A Window in Time

 

(From Roger’s friend, Graham)

 

Hi everyone,

Over the years I’ve attended many of Roger’s poetry readings. Many took place in public libraries or art centres. Occasionally they were part of an events programme for LGBT+ History Month (February, here in the UK). Often, friends and old colleagues would attend.

I recently discovered a sound recording among Roger’s personal effects. A reading at the Society of Genealogists hire space, London, back in March 2017. Hearing his voice again was evocative. It made me recount those many convivial evenings enjoying poetry and wine. More interestingly though, it offers the listener an extra dimension. They’re more expressive and nuanced than mere lines of printed verse. The added intonation and emphasis illuminates and counter-shades the narrative.

I’ve opted to add some imagery. A simple slideshow really, which hopefully provides a suitable backdrop. My plan is to publish the entire reading in full on Roger’s YouTube channel. For now though, I’m including a link to the first part here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2klMtjNWuSQ

Happy listening and thanks for reading.

Graham

 

*  *  *

 

ROGER TABER - POETRY READING

Tuesday, 21 March 2017

 

PART 1

Close Friends, Distant Lives

A Short History of London

The Busker or Music, Spirit of Life

Last Take on Multiculturalism

Whatever Happened To Love?

The Ballad of Neighbour Joe

Darkness, The Poetry of Mixed Feelings or The Scenic Route To Daylight

View From A Church Window

Life At The Shallow End or Keeping Up Appearances

The Zen Of Counting Beans

A Family Connection or Time Travel Firsthand

Harvesting Imagination

Looking For Answers or Passing Comment On The Human Psyche

Mother Love

The Guardian

 

(CC) R N. Taber 2017

 

A Little Life Music

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

Music gives a soul to he universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and life to everything.” - Plato

Music acts like a magic key. To which the most tightly closed hearts open.” – Maria von Trapp

“The only thing better than singing is more singing.” – Ella Fitzgerald

Now, why you may well ask, am I writing up a poem-post about the joy of music when I can’t play an instrument, sing a note and have lived with a significant degree of deafness all my life? 

Good question, that. The short answer is that am always listening to favourite music and songs playing in my head; especially when I am feeling sad, lonely or scared enough for self-pity to take me to the very edge of The Abyss. Music reminds me why I shouldn’t jump. Oh, I’ve been pushed many a time, and fallen. But, who hasn’t, by giant shadows that mean us ill?  

Yet, even while falling, I’d hear sounds of music in my head returning me to terra-firma, if only to start living, learning and listening all over again…

A LITTLE LIFE MUSIC

My cap hides less hair than it did,
as well as mixed feelings, running riot
from time to time
when not invoking a passion for any music,
poetry or rhyme sure to give
savage breast and unquiet mind a welcome rest
from trying to reason after-shocks
of pleasure-pain imposed by its own and the world’s
least concealed flaws

Music, may well be the food of love,
left to play on even in the face of rejection,
human nature least inclined
to see a willow for its branches, falling
like tears for times hearts
all but broken by attributing such meaning
to feelings within as first
lit its fires, fanned its flames, only to have it all but die
without understanding why 

Mind-body-spirit thrives to the sound
of music, no matter how its life forces presented,
by humankind or Earth Mother,
amateur or professional, a confessional
of sorts where heart-and soul
may well fear to go, dreading what it may uncover
in such recesses as it may yet nurture,
while struggling to keep all but hidden even from itself;
mixed feelings on a lonely shelf

Yet, even the saddest heart-and-soul can
learn to sing again, to a little life music composed
in kinder times by friendly ghosts,
now lending it huff and puff enough to revive
half-forgotten dreams,
leading us, in turn, to doors closed to us far too long,
pleading we fling them open, let music
back in, in time to see the willow weep such tears of light,
as no darkness can ever snuff out

Though insight deflected by brilliant sunshine or heavy rain,
trust a little life music to see its way clear again…

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

Togetherness, Poetry set to the Music of Time

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Spring, summer, autumn, winter... mixed experiences, all weathers and feelings as nature runs the gamut of its potential. Likewise, mind-body-spirit as it passes through the seasons of its life on Earth.

If the finest of weathers is sunshine and the warmth it brings so, too, the finest of feelings has to be love... and who’s to say, in the winter of our years, whether or not we shall ever see another summer...?

Love comes in all shapes and forms and, yes, sometimes the illusion can be such that we mistake it for reality, but the spirit of true love never dies...

TOGETHERNESS, POETRY SET TO THE MUSIC OF TIME

Hope, rippling summer corn

like stirrings of a child unborn,

wondering in the womb

on whatever may lie waiting between

life and tomb...

I lift my eyes to a gorgeous sky,
loose more dreams, watch them fly
like the tail of a child’s kite
flapping bravely against nature's 
might till barely a flicker, 
waved out of sight with tearful eye
and puckered brow, the child
I once was, returning now across
shadowy years, watery eyes
less of a surprise in the summer air
than once having sought 
without finding, been hurt without
making a sound while caged
in a breast so often deprived of rest,
tired of hearing “it's for the best,”
weary of waiting for waiting’s end,
lonely for want of a dear friend,
finally found, only to sail off on a sea
of corn,  FREE – and you’re smiling
wistfully back at me who’s left to bear
a heavy heart, weather the pain
that has us part, your look that says
“We made our world a far, far happier,
and kinder place..." 

A summer breeze, making music 

like a piano player idling at the keys

with an artist’s ease, lulling Earth’s

so-restless womb before the breaking

of a storm that’s spreading alarm

amongst the corn; I spot a field mouse,

tiny, quick, soon forgot, needs must

hasten my own tread, the music growing

to a crescendo in my head, like LIFE,

LOVE... Instead, I’ll linger in this place

and to wind and rain, I’ll lift the face 

of one who’s glad he came to see-hear

our history passing into such beauty

as I’ll always cherish for being no less

a part of you-me-us than s the shoes 

I wear, though much worn through a world 

much torn in two, three, and more 

by envy, hate and war, I have to say, kneeling

now to pray (to what or whom, who knows

with certainty until we get to be part

of the poem that's eternity?) Now, though,

dear friend I cannot let you go without 

thanks for today,  its agenda

for lasting peace and love ringing all the truer

for our being together... 

Hope, rippling  summer corn

like the stirrings of a child unborn,

wondering in the womb,

at whatever may lie waiting beyond 

life and tomb

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001, 2021

 [Note: The original version of this poem was written in 1998 and was first published under the title ‘Once More, Dear Friend’ in my collection, Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001; it has recently been considerably and significantly revised.] RNT

 

M-U-S-I-C, Life Forces

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I am partially deaf, cannot play an instrument and certainly don’t have a good singing voice… and that's not even the half of it...BUT… what the heck? 

My mother had a lovely singing voice; she died in 1976, and sings to me all the time .

Slow, slow, quick-quick, slow… I will have music wherever I go.

Thanks for dropping by the blog, everyone. At 75,and living on my own here in London UK (especially at the moment, with the Covid-19 variant spreading fast...)

Take care, be safe, keep well and be sure to nurture a positive thinking mindset,

Roger 

M-U-S-I-C, LIFE FORCES 

There’s no finer a music
of the heart than speaks to us of love
and helps us rise above
even the worst life can throw at us;
as years pass, and we grow old,
memories fading but for an inner eye
inspiring us helping us feel
the finer, better, greater part of such times 
as saw us engage with joie de vivre 

Romantic refrain or rave,
there’s nothing like the magic of music
for getting mind-body spirit
to engage with its other self, one seeing
the best in others,
keeping in touch over years with those
with whom it can share
tears of joy as well as the pain of unforeseen
tomorrows likely to catch us unawares 

Where passion a hymn to life,
needless to say, it may well be a pop song
lending us an ear
to what goes on in corners of the heart
that’s harbouring feelings
it has yet to acknowledge, explore, dare
(or ignore) a need for someone
ready and willing to dance to whatever music
brings the same two pairs of feet to life 

We grow old, mind-body-spirit
close to curtain call but for such sound
of music as keep us all
on our toes, in each other’s arms, wherever
they take us… high notes,
low notes, middle-of-the-road notes,
(as well the case may be)
through to our journey’s end, be it near or far,
its more enduring steps played by ear 

Pride of place among memories we have made,
the music played...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

T-I-M-E, Charging Up for Change

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

Oh, but I remember the frumpy fifties so well…as if they were but a few years ago instead of half a century…! The leap in to the 1960 gave us all a welcome shock. Looking back, though, how much do we recall as it really was and how much has been airbrushed along the way by a cult mythology...?

Oh, but where DOES the time go, eh?

T-I-M-E, CHARGING UP FOR CHANGE

Oh, those formal, frumpy fifties!

BBC TV announcers

in evening dress even in the afternoon…

Glued to the radio (hangover

from a bleak wartime) while the likes

of Bronco, Cheyenne, Wells Fargo

and Wagon Train harvest rich myths  

of the old American West

for future generations to look back

with pride, the shame

of Wounded Knee left to Hollywood

with poor excuses

Off ‘n’ away with post-war blues,

we’re looking good…

Enter, skiffle and Lonnie Donegan

before rock and roll began

to take root and Juke Box Jury

woke us all up from days

of ballroom dancing to bold frontiers

of disco (forget the Lone Ranger

and Tonto); Mods and rockers fighting

each other for tabloid headlines,

girls adapting their hemlines to more

than simply fashion…

boys discovering drainpipe trousers

and winkle-picker shoes

Off ‘n’ away with post-war blues,

let the good times roll…

Along came Z-cars, eagerly elbowing out

dear old Dixon of Dock Green

(shortly doomed to bite the dust along

with Bronco and the rest);

the sixties taking over, Beatlemania

on a par with world religions,

politics fair game for anyone free

(supposedly) to indulge controversial

opinions of their own

so long as nothing likely to offend

Cold War ethics among gentlemen spies

and old boy networks

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2014

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

Mercury, Wandering Star

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

Having been partially deaf since the age of four, I am not as avid a music fan as I might have been otherwise. Even so, a friend persuaded me to accompany him to a Queen concert once and I have to say it was a truly, unforgettably, enjoyable experience, not least for the sheer magnetism of Freddie Mercury; a  gay man, he oozed charisma .... generating adrenaline in audiences around the world to endure a lifetime.

On the evening of 24 November 1991, Freddie Mercury died aged 45 at his home in London; cause of death was bronchial pneumonia as a consequence of AIDS.

It is so true what they say about music and entertainment breaking down certain social taboos, especially where homophobia happens to be one of them.

Now, Mercury, as you may well know, is one of the five planets known to the ancients. They called these planets "wandering stars." Mercury may be seen as an evening "star" near where the sun has set, or as a morning "star" near where the sun will rise. ... The planet is named for Mercury, the Roman messenger of the gods. (ref. Wikipedia.)

The poem is a villanelle.

MERCURY,  WANDERING STAR

On stage, extrovert extraordinaire

masking a shy personality,

singer-songwriter beyond compare

Bringing to Rock, magic in the air.

a star valuing his privacy;

on stage, extrovert, extraordinaire

Fronting Queen with a talent as rare

as any in music’s history,

singer song-writer beyond compare

Winning hearts, minds everywhere,

no matter his sexuality;

on stage, extrovert extraordinaire

High on roll calls sounding anywhere

to rate the likes of Freddie,

singer-songwriter beyond compare

Bold icon of Rock, Supremo of Flair

and making music history …

On stage, extrovert extraordinaire,

singer-songwriter beyond compare

Copyright R N Taber 2019

Death in Vegas

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On the night of October 1, 2017, Stephen Paddock, a 64-year-old man from Mesquite, Nevada, opened fire upon the crowd attending the Route 91 Harvest music festival on the Las Vegas Strip in Nevada.  The incident is the deadliest mass shooting committed by an individual in the history of the United States. All our hearts must surely go out to the families and friends killed and injured.

I have known Americans for and against existing gun laws in the U.S over many years; the latter, invariably sick of always being shouted down by those for whom any change in laws enshrined in the Constitution would be tantamount to an infringement of their human rights. Even some family members and friends of the many who have been killed or maimed in terrible shooting incidents like that in Las Vegas recently continue to demand what they seem to see as a natural right to protection by arming themselves. (How does stricter control of the sale of guns infringe anyone’s Human Rights?)

Many argue that existing gun laws in the U.S. should not be seen as having been inscribed on tablets of stone; not only more appropriate to its pioneer days than a modern America but also  responsible for continuing outbreaks of violence on its streets, including such carnage as witnessed in Las Vegas. Relatively rare such shocking events may be, at least on such a scale, but isn’t it high time for some serious, informed, common sense debate on the subject without the powerful gun lobby invariably getting the upper hand by such under hand tactics as accusing the opposition of disloyalty to - even betrayal of and disrespect for - their country’s finer democratic principles?

Readers may think that, as an Englishman, America’s gun laws are none of my business and they may well be right. Even so, people from all over the world visit the U.S. for pleasure and business. I enjoyed a 4-week stay there myself some years ago. Doesn’t everyone deserve to feel less at risk by antiquated gun laws that simply need tightening?  

Should any law be considered sacrosanct in its original form where a few common sense amendments might well save even just one human life? I suspect we all know what the dead would say if they had a voice so maybe it’s time they were given one…? Don't all those comprising democratic societies bear some responsibility for that?

'Any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in Mankind...' John Donne

Ah, I can all but hear one American friend say, but Donne was an Englishman and the English have no idea about other cultures. That may well be true, but - not least because I am gay man, I am reminded of the African-American writer Ernest J. Gaines on record for asking, 'Why is it that, as a culture, we are more comfortable seeing two men holding guns than holding hands?'

Food for thought, at least, surely...?

DEATH IN VEGAS 

Country ways in the city,

music for building dreams by

for eye and ear

Grass growing greener

in a city pretending not a care

in the world

Celebration on location,

sunny faces wreathed in smiles,

poetry of joy

Suddenly, out of nowhere,

all is chaos, devastation, grudges

out of the past

Random shots at the sun

if only to show Man's darker side

(for what, sport?)

Ask the birds and the wildlife

whose freedom was meant to count

for something

Ask folks on Las Vegas Strip

one October evening about legends

on tablets of stone...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2017

London, UK, October 3^rd 2017

The Busker OR Music, Spirit of Life

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

When people ask me what kind of music I like, I usually reply that if it is good of its kind, I will almost certainly enjoy it. Many people hate that answer, but it is true. Pop, Classical, Country and Western, Blues, Gospel, whatever...if it is good of its kind, it will have a quality able to reach and move the human heart if only the human heart will let it. In the natural world, the same can, of course, be said for birdsong, various animal sounds, wind in trees, waves lapping (or lashing) at a shoreline...

Now, I well recall an evening some years ago when I was on my way home after a particularly BAD day at work. The thought of returning to my lonely, empty flat was killing me. For no particular reason, I took a different route which meant taking in a subway where a busker was playing. I passed, paused, and stopped to listen to a lively mixture of jazz and other shades of popular music. It talked to me, the music. More than that, it told me a good few home truths like feeling sorry for myself would get me nowhere fast and being lonely was nobody’s fault but my own. I had to go to the world as it sure as hell wasn’t going to come to me.

The busker finished playing and I asked the name of the piece which turned out to be something he’d only recently composed himself, and called it ‘Hello, world, I’m Here, Where Are You?’  I gave him all the loose change I had and headed straight for my local pub where I had a meal, got chatting to people (some of whom would become good friends) and felt all the better for saying, yes, you’ve guessed…‘Hello, world, I’m here…’

What happened to the busker? I have no idea. Over the years, I’ve watched out for him on TV and listened out for that piece of music on the radio, but in vain.

Oh, but one way or another, the world, thank goodness, has always had and always will have...music.

THE BUSKER or MUSIC, SPIRIT of LIFE

Busker, making music,

all kinds of music;

without music, we might

as well be dead

Body rhythms, vibrations,

they all make music

even deaf people can hear

for everyone to share;

if a ‘sound’ means nothing

it has to mean something,

making mind, body and spirit

equal to the occasion

aware something’s out there

keeping us happy, sad,

fulfilled… as only music can

Busker, making music,

all kinds of music,

drowning out war cries,

making peace instead

It’s a happy heart that sings,

a heavy one that cries;

joy and tears are universal

to one and all;

where ‘song’ means nothing,

it has to mean something

making body, heart, and spirit

equal to the occasion

aware something’s out there

keeping us happy, sad,

fulfilled…as only music can

Busker, needing music

like we all need music,

all kinds of music turning

stress on its head

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008; 2015

The Music Makers

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

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

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

THE MUSIC MAKERS

I am the lovesick composer at the keys

of a Stradivarius, the man or woman

swimming against the tide in a splendid

sea of laughter, wondering if maybe

he or she who taught them how to play

will come after them today, tomorrow,

or another time, sing a love song as old

as the sea in the ear of one who longs

for even more

I am the lark soaring to welcome the sun,

bringing hope to sleepyheads stirring

on tearstained pillows, man or woman

daring to trust in another, demanding

answers to questions haunting the mind

like ghosts striving to clear a pathway

to love for the living, lift the last obstacles

remaining, sing among larks and rise

into clear skies

I am the nocturne sent to lure us along

the Milky Way, leaving trails

few astronomers will rush to identify

for fear of exposing such secrets

as men and women have found in stars

reading like notes of a love song

since Creation, inspiration for generation

upon generation, signatures of nature

to love’s endeavour

I bring to the spirit of music and dance,

an expertise called Endurance

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

Unfinished Symphony

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

Strange, isn't it, how one recalls the oddest things about school days...?  I was listening to a bird singing its heart out on our classroom window sill and missed a question put to me by my English Teacher. Without thinking, I confessed the reason, adding for good measure that it sounded as if it was trying to tell us something. (I was known to be something of a dreamer even in those days and had written poems for the school magazine for which I was often mocked although never nastily). 

The rest of the class burst out laughing. 

My ears burned on receipt of some good-natured jeering. Expecting a reprimand, I was surprised (and not a little relieved) when the teacher commented, 'Nature is always trying to tell us something, Taber. The trouble is, only the likes of painters and poets can ever be bothered to listen. Now, where was I...?" whereupon he proceeded with the lesson without my ever knowing what his question had been. Such is life, I guess, where time - up to a point - is customised, and rarely (if ever) finished with us until we are finished with it.

This poem is a villanelle.

UNFINISHED SYMPHONY

Music of the Earth
invoking its biography,
at birth and rebirth

Come sorrow, mirth,
(womb-tomb of history)
Music of the Earth

Playing up to a dearth
of uncommon humanity
at birth and rebirth

Testament to its worth;
(crescendo, an epiphany)
Music of the Earth

At humankind's hearth,
an unfinished symphony
at birth and rebirth

Nature, eternal wreath
celebrating Man's integrity;
Music of the Earth
at birth and rebirth

Copyright R N. Taber 2009; 2018

[Note: I only recently revised this poem, and I dare say those readers who had already taken me to task for indulging in so-called 'poetic license' regarding its rhyming scheme will be disappointed, but that's poets for you, we cheat sometimes...]

Variations On A Theme

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

Hello from London UK.

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

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

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

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

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

VARIATIONS ON A THEME

One long-ago spring,

I heard an old flower seller

hum a song my mother

would always sing to me

whenever I felt sad

and lonely, evoking a line

from a poem about

a pretty robin left sobbing

(for all innocence?) as autumn
starts to turn

I was so innocent then,

listening to Mother singing

a song to lift my heart

though I’d often wonder

why it sounded so sad

and lonely, like the flower

in a poem, rejected

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

for its thorns

One long-ago winter,

I heard another flower seller

hum the song my mother

still sings to me whenever

I miss her, feel so sad

and lonely for no one even

trying to see how it is;

song, mother, child, robin,

rose, poet, poem…but variations

on a common theme

Life forms, art forms, companions

to wishful thinking

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

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

Shirley

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

Jan 8th is Dame Shirley Bassey's birthday. I have been a Shirley Bassey fan for many years. One of my favourite numbers is probably a lesser known song called I Reach for the Stars. (Check it out on You Tube, folks.)  It is a beautiful song; as always, this incredible lady does it more than justice.

It was a great thrill to see how electrifying this amazing woman continues to be at the recent Jubilee concert that was part of her Majesty the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee celebrations.

No poem can do justice to Dame Shirley Bassey’s unique talent, but I hope this villanelle will go some way towards expressing express my personal admiration and gratitude for years of first class entertainment.

Photo: Dame Shirley Bassey [Internet photo.]

Update (April 2016): A 20ft high gold-painted statue of Dame Shirley Bassey by artist Marc Rees, Caenarfon Castle, 2016. [Internet photo]

SHIRLEY

Feisty tigress from The Bay,

inimitable mistress of popular song,

stealing our hearts away

Burning passion holding sway,

heartfelt feeling for right and wrong;

feisty tigress from The Bay

Gesturing for love to have its say

where tears for its fears, too, belong,

stealing our hearts away

Bringing life to shades of grey,

to wintry spirits the delights of spring,

feisty tigress from The Bay

A voice, lifting the darkest day

like a sunburst where clouds still cling,

stealing our hearts away

Go the stars, the Bassey way,

a rare privilege just to be tagging along;

feisty tigress from The Bay,

stealing our hearts away

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

[Note: 'The Bay' refers to the Tiger Bay area of Cardiff, South Wales, where Shirley Bassey was born.]

Kylie

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[Update: Nov 14th 2020: Kylie Minogue has become the first female artist to top the UK albums chart in five consecutive decades. She broke the record with the release of her new studio album 'Disco', released last Friday (November 6) and entered the Official Charts at Number One. Well done, Kylie.]

Update (30/5/18): A belated Happy Birthday to Kylie who was 50 years young on May 28th. 

Update (25/2/2016): Congratulations to Kylie and fiancé Joshua Sasse on their recent engagement.

Meanwhile ...

Hello everyone!

I can’t keep away at the moment although I am busy with other things. I have nasty infections in both ears so cannot wear my hearing aids. It is very stressful and there is no point in my seeing as much of friends as I usually do because I can barely hear what is being said!

It can get lonely when you live on your own as I do. When I write up the blogs, I feel less isolated and in contact with a whole range of people across the world. It is a GOOD feeling.

Meanwhile...

In the past, I have posted poems inspired by my favourite singers such as Doris Day and the late, great, Ella Fitzgerald. Several readers have asked if I have any more poems like this so I am posting one today. (I will post another tomorrow, too, for the incredible Shirley Bassey.) I am also working on a villanelle for the late, great, Dusty Springfield.

At nearly 67 years-old, I am probably one of Kylie Minogue’s oldest fans. I only hope that if she ever gets to read it, she will enjoy this villanelle written especially with her in mind. (It is especially nerve-wracking trying to write a poem for a special person or event as I just never know how it will be received, but I guess that goes for any poem...)

Photo: Kylie Minogue (taken from Internet)

KYLIE

Sunshine bursting free
of wintry skies,
a woman called Kylie

Lark on a dawn spree,
spreading happiness,
sunshine bursting free

Modest in her bravery
sharing her fears,
a woman called Kylie

Awe-inspiring artistry
come to entertain us,
sunshine bursting free

A haunting personality
deserving applause,
a woman called Kylie

To life’s darker tapestry,
bringing fair reprise;
sunshine bursting free,
a woman called Kylie

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Ella Sings The Blues

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

Someone very special to me once bought me an album of the late, great Ella Fitzgerald called Ella Sings the Blues. She was, of course, a great jazz singer. But, my, couldn't she sing Blues!  Mind you, Ella could sing anything and it would leave a lasting impression on the listener.

My late mother also loved Ella and I remember playing it some years after she died and thinking maybe she was listening to it, too, in that Great Unknown we call death. I didn't feel in the least bit sad. On the contrary, the experience transcended my sadness to an indescribable feeling approaching enlightenment, and my tears confirmed rather than contradicted it. Moreover, I was in the early stages of recovery from a nervous breakdown at the time and like to think Mum was looking out for me as she always did.

Whimsical, yes, of course, but...don’t we all do whimsy sometimes?

Photo: Ella Fitzgerald (taken from the Internet)

ELLA SINGS THE BLUES

How will it be when I’m dead?

Will I hear music playing in my head,

see doves fly by in a clear blue sky,

hear a newborn baby’s very first cry,

and Ella singing?

How will it be when I die?

Will I wing with doves, oh, so high

that I can look down and see

those I’ve loved crying rivers for me,

or rivers run dry?

How will it be when I’m gone?

World keeps turning and life goes on.

so where does that leave me,

courtesy (hopefully) of a spirituality

come clean?

How will it be when I’m dead?

will I still compose poems in my head,

grieve a sorry world lost its way

for listening to what its ‘betters’ say

who haven’t a clue?

I’ll never know until I’m dying

but when I am, be sure I’ll be flying high

among doves with you, listening

out for every newborn baby’s crying,

and Ella singing

Copyright R. N. Taber 1982; 2010

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

Castaways

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

[Update, May 13th 2019: Saddened to hear about the death of Doris Day today at the age of 97. She had a great voice, was a very accomplished actress and will always be fondly remembered by her legion of fans, not least by yours truly; she will remain in our collective posthumous consciousness forever ...] RNT

Today’s poem was inspired by a song recorded by Doris Day called 'Love's Little Island' (1955). I love this recording and (along with 'Secret Love') have carried it in my head for many years. As far as I can recall, it begins with the line, 'I am the castaway on love's little island...' I suspect many of us can relate to that.

This is one of two poems I have written by way of a tribute to Doris Day. She had a great voice and, in my opinion, has always been underrated as an actress. I have always been a D D fan and here she is, still looking great ...

Doris was born on April 3rd 1922 ... which makes her ...wow!

Photo (Update) Internet, April 2014

CASTAWAYS

Washed up on an island

in a misty dream,

passing centuries shadowing us

(wings across golden sand)

Game to explore an island

in a misty dream,

fair memories waving back at us

(castle flags on golden sand)

Last seen kissing on an island,

sea mist closing in,

too soon, time’s tide covering us

(footprints on golden sand)

Closer to nature on an island,

(love’s ageless dream)

earth’s descant surely winging us,

seabirds across golden sand

As golden sand to ocean waves

are the world’s lovers…

nature (as ever) playing its part
in sync with the human heart

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

Swan Lake

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

I have started posting my most recent YouTube recordings. If interested, you should be able to access my YouTube capers at any time from my YouTube channel:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber 

Treatment for my prostate cancer means I have to rest a lot either side of an active day out at the moment, but it is well worth it. Brighto, for example, has always been an inspiration for me since I was a kid, and it only takes an hour to this seaside town on a fast train from  London.

Meanwhile...

This villanelle has not appeared on the blog since 2007 and is here today especially for ‘Roseanne’ and who says, ‘I adore ballet and am training to be a ballet dancer.’

Here’s wishing you every success, Roseanne.

Me, I loved Tchaikovsky’s music long before I knew he was gay. (They don't tell you that at school.) What has sexuality to do with talent, anyway, or greatness for that matter? [After all, there have been many great gay men and women throughout history.]

SWAN LAKE

A love story on stage;
nerve strings of its composer
turning each page

As a bird flies its cage,
so music in glorious colour;
a love story on stage

Let dance, our pain assuage;
ensemble, solo, or pas de deux
turning each page

See art display the courage
of humankind’s old enemy, fear;
a love story on stage

Performance, paying homage
to the divided heart of its creator,
turning each page

Dancers, their talents engage
to read into art all human nature;
a love story on stage
turning each page

[NB.  Written after a brilliant performance by the Harlow Ballet Association at The Playhouse, Harlow, April 2007.]

[From: Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]