Love in all its Rainbow Hues

 

From Roger’s friend, Graham

Growing up is challenging enough, even without the burden of stigmatisation for loving someone of the same gender. There’s room for improvement here in Britain, but generally LGBT+ citizens have equal rights enshrined by law. In places of employment (excepting religious organisations) discrimination on the grounds sexuality or gender identity is illegal. Since the Civil Partnership Act in 2004, same sex couples can join in a legally recognised partnership. And after the UK Marriage Act in 2013, LGBT+ couples are able to marry.

Marriage is perhaps the ultimate expression of love for those fortunate enough to find a soulmate. It’s also a declaration of love to family, friends and beyond. For couples with religious faith, it’s a sacred vow of love with God as their witness.

Love is also a scintillating rainbow of sentiments. Greek philosophers Plato and Aristotle wrote of a whole spectrum of emotions such as friendship love; philia, familial love; storge and passionate love; éros. Greek mythology also abounds with inspirational tales of profound and tragic love such as Orpheus and Eurydice. Love can be the light of your life - or the heart of your darkness…

Roger explores these epic themes expansively throughout his writing. Sometimes in sonnet form - popularised in Elizabethan England by William Shakespeare and his contemporaries. (I hope to explore this theme in a later posting). His printed works often devote a section to the theme of love. They are, doubtless, poems interwoven with personal experience.

Roger and I occasionally discussed past relationships and compared notes on our respective missed opportunities, dashed hopes and even disasters. Alas for Rog, he wasn’t lucky enough to find a long-term partner. Although I believe his romantic soul never lost hope in meeting someone special.

In later life, I feel assured that Roger derived fulfilment through the reciprocal love of close friendships. Can this be enough to sustain anyone in the absence of a partner, estrangement from family or societal ostracisation? I imagine we’d all have a differing answer. Throughout my own voyage of self-discovery, friendship has certainly proven to be the most unconditional form of love. An enduring bond with Roger remains testament to that.

 

*  *  *

 

‘Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Without them humanity cannot survive.’ Dalai Lama

‘Love is a canvas furnished by nature and embroidered by imagination.’ Voltaire

‘Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead.’ Oscar Wilde

 

*  *  *

 

I’ll leave you with a trio of love poems – all from Accomplices to Illusion, Roger’s 2007 collection. I should explain that I’m staying with family presently - with only one book for source material. Wiltshire offers a welcome change of scenery. Tall oak trees surround the house. Their upper branches sweep back and forth like an artist’s frantic brushstrokes on a grey-marbled canvas. I look out on the small garden; the colours of shrubs diluted under a dull watercolour sky. A crow flies past; its hoarse cry breaking the mesmeric spell of birdsong. It fades to a black smudge on a watery treeline.

Thanks for reading.

 

*  *  *

 

NIGHT WATCH

I have greeted chimes at midnight
lain half dead at the toll for one
as my lifeblood ebbs to a starlight
behind clouds, watch all but done

I have heard the clock ticking over
for the passing of happy hours…
nor shall, when it stops, run for cover
but embrace a time forever ours

I have heard sweet songs at sunrise,
watched the last stars slip away,
seen my life’s light bright in your eyes
promise a beautiful spring day

As nature pauses at stark winter’s cold
so lovers dream, beyond a growing old

 

Copyright R N. Taber 2007 [a sonnet].

 

*  *  *

 

BONDING WITH ETERNITY

It was love opened up my heart
to all life means to me…
nor shall death its bonding part

Sands of time, soulmates at the start,
a song of destiny;
it was love opened up my heart

May the world no finer truths impart
than its natural beauty;
nor shall death its bonding part

Like summer skies, stars, even clouds
charting a fragile humanity…
it was love opened up my heart

If a taste on the tongue sweet or tart,
our togetherness a delicacy;
nor shall death its bonding part

Be nature’s kin struck by poison dart
comprising all humanity…
it was love opened up my heart
nor shall death its bonding part

 

Copyright R N. Taber 2007 [a villanelle].

 

*  *  *

 

WEATHERING LOVE

When I dream of you it is a springtime
of high hopes I’ll not forget

When I think of you it is midsummer,
(that rainy day we first met)

When I speak of you, each word is like
an autumn leaf that’s falling

When I hear your name on another’s lips
it’s but a winter robin calling

At nature’s whims, a beauty, each its own
though we weather it alone…

 

Copyright R N. Taber 2007.

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.

The Shared Heart

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

A married friend with children and also owns his own house once commented on my living alone and growing old in a council flat: ” A home without love in it isn’t a real home...” I see what he meant, but take issue with it all the same; just because a person may not have a partner, doesn’t mean their home is loveless.

As I have repeated many times on the blog, love comes in many shapes and forms, as do memories. The love people share can never be underestimated nor need the same people necessarily be married or even lovers; close friends may well bond in much the same way as lovers but for the absence of sex.

 Even in the absence of a close friend or relative, a person’s approach to the arts, gardening, politics or simply walking in the countryside, whether alone or in the company of others who share the same passions... the kind of love we have for and take from such life forces should not be underestimated either, especially by observers who only see  a person’s circumstances as they appear to the naked eye, invariably comparing them with their own, for better or worse. It is commonly said and universally true that appearances can be deceptive... in all manner of ways.

Yes, I am single, gay, live alone and have been estranged from my family for many years, but never let it be said that my home has no love in it or is any less of a home for my not having a lover to share it.

Love is more than a feeling; more, even, than those who feel it. Love is a ‘live passion, accessible to us al in whatever shapes and forms we choose - or which, perhaps, may well  have chosen us...?

THE SHARED HEART

The cares of our world,
they pass us by
whenever we make love,
you and I, on wings
of personal space left free
to soar higher, higher, even higher still
as any shared heart will

Assuming all the colours}
of a rainbow...
No harm done by taking them
for our own
in the heat of a passion
that makes poets of the mind-body-spirit
embracing a shared heart

Finally, having to surrender
to such thrills and spills
of reality to which, needs must,
humanity has been
called upon to answer, one way
or another, in the name of such peace and quit
as won by shared heart

Despite the world’s inflicting
bruises and hurt,
ignoring even true lovers crying
“Enough, enough...!”
there is something about its capacity
for opening up, taking on and ever reaching out
that inspires a shared heart

No finer, more enduring gift
can this life impart
than love enough to succour
the human heart,
whether it be people, places, pets...
happy memories to cherish, no matter what else
engages in the making of us4

Where cynics dismiss immortality as a pack of lies,
any shared heart will always argue otherwise 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021 

 

 

 

 

 

Engaging with Life Forces OR A Universal Passion

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

Today’s poem first appeared on the blog in 2018.

Love, dialogue, politics, religion, culture, peace of mind, inspiration, positive thinking,  taking people as we find them and rejecting prejudice and stereotypes …these are but some of the many life forces some of us are inclined to forget, even dismiss, and fail to call upon to sustain us during the worst of hard times for which we are often too busy employing the Forces of Blame.

First among equals, of course, is love - in all its shapes and forms; a close second, though, is dialogue, something in which too few people, communities and, yes, family members, too, are inclined to engage, preferring to rush to judgements fired by such speculation as incited by personal ego.

Now, if we really want to achieve something in which we passionately believe, we need to be prepared to stick at it every step of the way though the going be rough or smooth. Maybe if the British Government believed more passionately in Brexit, they may well have achieved it sooner instead of alienating all sides and homing in on a compromise; as it is, our relations

with the E U are looking shaky if not irreparably damaged.

Certainly, if the LGBT campaign for equality that began with Stonewall had weakened, even given up under pressure from the eternal Naysayers in society, we would not have come as far as we have, here in the West at least; less so in other parts of the world so while where there is cause for celebration, there remains no room for complacency, and never is. Every cause worth fighting for will always have its nemeses with which to contend and find ways of either defeating or winning over.

Certainly, in an LGBT context, it is good to see how the latter continues to prevail where once it would have been unthinkable. Hopefully, we can sustain the momentum and fling open doors previously slammed shut in our faces. Hopefully, too, a time will come when those societies and communities (including religious groups) bent on persecuting us may yet concede that our differences do not make us different, only human, and embrace an all-inclusive agenda of love and peace.

We are a common humanity, deserving better than certain separatist forces driving us apart; politics, dogma and prejudice to name but a few. At least the Covid-19 coronavirus has encouraged some people to put these aside and pull together, see the light in so far as there is really nothing wrong in agreeing to differ, it is but another life force in which we may freely engage without being divisive or judgemental

This poem is a kenning (or a Who-Am-I? poem as a kenning is sometimes called.)

ENGAGING WITH LIFE FORCES or A UNIVERSAL PASSION 

A worthy ally, and necessary

to keep faith

with the mind-body-spirit 

where its causes just,

and likely outcome much the better

for everyone

engaged in the greater purpose

of making a positive contribution

to raison d’être

Whomsoever engages with me

needs must

feel committed to all ends

in view, no matter

any distractions conspiring to deflect

(even defeat)

such perseverance as treading

a tightrope of conflicting alliances,

no safety-net

Too often, fickle contemporaneity

makes such demands

of those who take me to heart,

expecting compromise,

would all but see me in free fall;

yet, keep the faith,

and count every battle won,

a triumph over the world’s Naysayers

in self-denial

Not for the fainthearted, I, Motivation,

feed momentum to inspiration

Copyright R. N. Taber 2018; 2020

[Note: an earlier version of this poem appeared on the blog in 2018]

Human Spirit, Life Forces

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

Today’s poem is, yes, another kenning; it first appeared on the blog in November 2009, again in 2011 and today (for a second time) by 'Hannah and Jonathan’ for no special reason other than "it always lifts our spirits." Well, thank you, folks, happy to oblige.

Several people have commented to me recently that they feel "like death warmed up" and /or "totally drained" by the pandemic and its everyday implications for and limitations on everyday life; and so say all of us, I suspect. We can but stay positive and trust the human spirit to help us run the gamut and survive the stronger, not than weaker for it. Never easy, of course, even at the best of times.

A friend I knew as a student once confided that he 'envied' poets and others engaging in the arts because ' they can experience at first hand the everlasting quality of a vibrant Poetry of Life that passes so many of us by. At best..." he conceded, "...we can enjoy it while it lasts, provided we even recognise it for what it is at the time, of course. But, let's face it who want to be reminded once it moves on? I mean to say, no one wants to be reminded of any what-might-have-been, do they?"

While these were rhetorical questions, of course, I practised my right to agree to differ anyway, pointing out that no human experience either passes us by or even moves on completely, but remains a part of us, and whether we like/acknowledge it or not, it helps shape who we are and how we learn from whatever might-have-been may have affected us as it clearly had my friend. He shrugged, commented that "you arty types are all the same, always looking on the brighter side of life, and expecting the rest of us to take a leaf out of your poetry books." We both laughed. and he changed the subject.

Strange, isn't it, how some conversations stay with you like the lyric of a song you can't forget, as much for the singer as the song, if not more so...? Arts and artists, they help shape our lives along with their own; as for who gets the better deal, active participant or audience, that's anyone's guess, although I suspect it is in some timely inspiration that lies the key to any answers. Nor should it ever be assumed that anyone outside the arts field has ever been excluded from enjoying the Poetry of Life; it is a global consciousness, open to and welcoming anyone whose natural spirit engages with the poetry (and prose) of life in all its human diversity of expression and experience.

As regular readers of either or both poetry blogs will know only too well, I subscribe to no religion as such; an empathy with nature since childhood, though, leads me confess an intimate relationship with Pantheism in the sense that I see any 'God' as nature, rather than its creator, having never felt comfortable with the idea of a personified God.

Sadly, while I respect world religion/s, few who enter into them respect my point of view; neither atheist nor agnostic am I, though, so can we not simply agree to differ and get on with our lives without invoking words on historical tablets of stone that would keep us apart ...?

So ...what happens to the human spirit once its host body dies?  Regular readers will know by now that my sense of a posthumous consciousness is another of the life forces my poem suggests drives  a human spirit that ia not only eternal, but also, in its own unique way, continues to not only make a 'live' contribution to history .... be it in a personal and/or wider sense.

HUMAN SPIRIT, LIFE FORCES

I am that life force feeling its way

into dreams, making sure moon and stars

shine love’s light through layers

of darkness if only to reveal what’s real

in a world so easily misled by word

or gesture, generally making a poor show

of communicating such feelings

as all our kinder senses often banging

at the doors of closed minds

I am that life force lending a shoulder

to cry on, an ear to confide in, sees caution

thrown to the wind and returns it

as a kindness, suggesting we reconsider

persistently pitting human nature

against its other selves, risk losing face

in the eyes of old (and new) gods

looking down on our crude obsession

with mortality, and wondering why

I am that life force to whom they turn

whom flames of any passion would devour

for better, for worse, but only ashes

where we'd have left a blaze of memory

to comfort, leave us feeling secure,

whatever some Grim Reaper may yet

demand of us; no life force, he,

intending to override the Poetry of Life,

foiled by the resilience of its humanity

Come day or night, find me, Earth Mother,

archiving centuries of nurture

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010, rev.2020

[Note: This post/ poem also appears on my gay-interest poetry blog today given that the poem (no less than all poetry) is all-inclusive, and feedback suggests many readers only drop in to one or the other blog; an earlier version of the poem appears under the title The Archivist in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.] RNT

B-u-b-b-l-e-s (On Cue)

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

Love, passion...they come in all shapes and forms as do those of us who have them, often  kept in some quiet (even secret) corner of the heart, sometimes jealously guarded, sometimes waiting (even longing) to be shared with the right person.

Who doesn't love blowing bubbles? Whoever, wherever we are in the world, whatever our socio-cultural-religious or, yes, sexual persuasion, it is an opportunity to indulge ourselves in  just being human, neither as others or even ourselves might have us otherwise; nor is it ever too late to give it a go ...  

"Two bubbles found they had rainbows on their curves. They flickered out saying: "It was worth being a bubble, just to have held that rainbow thirty seconds." - Carl Sandburg, Bubbles, in “The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg

"Miracles happen every day. They bubble up from their hidden source, surround us with opportunities and disappear." - Deepak Chopra

This poem is a kenning.

B-U-B-B-L-E-S (ON CUE)

I creep up on cold feet

(love to blow bubbles in a cynic’s face)

lead them a lively dance

away from querulous urban sprawl,

where open spaces beckon,

prose fields beside satire’s streams

where songbirds give the lie

to dashed hopes, impossible dreams,

cruel whispers in the ear

Oh, how I love to play games

(preferring pretty bubbles to drab tears)

especially hide-and-seek

among trees looking on with a grin

where open spaces beckon;

though telegraph poles might trespass,

along with mobile phone masts

and utility pipelines crowding our space,

we’ll not let them get to us

I play tricks on cold feet

(bubbles like eyes winking mischievously)

lead them a lively dance

away from heads-you-win-tails-I-lose

looking glass wars

in dusty rooms, opening up windows

to let back in the heady smells

of honeysuckle and freshly mown grass,

Earth Mother in on the game

Call me Passion, whose cue the lyre of Eros

arousing its life forces for better, for worse

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009; rev. 2020

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

The Rebel OR Whose Future Is It Anyway?

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

I will be 70 years-old on the winter solstice. I have mobility problems following a serious fall last year and have been living with prostate cancer since 2011. Oh, well, c’est la vie.

As I grow older and (increasingly) more tired, so my admiration for the boundless energy, passionate idealism and fertile imagination of youth increases, along with no small regret for a certain subduing of rage in me against a world still divided by various socio-cultural-religious and economic factors threatening its societies; threats I suspect many politicians and religious leaders would and could do more to temper with plain common sense and a visible sense of justice and humanity...but for their politics and religion.

Let's face it. Many if not most young people need to rebel against what they don't understand or can't identify with if only to reach an understanding in relation to a growing sense of personal identity unique to us all.

I sincerely hope I never become either complacent about or resigned to the status quo in a world that has the potential to be a far kinder, safer, better place.

This poem is a kenning

THE REBEL or WHOSE FUTURE IS IT ANYWAY?

I penetrate lies,
exposing home truths brushed aside
by those who would keep me
in a cage custom-built by generations
in remembrance of the worst
of times past, likely to catch up with us
where I thirst for a progress
that puts peace, liberty and equality
above self-interest

I conspire with reason
to drive paths through chaos to places
my peers can gather,
sound out those who would prefer
the world’s changes
ring to bring hearts and minds
to their senses
rather than impress judges in some
rigged reality show

I yell to make myself heard
above a clamour of insidious ambition
and darker emotions
driving mortality to prove itself
while it still can
if missing those greater aspirations
to which we are born,
keys to a common world with respect
for its differences

Rebel, put down for my take on truth;
vulnerable to its flaws, call me Youth

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

Fail-Safe For Mortality

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

What is life all about? How should I know? But a passion for nature reassures me it’s part of a bigger picture than even the inner eye can see…

Whatever our culture, religion, sex or sexuality, who can embrace nature and not sense its lending us a feeling for life that is part of its patchwork of history that includes all humankind? An undeserving inclusion, I often think, seeing how we are inclined to treat the natural world as if we own it, and are entitled to rape and pillage landscapes to which no written poem can do justice because they are poems in their own right,

FAIL-SAFE FOR MORTALITY

Where the sun clips the wing of a blackbird,
there I’m heading;
where a spring breeze sings in swan’s down,
there I’m coming from

Where summer rainbows kiss autumn leaves,
there I’m heading;
where April showers give birth to its daffodils,
there I’m coming from

Where autumn leaves make music to die for,
there I’m heading;
where laughter and love take their holidays,
there I’m coming from

Where the snowmen dance to a robin’s tune,
there I’m heading;
where old gods pass new myths off as history,
there I’m coming from

Where a spring breeze sings in swan’s down,
there I’m heading;
Where the sun clips the wing of a blackbird,
there I’m coming from


Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

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.]