe and sound from such fears
as well might make
cowards of us all or, worse still,
see us engage with dragons shadowing
our darkest thoughts 

The human spirit, it run 
a gauntlet of conflicting emotions;
love and hate often vying
with each other to be top dog
in stakes whose winners
take all, losers left mulling over
how they might do better another time,
and someone to blame 

Such is the Here-and-Now
a blast of home truths stripped bare
of such excuses
as might well fool any believing
they know us better
than we know ourselves
but for a dragon bringing us down
and proving us all mistaken 

Ah, but the human spirit
is a match for any dragon’s hellfire,
not least for fighting
fantasy with fantasy, so dampening
flames of innuendo
fuelling gossip and stereotypes
behind closed doors (as only human)
with a kinder imagination                              

Life may be going so badly
as to wring tears of despair from us,
yet we have but to play
giantkiller, visit friends in Toyland,
cross angry seas
with Ulysses, reunite with love,
in whatever it is every human heartbeat
will always have a head start 

However high, whatever odds
stacked against us, there are beanstalks
to climb, giants to defeat
(one way or another) and dragons
to confront head-on,
for where the heart is willing,
as led (or misled) by faery days of long ago
be sure the mind will follow 

Therein lies the untold story of humanity,
its penchant for fantasy… 

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ship of Fools

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

It’s bad enough that there are still those who insist climate change is some kind of global-political conspiracy theory, but to believe much the same of the Covid-10 coronavirus when the World Health Organisation has recorded a million deaths, and still counting, is just daft.

As for those who are protesting about their Human Rights being undermined by various governmental safety precautions worldwide, that makes sense of a kind but is just selfish; everyone has the right to take risks on their own account, but no one is entitled to take the same (or any) risks on behalf of others, leastwise not without their approval.

Friends who happened to be in central London at the same time as a so-called Human Rights protest about Covid-19 restrictions in Trafalgar Square were appalled by the size of the gathering, no one wearing masks or making any attempt at social distancing; later, of course, they all piled out into the streets of London just as they had all piled in, no thought as to whether they might be spreading the Covid-19 virus.

Most conspiracy theorists and the like are either simply afraid of the truth or cling to the notion that any excuse is better than none when it comes to not doing whatever it is they don’t want to do, regardless of any potential consequences.

As general rule, I wholeheartedly support Human Rights worldwide, but not when it means putting other people at risk.

SHIP OF FOOLS

There is a Ship of Fools
that has sailed the oceans wide
for centuries, only anchoring
in harbours of the world
to pressure more fools into joining
those already on board 

Conspiracy theorists swear
its survival on High Seas means
we really must pay attention
to whatever fake news
they may well be as up for spreading,
as motives for speculation 

Captaining a Ship of Fools
is Fantasy, patron saint of all those
plainly preferring to turn both
blind eye and deaf ears
to suspect goings-on all but knocking
at their own front doors 

Fools are as welcome to points
of view as anyone else, but should
refrain from forcing it on others,
as they do who rush landfall
without a mask, thereby risk spreading 
the Covid-19 coronavirus  

Each to his or her own, yes, true,
but there are exceptions even to laws
written in stone, given all humanity
has a right to fair play - if only
along the lines of agendas reading
better safe than sorry ...

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

Take care, folks and stay safe,

Hugs,

Roger

 

Winter, haunt of 'live' Ghosts

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

I may seem strange to publish a winter poem in August. Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2010 at a time when the UK and much of Europe was seeing its worst winter for some years. 

Ten years on and many of us are experiencing a cruel winter of the heart as the Covid-19 coronavirus remains active worldwide; combined with the effects of increasing climate change, the world and everyday life as we know it is changing faster than anyone could have predicted even just a few years ago.

A reader suggests I am "talking nonsense" when I refer to a posthumous consciousness. Fair enough, we must agree to differ.  Only ... an aunt of mine lost both her son and daughter in their early 20's within just a few years of each other; one to a driving accident, the other to breathing difficulties made worse for being asthmatic. She once told me that "Of course I miss them terribly, more than  words can say, but they will always be a part of me and their dad; their presence there is not only veyt real but also very comforting. We are still a family, after all." 

I felt much the same way when my mother died, although having to cope with the reality meant it would take a nervous breakdown three years later to - eventually - reach the same place as my aunt.  

We die, yes, but its is far more than a poet's imagination that we live on through others, for better, for worse, although the human mind-body-spirit is such that it is more likely to take inspiration from the former than dwell on the latter. 

Those life forces that are the making of us all may well be a curious combination of good and bad, but mind-body-spirit will always make more room (and time) for the former ... if we let it, rather than put up roadblocks along the lines of envy, jealousy, and a sense of being unable (quite) to forgive, either ourselves and/ or others. 

WINTER, HAUNT OF 'LIVE' GHOSTS

Where once daisies in meadows green,
footmarks where Jack Frost
has paused, glanced over his shoulder
for any sign of a 'live' ghost
(man or woman?) haunting each step
he takes…
marking each heavy, careless tread,
all green things left for dead
that may yet be saved
where other seasons await their cue
within its savage breast

Sure to bide its time before descending
on wings of a dove
spreading its wings like an eiderdown
of white satin
where a restless world dreams of waking
to a peace and goodwill
folk singers will celebrate for years,
while angel voices make a play
to fill half empty pews
and world leaders grace Sunday prayers
in election years

It will not stay long, if time well spent,
making good at least some
of the damage old Jack inclined to do,
reminding brave robin,
(eternal optimist) of other lives sleeping
off hangovers
from half forgotten centuries lusting
for the joys of spring
all but lost in the thick of such wars
on nature’s own deadlier even than Jack’s
for being human

As peace, to pain, a kindness sure to show;
where winter ghosts, spring sure to follow

Copyright R.N. Taber 2007; 2020

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

Boy on a Rocking Horse

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

Todays poem first appeared on the blog in 2012; I recorded it on You Tube at the time:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b0gU5W8OQ2I (direct link to Video)

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtabe (for my You  Tube channel)

‘Powerless Structures is the beautifully created figure of a boy on a rocking horse and was the latest art work to grace the 4^th plinth in London’s Trafalgar Square.

The poem I have recorded over the video unfolded in my mind the more I considered what the sculpture meant to me personally. The rocking horse that stood by my bedroom window when I was just a boy provided an escape from the harsher realities with which, as a child, I was poorly equipped to cope. My imagination would let fly and take me into magical realms of fantasy, fairy tale and legend as regular readers of my blogs and/or collections know. .

Hopefully, video and poem complement each other in such a way that where the poem is a fairly personal take on the sculpture, the video leaves plenty of space for the viewer to bring his or her own take to this bronze figure of a boy on a rocking horse and latest art work to grace the 4th plinth in London’s Trafalgar Square. 

In line with the existing iconography of the other statues in the square, the child is elevated to the status of a historical hero. However, where they acknowledge the heroism of the powerful, this work celebrates the heroism of growing up. The image of a young boy astride his rocking horse encourages observers to consider the less spectacular events in their lives, which are often the most important.

Danish artists Michael Elmgreen and Ingar Dragset are widely reported as saying it was “up to the public to love it or hate it, but hopefully not ignore it."

Never ignored, that’s for sure.

BOY ON A ROCKING HORSE

Boy on a rocking horse,

rocking to and fro,

are you part of a happy family,

and do they love you so?

As a child in my bedroom,

I used to rock to and fro,

looking out of my window

at the garden below …

One day, at my window,

rocking to and fro,

a swallow settled on the sill

and said, ‘Hello.'

‘Don’t you ever get fed-up

just rocking to and fro

when there’s so much to see,

scores of places to go?’

‘There’s far, far, more to life

than rocking to and fro.

Fly with me and see the world,’

said the swallow.

If I had been happy enough

rocking to and fro,

now I longed to see the world

like the swallow

I became, oh, but so excited

that I rocked to and fro

so hard that, suddenly, I took off

through the window;

at first, flying was a terrific thrill

(after just rocking to and fro)

seeing how people, places, animals,

make up the world we know 

Then I recalled my little room

where I’d rock to and fro,

believing my folks would miss me

and how I loved them so.

‘Please, swallow, take me home

where I can  rock to and fro,

feel I belong, be part of a family

if only because I miss it all so.’

The swallow then took me home,

to just rock to and fro

by a window, looking on a garden

in a house (still) haunting me so

as any child who ever dreamed

while rocking to and fro

on a safe, friendly rocking horse

will, oh, but surely know

I know you, Boy on a Rocking Horse;

we met years ago, in a looking glass

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Ancestral Voices

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2011.

I need to say a big thank you to those readers who have been in touch to wish me well with my prostate cancer from the start; biopsy, diagnosed positive, and subsequent battle with years of hormone therapy. It is good to know there is still a strong sense of common humanity out there.

Oh, there will always be bigots who love to pontificate on this and that if only because they are punctilious pricks huffing and puffing their own self-importance at the doors of anyone who’ll listen. BUT...there are also many decent people in the world, of all socio-cultural-religious persuasions, with open minds and open hearts.

Life is nowhere near as black and white as the world's media love to portray it. Oh, but thank goodness for that!

Meanwhile...

This poem was written in 1999. I have always been fascinated by the way we can look at history and form opinions that reflect and compare the way we were then and are now, even as we make and become history with each passing second.

Regular readers will know I have a passion for walking by the sea. Sadly, mobility problems prevent me from indulging these days, but I guess that's where memories and imagination come into their own. Oh, I love woodlands too. Wherever, nature has stories to tell that go back centuries for those who care to listen. For me, though, it is the sea that has a stronger grasp of humanity and how it has shaped Earth’s history for good or ill. A common thread running through all the stories is its capacity for survival.

Oh, people may come and go, fashions and attitudes change, but hard pressed and war weary as it may be, humanity (if not all humankind) continues to hold its head up high; and so it will always be, so long as nature passes on its story and sees to it that somehow there will always be some of us left to listen.

ANCESTRAL VOICES

Rise and fall, rise and fall, waves

whispering me …

Tell of Adam in the Garden,

Samson at Gaza, Clinton for president;

Boudicca in warrior dress,

Mother Teresa, an earthy saintliness;

Humanity, body and soul, History, stored

(and stirred) in a golden bowl

Oh, spare me your blushes

softly treading sky, retreat behind veil-mask

for naked come I to it all;

let me bathe in the twilight of half-gods,

engage with their history, legends, fantasy,

join them for a photo-call

Rise and fall, rise and fall, such waves

as whispering me ...

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eZLV23r6NdQ&t=40s

[Note: The video - looking a little jaded now, I'm afraid - relates to a different poem but several readers have asked me to repeat it, although I am not sure if yours truly, walking by the sea on Brighton beach some years ago, will be of much interest. wry bardic grin ]

Leap of Faith OR Peace in our Time

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

Today's entry is from my gay-interest poetry blog archive for October 2016.

Apologies for the length of this post, but it seemed a good idea to publish the poem here at the same time as answering a number of queries regarding my fiction. (Some of my novels will be of special interest to gay readers.)

Since I first learned to read at 4 years-old, I have been an avid reader, especially of fiction; it offered an escape from certain realities of home life, not least an appalling relationship with my father.  At the same time, I have always enjoyed poetry; my mother would often recite dramatic poems like The Highwayman (Alfred Noyes) and The Ancient Mariner (Samuel Taylor Coleridge) at bed-times as well as or instead of reading a story.

My first poem appeared in my secondary school magazine in the summer of 1955 when I was 11 years-old; ever since, I have always thought of myself as something of a poet. At the same time, my passion for reading fiction remained my chief raison d’être throughout my childhood, teenage years and young manhood; as I became aware of being gay in a society where gay sex was a criminal offence, so the greater my need for escapism. [My partial deafness was also a factor in my hunger for fiction, given that I was constantly mishearing and consequently being misunderstood; at times, my reality was kind of hell.]

The more I read, albeit more fiction that non-fiction, the more I felt an affinity with the darker as well as lighter experiences of its various protagonists; I would often identify with the former and take heart from their (eventually) overcoming the worst of times while the latter encouraged me to develop a wry sense of humour which would carry me through many a humiliation down to both my hearing loss and being verbally abused for being gay. 

A teacher at my old secondary school was something of a mentor. I had confided in him about my sexuality as he was one of the few people in my life that I felt I could trust. I also told him about the conflict within me between distancing myself from a Christian upbringing and my feeling closer to nature than I ever did to religion. "Whatever," he said with a wry smile, have faith in yourself, Taber. Learn to trust your better instincts and feelings, and the rest will follow. What doesn't seem right to some people, doesn't make it wrong, just so long as it feels right to you." On the whole, I hated my schooldays, but I had some of the best teachers a very confused teenager could wish to have.

I wrote the poem below while thinking about my first Gay Pride march and writing my first gay novel, Dog Roses. The book was never published except on the blog. No publishers were interested, but that did not matter because by the time I had finished writing the poem, I realised why I needed to write it in the first place; it was as if the poet in me was telling me to stop thinking about exploring human nature through fiction, but get on with it, give it a go. I have no regrets about leaving a permanent job for what would now be called a zero-hours contract so I would have time to do just that. (In those days, there was plenty of work available.) I have enjoyed every minute.

For anyone interested, my gay-crime novel ‘Blasphemy’ has been published on Google Play: 

https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Roger_N_Taber_Blasphemy?id=mNlsDAAAQBAJ&hl=en_GB

- although I have also reinstated it (in two parts) on my fiction blog after many requests to do so, and will not be uploading its sequel, Sacrilege, (see my fiction blog in serial form) to Google Play. For more information about my fiction, see below and:

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

Someone once described the act of Coming Out as a leap of faith. How true that is. I took that leap  om my first Gay Pride march years ago, and never looked back.  It was was truly a leap of faith; faith in myself and that I was committing to a good life, one of which I had been in denial (to most people) for far too long. On that march I experienced a new sense of completeness and personal freedom that dispelled any lingering doubts as to whether or not being openly gay was right for me. For me, yes, but I can see only too well where others are coming from who may feel it's not the right move for them, especially any gay people living in a gay-unfriendly environment. Even so, there is no feeling quite like shedding the shackles of misinformed formative years...

This poem is a villanelle.

LEAP OF FAITH or PEACE IN OUR TIME

Find G-A-Y coming out for peace with pride

against the language of bigotry

till the language of hate has no place to hide

Wherever so-called ‘betters’ presume to decide

(and judge) on matters of sexuality,

find G-A-Y coming out for peace with pride

Challenging holier-than-thou types sure to side

against love perceived as immorality

till the language of hate has no place to hide

Among voices debating Convention as guide

and role model in a token reality,

find G-A-Y coming out for peace with pride

Questioning laws passed to incriminate, deride

and silence any significant minority

till the language of hate has no place to hide

Defining all humanity wherever cultures collide

in the course of world history,

find G-A-Y speaking up for peace with pride

till the language of hate has no place to hide

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016

MY NOVELS

DOG ROSES; a gay man’s rites of passage

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/dog-roses-chapter-one.html

(Gay-interest)

BLASPHEMY: a novel [Crime/Gay-interest] - also available as an e-book on Google Play.

https://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/2018/02/blasphemy-novel-by-roger-n-taber.html (Pt 1)

https://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/2018/02/blasphemy-novel-by-roger-n-taber-part-2.html (Pt 2)

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/blasphemy-synopsis.html (Synopsis)

https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Roger_N_Taber_Blasphemy?id=mNlsDAAAQBAJ&hl=en_GB (Complete novel, Google Play)

SACRILEGE

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2012/10/sacrilege-chapter-1.html

(Crime/Gay-interest; sequel to Blasphemy, continues the adventures and misadventures of Laurence Fisher)

LIKE THERE'S NO TOMORROW

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2011/10/like-theres-no-tomorrow-synopsis_3445.html

(Crime/Mystery)

CATCHING UP WITH MURDER

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/catching-up-with-murder-novel-synopsis.html

(1st Fred Winter [crime/gay-interest] novel)

PREDISPOSED TO MURDER

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/predisposed-to-murder-synopsis.html

(2nd Fred Winter [crime] novel)

MAMELON (Book One):

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/mamelon-fantasy-novel-synopsis.html

(Fantasy)

MAMELON (Book Two):

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2016/12/mamelon-2-chapter-one.html

MAMELON (Glossary of Names and Terms used):

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/mamelon-glossary-of-names-and-terms.html

:

Celebrations ringing True, ringing False

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

Sometime next year, hopefully in the spring, a selection of my general and  gay-interest poems will be published by Austin Macauley (London and New York); it is the first time a mixed selection of new and revised poems will be so widely available in bookstores around the world, and I am hoping it will fare well enough to allow for a follow-up volume. Here is no money in poetry, of course, but your support can only help give it a stronger voice in the modern world. I am 72 now, and have been living with prostate cancer for nearly eight years so may well be living on borrowed time. One day, the Grim Reaper will come calling, and I dare say my blogs will eventually descend into some digital Black Hole …

Ah, but still looking on the bright side of life here, and not ready for the G R just yet.

Meanwhile …

Every year for some years now, I have sent gay and gay-friendly straight friends a poem instead of a card as I am not really a Christmassy person and do not subscribe to any religion. Well, Christmas is almost upon us and I would like to take this opportunity to thank you, my readers – whatever colour, creed or sexuality, wherever you are and whether you dip into just one, both. or even all three of my blogs - for letting me into your lives.

CELEBRATIONS RINGING TRUE, RINGING FALSE

Christmas, ringing out loud and clear,

carol singers at the front door

mistletoe and ivy in the living room,

customised fir trees everywhere

dressed up with fairy lights signalling

festive cheer

Christmas, ringing out loud and clear,

children, live portraits of delight

embracing the stuff of winter dreams,

home comforts and joy everywhere,

all dressed up in laughter if only to hide

splitting seams

Christmas, ringing out loud and clear,

mums and dads denying the cost,

refusing to put a price on getting away

from a world in pain everywhere

all dressed up in promises of another day,

another year

Christmas, ringing out loud and clear,

celebrating the birth of a boy

believed by Christians to be the Christ

reaching out to a world in despair

in peace and love superseding any dogma

anywhere

Christmas, ringing out loud and clear,

disturbing the rough sleeper

fearful of waking to cold, snow, hunger,

home comforts but chinks

in curtains wrapping up my brother’s keeper

in make-believe

Copyright R. N. Taber 2018

Rascals on the Run OR The Shape of Things to Come

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

‘Around the rugged rocks, the ragged rascal ran,’ was meant to be nothing more than an introduction to alliteration in the course of an English lesson when I was about 12 years-old. Yet, even as my teacher spoke those words, an image was forming in my mind of some unfortunate lad dressed in rags, bare feet bleeding after running round rugged rocks for no reason other than it was something to do, better perhaps than…well, whatever. (Being in school on a lovely summer’s day perhaps?)

That image will always haunt me. If childhood was no bed of roses, it was no bed of thorns either, but there were times when the going would get rough, not least because I had a hearing problem (perceptive deafness) that would not be properly diagnosed until I was 20 years-old. I’d find myself running round and round various rugged, metaphorical rocks unable to break whatever vicious circle of existence pursued me. Break it, though, I did, time and again if only by exercising mind over matter, a strategy that has served me well throughout my adult life.

Don't get me wrong, there was plenty of love in my childhood, fun times too, but that old adage 
'Children should be seen and not heard' was applied by just about everyone just about everywhere in those days, and having a voice to which people may well lend an ear but without actually listening is a tough nut to crack at any age, especially for a child still very much a novice in the art of language and communication skills. Most children and young people, though, are not only better able to adapt to circumstances than many adults give them credit for, but also have a much better idea of who they are, articulation or not. I know, I did. 

RASCALS ON THE RUN or THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO COME

Around rugged rocks, ragged rascals

run …into a story-poem as (gradually)

mind and spirit start homing in  

on artful shadows penetrating a mist,

outline of a child chasing shadows,

doing battle with hidden fears, taking

a pride of sorts in wiping away the first

of, oh, so many tears

Sea sounds, music to the child’s ears,

fun waves splashing on dream holidays,

TV family laughing, applauding…

till time to wake, give wishful thinking

the elbow, start climbing up walls

where giant spiders have ears, tell tales

enough on cry-baby bed-wettings to give

even a rascal the shakes

One times one is one, two times two,

(time to tie a shoelace, heading for a fall)

distant voices jeering, clapping a rascal

made to stand in front of the class, object

of pretend martyrdom, subject of abuse,

taking a pride or sorts in refusing to shed

a solitary tear, allying with artful shadows

dampening red hot coals   

One times one is one, two times two

(shoelace a sloppy bow, heading for a fall)

dispassionate voices, chasing a rascal

through the streets of town for truanting,

preferring to get high with crack-heads

than some bottomless pit of name-calling

created especially for those unable to keep up

a semblance of appearances

One times one is one, two times two

(best designer gear, evidence of a fall)

no character references for the court,

gets twelve months, no surprises there

for a rascal despatched to learn (or teach?)

a trick or two about climbing walls

where giant spiders with ears and eyes

make short work of flies

Sea sounds, in young-old ears,

fun waves splashing on dream holidays,

TV family laughing, applauding…

till time to wake, give wishful thinking

the elbow, start climbing up walls

where giant spiders have ears, tell tales,

carry knives or guns, and not to kill flies

or give rascals the shakes

Around rugged rocks, ragged rascals

run…into a story-poem likely to haunt

generations of children weaving

fictions around lives unfit for purpose,

branded liars and tantrum throwers

for a want of articulation on an absence

of real understanding in a world obsessed

with its own worldliness

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Tell-Tale Mind

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

How many of us, I wonder, show ourselves to others as we really are rather than whom we would like them to think we are? Many people seem to think I am a strong person and very self-confident. Yet, nothing could be further than the truth. I portray a fictionalized version of myself in which I believe, because I have never quite managed to work out what it is about my real self that I can believe in.

Sometimes, when we are discussing mutual friends or colleagues with other friends and colleagues, even members of our own family with other members of the family, we are not infrequently surprised by what we hear and may even wonder if we are talking about the same person. I guess we present a different persona to different people. Yet, those personae are all the same person. So are we, I wonder, all caught up in our own fictions?

I have kept faith with my sexuality since I came out as an openly gay person many years ago, and am certainly not ashamed of being gay. At the same time, all those formative years of having to lie because being gay was a criminal offence have left their mark. In those days, I had to create an alternative persona in order to survive. On the one hand, there was the conscientious if not very bright schoolboy; on the other, there was the shy, scared teenager struggling to come to terms with an awakening sexuality and finding ways of satisfying it that would have shocked just about everyone I knew. I’d cruise for sex and love-hate every minute of it. I was like a good-bad character in a novel. My life, for years was a split reality. Even now, years on, no one knows or will ever know how much so or just how much of that split personality remains.

Oh, I am no Jekyll and Hyde, but if someone were to ask, ‘Will the real Roger Taber stand up please,’ it would be a motley collection of characters that step out of the storybook that is my life.

This poem is a villanelle.

TELL-TALE MIND 

I’d show the world what I would be

(as if make-believe pays)

but the mind, it tells tales on me

Terrified, as I confront adversity,

a sailor on angry waves,

I’d show the world what I would be

‘Be brave, go free,’ love told me,

quick to learn its ways,

but the mind, it tells tales on me

From nature, I take my humanity

(lost in a temporal maze);

I’d show the world what I would be

I have kept faith with my sexuality,

(mastering its ways)

but the mind, it tells tales on me

The heart, it seeks refuge in poetry

(from its nightmares);

I’d show the world what I would be,

but the mind, it tells tales on me

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009; 2011

[Note: Yes, I know I’ve been oversimplifying in my preamble and not saying anything original, but readers often ask what lies behind a poem, what prompted me to write it in the first place. Besides, I am writing a blog, not an essay on the human psyche.]

Living with Hans Christian Andersen

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

Everyone loves a Christmas tree, but (let’s face it) Christmas does a fir tree no favours.

Now, both as a child and adult, I have loved the fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen...at any time of year. As Christmas draws near, I cannot help but recall The Fir Tree.  

The fir tree is in such a hurry to grow that it fails to enjoy the beauty around it. All it thinks about is how much it wants to become a tall fir tree and see the wide world and experience new things. It finds no joy in the moment, but is always longing for the future. Finally, the fir tree realizes it has wasted its life by living for the future instead of for the present.  As a story about failing to appreciate what we have going for us until it is too late, I dare say many if not most of us can relate to it in one way or another?

Hans Christian Andersen, 1805-1875

As well as loving Andersen’s fairy tales, I carried much of their sense of morality and spirituality with me into adult life, which is possibly why I still enjoy reading them from time to time. It can do no harm (can it?) to recall that naïve, free, faery, spirit upon whose back I would frequently ride off into magical other-worlds and find respite from childhood’s darker side. (However much we may like to think of childhood as all innocence and light, it is no more immune to the harsher realities of human nature and everyday existence than adulthood; the latter, even at its worst, at least offers experience and choices rarely if ever available to us as children.)

This poem is a villanelle.

LIVING WITH HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

A certain Danish weaver

became a tailor, turned to acting, 

found fame as a storyteller

His tales told world over,

(inspiring many an ugly duckling)

a certain Danish weaver

Denmark’s heart breaker,

(the little mermaid lost everything)

found fame as a storyteller

Shrewd political observer,

(even of an emperor’s new clothing)

a certain Danish weaver

Steadfast, like a tin soldier,

(firm favourite at bed-time reading)

found fame as a storyteller

Where childhood rides forever

on the back of its wishful thinking,

a certain Danish weaver

found fame as a storyteller

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013