Painted Dreams

 

From Roger’s friend, Graham.

 

Greetings from a cloudy Essex riverside, and welcome.

Life can be a bittersweet symphony, as the song by British indie band, Verve, suggests. A shifting interplay of light and shade; smiles, tears, triumph and tragedy. How the individual makes sense of it is, like art, a studied interpretation.

Whether poet, artist, or none of the above, the human sees beyond the innate existence or istigkeit of their subject to reveal deeper truths. Capturing aspects of its meaning, its purpose, or even its cultural symbolism. Though a painting or poem merely occupy a veneer, their expositions delve deep. They’re so much more than just visual facsimiles or mechanical recordings.

Although constrained in his early years by familial and societal expectations, Roger, I think, blossomed in later life. He discovered his métier and befriended his muses. He embraced his passion for poetry, daring to rise above naysayers and the sniffy literati. (Just as any self-respecting Impressionist would disregard the strictures of Académie.) In the period that I knew him, he lived a bold, liberated and authentic life. ‘I’m past caring what people think about me’ he might say. Or sometimes (after a vino or two) he was rather more forthright: ‘Ah boll*cks to ‘em!’ he’d proclaim with a wry bardic grin.

I know Roger loved the paintings of British artist William Turner (or J. M. W. Turner). I sense that influence in his impressionistic wordscapes. His mind’s eye conjuring glittering pools of reflection, rolling pastures of rampant joy, and brooding skies of depression. Edges diffused, flowing and pulsing, in a vivid palette of words. A tree centre stage, feverishly worked into a hazy summer meadow. Figurative renderings; intertwining in storms of passion, making love, coalescing into a single entity. Fleeting beauty, captured in all its fragile and poignant intensity. Grotesque demons of blind hatred and heartless sanctimony exposed in their naked form; their monstrosity and absurdity revealed. Intense outpourings of a soul in ecstasy or agony; becalmed or in the tumult of a raging existential tempest. Unvarnished truths… swirling interplays… bold strokes. Lines of time tracing the vigour of youth to the frailty of old age. A life within and without; captured in all its delicate and gaudy hues.

Though Roger’s passions are now spent, his palette dry and his mind’s eye sleeping, his impressions endure. Open to interpretation and fresh perspectives. But most of all – to be enjoyed in that wondrous communion between artwork and observer.

And like his wordscapes, Rog blazed brightly in life too. Illuminating darkness and filling days with colour. Always there for me when I needed sage counsel, shelter, or reassurance. Likewise, I did my best to help him in his times of need. More than that though, he was great fun to be around. We enjoyed many uproarious days out*; consuming far too much ale and jokingly posturing around town as a pair of swaggering Bohemians. I recall our hilarious drunken antics involving spectacles falling into toilet pans, ales inadvertently slopped over crotch areas, and trousers accidentally slipping to half-mast on tube platforms. (Possibly not the sort of exposure an artist craves?) Plus a whole litany of other indecorous displays. It’s a wonder we weren’t arrested! Ah, dear ‘ole Rogie - feet of clay, but his head in the stars. It was a joy and a privilege…

I feel that Roger left this world slightly more picturesque than he found it. His legacy; a gallery of living, breathing landscapes of the imagination. I’ll leave you with one of my favourite poems. (Please forgive this self-indulgence, but I’m hopeful you’ll enjoy it.) It’s raw creative dynamism still paints my daydreams.

Cheers, Gx

* Reference to the period prior to Roger’s nasty fall and subsequent mobility impairment.

*  *  *  *

 

THE POET’S SONG

I am a Painter of Dreams,
my brush, a pen – words
all the paint available, tackling
the unassailable to bring within reach
of unquiet heart, restless soul,
images of life and love,
vision of a goal beyond perimeters
of time, space - humanity’s crude
conception of grace

I am a Painter of Dreams,
bringing you mine, intruding
on yours, winging heaven’s
elusive towers that flicker in a mist
of aspiration, inviting inspiration,
daring us to home in, defy
the rude mentality of a classroom
morality - humanity’s crude
conception of spirituality

See-Hear-Taste-Touch-Smell,
I am a Painter of Dreams, who
means well but often offends
who dare suggest I speak for all
that seek gold where the rainbow ends
for, like Pandora’s Box, our secrets
once let fly - each to their own;
Painter, dreamer, shades of light
or ships in a cruel night

Senses, falling apart at the seams
for a Painter of Dreams

 

Copyright R. N. Taber. From the collection: First Person Plural, 2002.

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

War of Words

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

“You can please some of the people all of the time, you can please all of the people some of the time, but you can’t please all of the people all of the time.” - John Lydgate (English poet)

In my humble opinion, they should not go into politics who fail to appreciate the wisdom of Lydgate’s words. Most if not all of us have to compromise sometimes; it requires give and take on all sides to get the best deal available for everyone in what are inevitably circumstances enough to test anyone’s mettle. Sadly, fair play and politics (world, national and local) do not often go hand in hand; the rhetoric is there, and plenty of it - it's election fodder, after all - but sadly not always backed up by action.

This poem is a villanelle.

WAR OF WORDS

A war of words in everyone’s face,

fake news stirring up the media fray,

lending tunnel vision pride of place

Good intentions on everyone’s case,

rumours-and-gossip, Dish of the Day;

a war of words in everyone’s face 

Dead Cert, favourite to lose the race

(ever in the running, come what may)

lending tunnel vision pride of place

It’s a brave soul dares cut to the chase

once primed to keep home truths at bay;

a war of words in everyone’s face

Anticipation, needs must touch base,

providing the world with plenty to say,

lending tunnel vision pride of place

Should ever we fail to make our case,

it’s not the Devil we know wins per se;  

a war of words in everyone’s face,

lending tunnel vision pride of place

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019, 2020

[March 23^rd 2019]

I'm a Poem, Get me Out of Here

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

Only recently, I managed to extricate myself from a contract with a poetry publisher with which I became more and more unhappy as time passed; a member of its editorial team even asked me to shorten some longer poems to fit the page. I responded that a poem becomes a living organism as soon as a reader engages with it, and what they were asking was tantamount to an amputation.

I well recall how, many years ago, my English teacher, 'Jock' Rankin asked the whole class (of teenage boys) to write a poem for homework. "It doesn't have to include any  rhyme," he added for the benefit of those of us who were under the impression that rhyme was compulsory for all poems.

Yours truly wasted no time rising to the challenge, but few others submitted anything, complaining along the lines of "I don't have a poem in me, sir, it's just not me." The same cry could be heard again after some poems were read out in class later in the week, and Jock expressed disappointment in relatively few people having made the effort. "There is a poem in all of us," he insisted, "We just have to tap into that aspect of ourselves which is especially meaningful to us, and the chances are there's a poem there champing at the bit to get out. Come on, you sporty types, let's have a sporty poem from you or any of you with hobbies you love, let's see what you can do".

The response this time was an eye-opener as everyone managed to write a poem, even the more bullish and macho among us; indeed, they were the proudest and more boastful of their achievement. Gone forever was the notion that writing and enjoying poetry was 'a girly thing'.

"You see," said a well-pleased Jock, "...there are as many subjects for a poem as there are people, each one with something different to say. We may like, dislike, agree or disagree with what it has to say, but that's life, each to their own points of view. Whatever, that poem or point of view struggling to get out of us deserves to be free to say its piece, right?" "Yes, sir"  everyone  yelled at once.

Why then, I can't help wondering, do we not get to read and hear more poetry on a gay theme, not least because many poetry publishers seem to think it will adversely affect sales...? Oh, well, gotta keep looking on the bright side of life...if only because the alternative is unthinkable.

I'M A POEM, GET ME OUT OF HERE

Why any heartbeat
demanding mind-body-spirit
free it from its closet,
left to go wherever it will,
no slave to hypotheses,
but deserving better,
not least to find a voice,
and ways to make itself heard
by the poet within...?

What is this sound,
like the cry of a lost child
negotiating its way
all but blindly along frantic
highways and byways
whose names but posturing
as spelling lessons
in its past-present-future eager
to make itself felt...?

What is this presence
calling on inarticulate reason
for expression, as clear
at first as dawn mist reluctant
to let any sunshine
into a persona grown frantic
for a comfort zone,
offering as close a sense of safe
and sound as any...?

Why this falling apart,
now closing any yawning gaps
in a consciousness,
weathering mist and murk,
only to find itself
burning bridges across rivers
of rising passion,
anxious to find release in at least
explaining the smoke?

No end in sight - lost;
left to others to find and help me
if they can, or make time
for a poem give self-awareness
a clear heads-up
in negotiating the complexities
likely to characterise
any literal or existential soundings
taken from a human heart

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

[Note: This poem also appears on my gay-interest blog -' G-A-Y in the Subject Field' - today.]

L-I-F-E, Spelling Us (All) Out

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

Most if not all of us wonder at various stages in our lives just what lies in store for us, and how much of that may be down our own actions whenever giving thanks for the good times or finding excuses for the bad.  

What is the ultimate truth about human life, anyway, but a complex organism of mind, body and spirit embracing all that’s down to us, whomsoever, and whatever it is we like to call ‘fate’ (or God?) to spell out as we go, make sense of as we can, and heed or ignore as we choose.

L-I-F-E, SPELLING US (ALL) OUT

As a child,
I would play as a child,
cry as a child,
try to make sense
of a world I would never
understand

As a youth,
I explored the passion
of youth,
chasing its gods
through a world I struggled
to defend

As a young man,
I would point a finger
at bigotry,
tracking its origins
through looking glass wars 
all around

Older, little wiser,
I would run the gamut
of rogue truths
draining the body
for demanding centre stage 
of the mind

Mature. Human eyes
reassessing any potential,
fast tracking us 
to dog ears pricking up
at even the slightest breath
of ill wind 

Dead to all intents
and purposes, found wanting
for failing to clear
the table of leftovers
for history to make sense    
of a kind

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015

Lost in Translation

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

In response to this poem, someone once complained that I 'seem to be suggesting that being gay is as natural as God intended.' Well, the poem lends itself to various interpretations (as a poem should) and if that's theirs, I am delighted to have at least giving a religious bigot some food for thought.

When it comes to the various Holy Books and the attitudes they convey towards gay, bisexual, and transgender men and women, I know many people feel the same as me; much has been lost in translation or, as often as not, deliberate misinterpretation. Too many people have too great a fondness (reliance even) on a stereotyping which not only confuses important issues but, worse, is put forward as a truth, Time and again, I have heard people trying to justifying an attitude that beggars belief, not least because it has its roots in stereotypical caricatures, especially when it concerns LGBT issues. I am not disputing everyone's right free speech, but let's at least get our facts right, yes?

We all occupy a mother’s womb. I will never believe the love there is conditional to our turning out the way some parents’ preoccupation with various socio-cultural-religious conventions try to impose as. indeed, they have done very successfully since the beginning of time. Thank goodness for a natural capacity of the human heart for rebellion against such constraints; it may well have lost a good few battles and will surely lose a good few more, but is as sure to win the war for  common humanity as day follows night.  

It was once put to me by a work colleague that poetry - no more or less than other art forms - is all about self-indulgence. I beg to differ. Poetry - no more or less than other art forms - is all about finding out who we are; nor is it a definitive 'we' or first person persona for, as the metaphysical poet John Donne points out, 'No man is an island entire of itself...' (Meditation XVII)

Whatever, be it in reading prose or  poetry, appraising a painting or a person, the chances are few if any will come to the same conclusion, and even greater are the chances of any one person reaching the right one; we are all made up of many parts. The arts - among which feedback regarding my own suggests poetry is often considered the poor relation - attempt to reach at least some of those parts, the sum of which makes us who we are.

There can be no perfect interpretation of mind-body-spirit, but we can at least try to lose as little as possible in translation, and allow for human error ...

LOST  IN TRANSLATION

When people ask where I came from;

I answer, my mother’s womb,

so why am I so haunted by a sense
of having been somewhere else,

distant, unknown, as if I’d crossed
mythical territories of time and space
just to find my way here?

When others ask if I have a ‘real’ goal
in life, I confess I’m never sure

which doors are left ajar just for me

to take a peep (our choice, enter

or not) and may let a still, small voice
out of time and space persuade me to try
the safer (better?) path

Sometimes I am even accused of sitting

on some metaphorical fence

rather than explore secret passages

of the mind, and the doors open
to tease me, dare me enter, have a go
at translating the ages-old hieroglyphics
lining Mother’s womb

Yes, I have a ‘real’ enough goal in life

if prompted by a poet’s feeling
for wrestling with the hieroglyphics

between womb and tomb,

writing up an alternative autobiography
of my life and death than trust local graffiti
on doors kicked shut

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2016

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

War Talk

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

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.]

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]

The Maze (Open All Hours - Disabled Access - Only Carer Dogs Allowed)

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

Apart from its divisiveness, the main reason religion offers me nothing is because I can’t stop asking questions. Quite simply, Faith is a full stop I cannot get my head around. Besides, many socio-cultural-religious leaders are bullies and I hate bullies. It has little or nothing to do with my sexuality.

This doesn’t mean I have no interest in or respect for religions of the world. Indeed, I do. As regular readers will know only too well, I have nothing but contempt for those who not only choose to interpret but also preach from the various Holy Books to suit and/or camouflage their own ends. Yes, bullies. You will know the type. I dare say you will have come across a good few of them. Ah, but yes, they interest me greatly, these bullies. Why do they behave the way they do? What drive them? It certainly isn’t compassion but nor, surely, is it entirely self-interest...or is it?

Questions, questions and more questions; as or finding any answers, we can but look.

This poem is a villanelle.

THE MAZE (OPEN ALL HOURS - DISABLED ACCESS - ONLY CARER DOGS ALLOWED)

Who seeks meaning, dares a maze,
its walls of evergreen
harbouring life’s finer mysteries

It is a place folks fear and praise
where ghosts often seen;
who seeks meaning, dares a maze,

See Apollo wink to shine his rays
where lovers steal unseen,
harbouring life’s finer mysteries

Watch Diana’s bold hunters graze
on passions dark, serene;
who seeks meaning, dares a maze

Chance on trails time artlessly lays
(true, false, in-between)
harbouring life’s finer mysteries

Look out for humanity, learn ways,
to its heartland, rarely seen;
who seeks meaning, dares a maze,
harbouring life’s finer mysteries

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

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