Art Forms, Life-Forms

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

People have often asked me why I write poetry. Another friend, a painter, is often asked why he paints. Why does anyone get involved in any of the arts whether it be creative writing, music, acting, dance or floristry... whatever, the answer is essentially the same. 

Any art form invariably makes the artist feel good, not only about participating by way of communicating, expressing something of the inner self that needs to make itself seen and heard, but also, in turn, being explored by inner eyes and inner ears, among any who care to look and listen. 

We may well disagree with what we see and hear in an art form, but it will invariably give us food for thought. 

Now, I know I have said as much in previous posts and the reader who emailed yesterday to tell me off for repeating myself too often makes a good point. At the same time - and the same applies to the creator and/or participant in any art form - if something is worth saying, it is always worth repeating. 

As for agreeing or disagreeing with whatever point/s are being put across within it, that is part of the art process, drawing us in. Even artists often find themselves at odds with themselves as they pursue whatever it is they are trying to say, struggling perhaps to give it form and meaning; to this end, they may well play devil’s advocate, not to confuse, but lead us to consider our own position and just where we stand in relation to... whatever. 

It may be a painting, a sculpture, a piece of music or a floral display... take any art form lightly, and we risk losing a sense of enlightenment as likely as not to influencer our lives for the better, whether minimally or substantially. 

ART FORMS, LIFE-FORMS 

During formative years,
I’d shed tears for feeling unsafe
in a world teaching me words
to help me guard against the threat
of mutual misunderstandings,
arts of communication as divided
by as many reasons swung
like axes of the proverbial kind
as human remains left behind

 Grown older and wiser
to ways of a world as excited
by the intimacy of playing
word games in any public arena
as lovers testing out dreams
in such open (or closet) scenarios
as may or not work out
for better or worse, blessing or curse.
in a private-cum-public space 

Grown old, the more so
for having had to agree terms
with strangers in my mirror,
shadows haunting dining tables,
or cosy corners for family,
friends, lovers indulging in rites,
acting parts in good faith,
so kinder worlds may yet save a heart
whose faith in one, fallen apart

Find me in all art forms, asking we consider
the good and bad of all we may yet deliver

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

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.]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soldiering On

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

Today’s poem only appeared early last year, but I was unhappy with both title and poem in spite of encouragement from friends to publish it here. Hopefully, readers will enjoy this version; I have changed the title and completely revised the end couplet. (So why post a poem here if I’m not entirely happy with it? Well, sometimes I am too close to the poem to see rather than simply sense what is wrong or missing; this is, of course, where any critical feedback comes into its own. (Academically, I didn’t do well at school I the 1950’s/ early 60’s, but had some excellent teachers; one of the most valuable lessons they taught me was to always face up to my shortcomings and mistakes, even if only to myself.)

I dare say most if not all of us have upset someone at some time or another with an accidentally inappropriate choice of words. I can think of several occasions when it has happened to me, and I’ve not always been able to mend fences with the person or persons concerned. Some people are quick to take offence and slow to appreciate that it well may be that no offence was intended.

Many years ago, I upset my secondary school English teacher by a using poor choice of words. I apologised, and explained I meant no offence. He accepted my apology, adding a word of warning that has stayed with me these past 50+ years. “Never, but never, underestimate word power, Taber. It can make or break or break any relationship. More often than not, you’ll never understand why unless you make the effort to find out. Even then, the chances are barely 50:50 that the other person will have a clue what you’re on about and will proceed to hold a grudge likely to prey on your mind for years. Most people, you see, forget that different words mean different things to different people. As for the spoken word, well, tone and body language are everything, and half the time we’re unaware how we are using either.”

Oh, but he was so right, and I have inadvertently found myself in that the same situation time and again, not least because I am partially deaf . Believe me, though, those of us who wear hearing aids are no more vulnerable to mishearing and/ or misunderstanding  than the average hearing person. Most of us who belong to the former category can usually tell from the other person's tone or expression that we have misheard and will act to prevent any misunderstanding. Sometimes an apology-cum-explanation can clear the air, sometimes it won’t stand a cat in hell’s chance of getting through to the offended person.

Language lays traps; it is always worth remembering the old adage advising us to think before we speak (write, e-mail, whatever) or risk its damaging the best of good intentions; its misuse is a common enough mistake that most if not all of us make at some time or another, grounds enough for appeal, surely, should we accidentally put a foot wrong? Sadly, such is human nature that it is (too) often inclined to turn a deaf ear.

This poem is a kenning

SOLDIERING ON

I’ll fight the good fight

with the very best of intentions,

yet often misunderstood

for a rogue devil in the detail,

invariably missed

by thought processes less familiar

with the subtler art

of meaning as regards prime destination,

a sensitive mind-body-spirit

Losing the good fight

has been known to hurt those most

whose side I would take

against the harsher machinations

of life, love, whatever

it may be seemingly conspiring

to set us at worse odds

than mind-body-spirit intends, but foiled

by its own commonest flaws

Winning the good fight

with the very best of intentions,

and getting the better

of some rogue devil in the detail

likely to throw a spanner

in the workings of any relationship

can be easily accomplished

for not assuming what’s good for the goose

is good for the gander

I, Word Power, expert in the art of persuasion,

nor less so in the nature of disillusion

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

Bargain Hunters or In the Market

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How many personae do we take on during a lifetime, I wonder? More, I suspect that many if not most of us would care to admit. A friend once commented that everyone seems to have a mask for every occasion, and she may well have had a point. There is the interested face or mask we wear as and when called upon to do so, whether or not we are genuinely interested in what is being said or done, often to impress and earn admiration; most of us have a sympathetic expression, a cheerful one (a favourite)...whatever, as best suits particular circumstances.  Than goodness for those situations when we need no mask, but are free to be ourselves, with loved ones and close friends whom we do not need to impress or go along with to keep the peace...relatively few in the kind of crowded lives we so often lead, and all the more precious for that, even if human nature is such that we sometimes fail to let them know hot much we love and appreciate them.

Nothing comes completely free, of course; there is invariably a price to pay, in losing a friend or loved one either through their death or, worse, some fault of our own that results in estrangement; not always our fault, either, except in so far as stress  - in all its various shapes and forms - is to blame. Many people don't understand stress, but those who do, and can deal with the worst in others without being judgemental and still leave room for forgiveness...well, they are among the true treasures in anyone's life.

One of my greater regrets in life is that I have not only unintentionally failed people, in one way or another, but also compounded such failures by eventually recognising them without doing my best to rectify or at least try and compensate for them.  I have heard the 21st century referred to as the Age of Communication, especially with the advent of New Technology, yet my personal experience of human nature is that we are probably no more really communicative with each other now than human beings have ever been; we make assumptions, listen to gossip and make even more assumptions ..  and so the cycle of misunderstandings and missed opportunities on a personal level goes on unless or until someone breaks and mends it. Sadly, though, it takes two to break and two to mend, and it is not an uncommon trait of human nature that relatively few of us - myself included - are consistently adept at making first moves in any process of reconciliation, invariably misjudging the situation and all those involved - including ourselves.

Oh, but whatever happened to in-depth communication on that priceless personal level, and how fortunate are those better able to not only seize, but also make good the day.

BARGAIN HUNTERS or IN THE MARKET

End of Term sale;

two, even three for the price

of one mask,

bargains to keep everyone happy

for acquiring personae

that will see us go on our way

if more anxious

to take what (and who) it finds at face value

than be found wanting

End of Season sale;

more bargains to be had at prices

easy on the pocket

nor too hard on the mind-body-spirit;

whatever reservations

the human heart in stalling for time,

better to play games 

others like to play than be called out too soon 

for bending any rules?

End of Life sale;

rummaging stalls for what’s left

to keep the world

from guessing it’s been had

time and again

by personae anxious to fit hand to glove

(it takes one to know one)

but likely bargains already long gone for a song,

needs must, ego-driven

Market, closing down;

no stall holders left making their pitch,

only ghosts, anxious

to avoid seizing on human flaws

sure to incite poor choices,

but giving pride of place to the kinder side

of human nature,

for its proving the old adage that all the best things

in life are - free

Copyright R.N. Taber 2020

Pictures in an Exhibition

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This poem is a villanelle.

PICTURES IN AN EXHIBITION

Exploring the human condition,

its good, bad and ugly

life forces stranger than fiction

Any flaws demanding attention,

(for all a subtle simplicity)

exploring the human condition

Nature, its greater contribution

side-lined by humanity;

life forces stranger than fiction

Exposed, a common retribution

(reasoning a moral propriety)

exploring the human condition

Satirised, a political observation

of this life’s tragicomedy;

life forces stranger than fiction

Society, pictures in an exhibition

for whomsoever cares to see;

exploring the human condition,

life forces stranger than fiction

Copyright R. N. Taber 1997; 2016

War Talk

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How often, I wonder do we really think about what we are saying or even mean what we say, bearing in mind that our choice of words may well leave us vulnerable to misinterpretation?

The world  owes much to the men and women in its armed forces wherever they may be. Nor should we ever forget that we owe as much if not more to their families and friends (along with everyone else) who, time and time again, are called upon to pick up the pieces of life, love and hope whenever and wherever lives fall apart; a time of peace, for some if not most of us can be another kind of war.

“Never think that war, no matter how necessary, nor how justified, is not a crime.”  - Ernest Hemingway

Yet, justify it, we invariably do if only by that old stand-by, rhetoric.

WAR TALK

What do people mean when they talk about

the 'integrity' of war?

Is it a comment on the neatness of body bags

laid out in a line?

Or maybe they are referring to injured people

rising above despair?

Can it be they mean the finer principles of war

have been upheld?

(Doesn’t everyone do their best to keep friendly

fire incidents to a minimum?)

Maybe its generals court integrity for strategies

of ‘win some, lose some’?

Can it be politicians promote their own integrity

to win elections?

Maybe it’s all about being polite, discreet, about

to whom the spoils of war?

I asked a soldier who lost an arm and a leg in Iraq,

but he just shrugged

Maybe (the soldier said) I should ask the orphans

and widows…on both sides?

Lots of questions and not nearly enough answers

or (any?) right ones

Poor humanity, ever caught in a cross-fire of words,
come worst of all worlds

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012; 2018



[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Next of Kin have been Informed, but should Refrain from Asking Questions' in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]

Jottings from a Poet's Notebook

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

Of all the seasons of mind-body-spirit, spring has to be the best even if its summer should prove to be the most enjoyable; brimming with hope and anticipation, renewal and potential, it conspires with the human heart to bring out the best of us provided we let it, and self awareness is alert to how personal space both perceives, interprets and subsequently receives the world around us.

Oh, but it is so good to be alive on a beautiful day when we dare tell ourselves, if only briefly, how all that's dark and horrible in the world cannot touch us...

Spring itself may be near or far, but there is such a phenomenon as springtime of the heart and just how near or far that is remains up to us.

We need to feel the adrenalin, go with the flow...if only so we know the next BAD day/s won't last forever and life really IS worth the living whatever it may throw at us along the way.

JOTTINGS FROM A POET'S NOTEBOOK

Clouds, like soft soap bubbles giving

shape to wet dreams;

birds, but pretty spots on tired eyes,

a cacophony on the ear;

trees, like the bony legs of old men

arms flung wide, welcoming

Leaves, like prayer beads in the hands

of a dying nun;

grass, a doormat enduring the heavy

tread of world competition;

Earth, but a lump of clay, potential

for centuries of ambition

Ah, but a fair butterfly, fair phoenix

flying in the face of despair;

grasshoppers, joining in a hymn

to Earth Mother,

she, with the enigmatic smile,

all senses alive to spring

Daffodils, cheering us all on, no matter

if we win or lose

in ways of life, love, war and peace

few of us get to choose;
redeeming the world's false starts,

open windows, open hearts

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Yes, What ...?

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

I once remarked to a friend that people can be are such a puzzle, to which he promptly replied that it probably was because we are such a puzzle to ourselves.

Ah, probably...

Sometimes we find it hard to express ourselves in words; if we are fortunate enough to be painters or musicians, we can often express ourselves better through those genres, certainly our deeper feelings.

At other times, we may express ourselves perfectly yet still be misunderstood because those with whom we wish to communicate choose to put their own interpretation on what we say rather than try and understand what we mean.

But what do we mean and do we ever mean quite what we say? Oh, but how often do we wish we had expressed ourselves differently!

Our use of weeds, paint, music, whatever...these all open up pathways to meaning that all parties concerned are free to follow; sometimes we are fortunate enough to follow the same path, and meaning is established. Yet, even where meaning is not fully established, the chances are our relationship with the other party will have entered a new dimension; one we are likely to explore whether consciously or subconsciously, and in so doing discover more about each other than before the dialogue began...even if we are not quite sure what, exactly.

YES, WHAT ...?

If I’d said this, or that,

said - what?

If I’d done this, or that,

done - what?

Tortured souls crying out

their guilt, left

hanging in some limbo

to - rot?

What good purpose, that?

None.

We cannot (ever) change

what’s done,

bring back loved ones

long - gone?

No, but here in the heart,

forever

willing us to live again,

move on;

Nothing, said or done then

would - what?

Have eased whose pain,

whose guilt?

Choices, rarely plain, but

ours alone

will take us here, there,

where?

No one to blame having

chosen - wrong?

Who’s to say, play judge

and jury?

Enough, surely, to be …

what, exactly?

[From: A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]

Every Poem Tells A Story

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

I have always loved reading, writing and telling stories. I dare say you will have noticed how this carries over into many of my poems.

EVERY POEM TELLS A STORY

Every poem tells a story…
about love, hate, shame, glory,
whatever inspires, lights
the fires of creativity, blind coals
in secret cavities of the soul
that now and then burst
into flames, lighting up the mind,
exposing the heart’s needs,
its strengths and weaknesses
born of love, lust, hate, pain,
grieving for the world's repeating
its worst again and again,
leaving poor humanity to follow on
as best it can, put right
its wrongs, conveniently rewrite
the saddest songs of war,
disasters, wounds that will never
truly heal - with lines even
a paralysed heart can feel, though
it take a while to penetrate
its body armour, participate in the
latest United Nations resolution,
promises of aid on the way, more than
mere dreams fading as each day
turns into night, night into day, no one
(still) anything wiser to say
than - Let’s pray. And where is God
looking out for whom, exactly, a child
dying of AIDS or starvation…?

Every poem tells a story with as many endings

as humanity's interpretation of its meanings

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; rev. 2021

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005; rev. 2021.]