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.

Highs and Lows

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

"Time changes everything except something within us which is always surprised by change."  - Thomas Hardy 

" Life is your see-saw. You may not stay balanced long, but you can aim for a high after every low. Sanita Belgrave

"What is straight? A line can be straight, or a street, but the human heart, oh, no, it's curved like a road through mountains." - Tennessee Williams

“Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks”. - Plutarch“

Now, most, if not all of us, get to experience the highs and lows of life as we progress; anyone, at any age, from any walk of life. At the time, the lows may well seem insurmountable, but trust the human spirit to see us through, and see us through, it invariably well, all the kinder and quicker with the love of and help from those who care about us. Whatever, like it or not, life is a learning process; we can learn and progress or be in denial and risk being unable to move on…

Common sense, do I hear you say; nothing new, heard it all before…? Almost certainly, yes, and definitely from yours truly. Even so, knowing something and acting on it are two sides of the same coin, as we all know only too well. To be sure, we may flip the coin and it gives the wrong message. Ah, but if, even just a part of us recognizes that it is not answer to our problem, we need to trust heart-and-soul to message mind-body-spirit to…flip the darn coin again, and again… until it comes up with what it senses is the right message. Thereafter, we can feel confident about confronting our problem/s and working them through to a kinder end than when we first flipped the coin… and be reassured that, if things take a turn for the worse at any stage, we can always blame it on that old standby ‘fate’… wry bardic chuckle

Many a time have I tossed that coin and, many a time, blamed ‘fate’ for not helping me bring whatever mess I happen to be in to a hastier, more ‘successful’ conclusion. But… success, of course, is relative and getting out of whatever mess we may have fallen into - invariably down to ourselves, however inadvertently, from start to finish - well, that’s a successful outcome, and don’t let anyone tell you any differently who may have judged you for getting into a mess in the first place.😉

Creative therapy, in any shape or form, is a sure way to help us sort our thoughts, give us a new, more positive perspective on life. How can I be sure? Why else do you think I have turned to writing – especially poetry – since schooldays…?  I may not be famous, in any ‘celebrity’ sense, but, believe you me, having reached my late 70’s is a personal success story. We all have them, it’s as my mother once told schoolboy Roger, on my failing an important exam: “That’s what life is all about, dear, picking yourself up and starting all over again.” 

 I didn’t ‘get it’ then, and was sceptical, to say the least, but I certainly ‘get it’ now! wry bardic grin

HIGHS AND LOWS

It’s our early years
that help shape the rest of our lives
taking on perceptions
of family and friends, wondering where
and why a rainbow ends,
open to such fairy tale explanations
as will lay the foundations
of a worldly rhetoric appearing to offer answers
that leave us asking more questions

In our middle years,
we stand at a crossroads in our lives
taking decisions,
learning about their consequences, taking
responsibility for them
(or not, as the case may be) mixed feelings
throwing us into a confusion
we can shrug off, prepare to bluff our way through
or put mind-body-spirit under review

In our later years,
we may look back with anger, regret, 
even degrees of shame
for paths unwisely taken, mistakes 
haunting mind-body-spirit,
yet comfort, too, for heart-and-soul’s capacity
for learning from them all,
nurturing personal space, the wiser and more mature
for the nature of its past-present-future

For better or worse, in brush strokes on a live canvas,
find home truths that are the be-alls and end-alls of us 

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022 

Catcher in the Eye OR The Insider

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

“Everything has beauty, but not everyone sees it.” – Confucius

“Beauty awakens the soul to act.” – Dante Alighieri

“Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye.” - William Shakespeare

“Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson  

Now, Reader. L J takes issue with my argument – with which regular readers will be only too familiar - that love comes in all shapes and forms. 

L J suggests that “… true love can only exist between a man and a woman and consummated as such.  Anything else is just passion for its own sake.”  Everyone to their point of view, of course, although, as a gay man, I would dispute the latter. 

Moreover, what is “true” love?   One dictionary definition of 'true' is "In accordance with fact or reality. "Take the love we feel for a pet, a work of art., a favourite place, the platonic love between close friends…are these not a reality for those concerned, an honest, sincere measure of love?  

As for the love expressed and shared between partners of the same sex who choose to spend their lives together, that has to be more than “just passion for its own sake" surely?

Today’s poem, could well be seen as companion to A Walk on the Dark Side that I published on both poetry blogs earlier this week.

CATCHER IN THE EYE or THE INSIDER

Not always in plain sight
for the world to enjoy at will,
but always there
for those to find who care
to nurture relations
with a mind-body-spirit set on
satisfying native desires
by pursuing its finer, ultimate goal,
within heart-and-soul 

I catch the eye that looks
beyond what attracts attention,
taking imagination
on a journey into sensibility,
catching the first light
of dawn where birds in trees
are waking, flexing wings,
preparing to fly clear or cloudy skies,
dry humanity’s tears

I nest in shy glances, take each
day as it comes, vaulting spectacles,
tugging nervously at hair
shining like a splendid dawn
you may well have missed,
preferring to keep your eyes shut 
for trying to hang on to hopes
of engaging with love in such a place
as called You-Me-Us

I am Beauty; in the eye of my perceiver,
a joy forever…

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

[Note: this post-poem appears on both poetry blogs today.]

Placing the 'I' in Perception

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

Congratulations to all those participating in The Olympics. Only a fool would deny that it isn’t about winning and losing, just as only a fool would dare suggest it’s all about winning and losing; it’s the taking part that really counts, just being there. 

Much the same might well be said of life; it’s the being here that counts and giving it our best shot in whatever ways we can. So, some of us may fall short of the proverbial mark, so what mark might that be and who’s to say who put it there? Everyone will have an opinion, of course, and a world turning on opinions is healthy enough... until those opinions proceed to sow seeds of discontent, even aggression, doing more harm than good. 

As I have asked on the blogs time and again, whatever happened to agreeing to differ?.

PARENT to CHILD: Why does it always have to be why this and why that with you? Why can't you just do as you're told?

CHILD (shrugs) Because...

PLACING THE ‘I’ IN PERCEPTION 

I have winged the world
by day and night, let its beating heart
move us, now to such tears
of pain as embracing life forces can bring,
now for such years of joy
as teach the heart to sing in finest hours
of a personal space left free
to follow mind-body-spirit whenever inspired
by soulful prose and poetry 

I have sailed angry seas,
skimming waves incited to wreak havoc
among such creatures
great and small as dwell below, swim above,
or simply seek to cool
the heat of such everyday anxiety as likely
to attack humanity
at its every twist and turn as it seeks to do or die
in its quest to answer – why? 

By what human right do we
outlaw and deplore what we cannot share,
for wont of persuasion
or inclination of mind-body-spirit to enter into
for reasons sound and true,
while bringing the full force of judgement
on any who refuse to comply
with aspects of human behaviour most favoured by
this community, that society? 

Why do religions persist
with agendas that deny human beings a right
to embrace as free a spirit
as gave us birth, let us bond with Earth’s
seas and skies, trees and flowers,
birds and beasts, encouraging such inner sight
as can penetrate surfaces
considered plain, even ugly, for left running scared
of all its formative years foretold? 

Life is life, death is death,
such is the way of all creatures great and small,
though human perceptions vary;
similarly, love is love in whatever shape or form,
nor ours to condemn
for its appealing neither to religious dogma
nor personal agenda,
but deserving thanks for sharing such fine showpieces
as wing eternal in its You-Me-Us 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

A Measure of Creativity OR Nature-Nurture, Life Forces for All Seasons

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

This poem first appeared on the blog in 2014. [I do not intend to repeat all earlier poems, but readers are welcome to explore the blog archives as indicated in the far right column of any blog page; poems published again here have been removed, and in some cases, revised.]

The cover for my collection On the Battlefields of Love (see the first pic below) was photographed by my friend Graham Collett, a graphic designer who also films and edits my YouTube channel, working wonders with my barely fit for purpose video camera; it shows the folly by the lake at Virginia Water just outside London. There was much evidence of repair work going on at the time that Graham had to Photoshop out to convey the bigger, better, picture. We were both struck by the sheer creative power of illusion; it was like hanging on to a dream and experiencing it at its very best only seconds before having to wake up and let go…

Virginia Water was first dammed and flooded in 1753. Until the creation of the great reservoirs, it was the largest man-made body of water in the British Isles; the woodlands surrounding it have been continuously planted since the middle of the 18th Century.

Nature, like human nature is both a life force for good and bad, yet predominantly for the good in the sense that both share a predilection and talent for nurture, since its earliest beginnings; for humanity,  it is left to the human spirit to engage with nurture; for better, for worse, depending on that old standby for inspiration (or excuse) - circumstances.

[Virginia Water: photos from the Internet]

A MEASURE OF CREATIVITY or NATURE-NURTURE, LIFE FORCES FOR ALL SEASONS

Like nature throughout history,

love takes on its worst fears,

act of immeasurable creativity

Glistening like a vision of eternity,

a sea of glad-sad tears

like nature throughout history

Home truths, the blackest comedy

imposed on we poor actors.
act of immeasurable creativity

Find Earth's last laugh on humanity

falling mostly on cloth ears
like nature throughout history

Watch how feisty skies effectively

feed on the world’s prayers,

act of immeasurable creativity

Find illusion but cascading prettily

down centuries of applause

like nature throughout history,
act of immeasurable creativity

(Virginia Water, UK. May 9th 2009)

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2009; 2020

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'A Measure of Creativity' in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]

Clouds

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

As a child (born 1945) I was stroking a cat one day, happened to look up and could make out a cloud in the shape of a cat. I asked my mother what a cat was doing in the sky. She told me that cloud is a gauze curtain that takes many shapes through which God can see what we humans are up to on Earth. Rain, she added for good measure, is His tears because he rarely likes what He sees, especially when little boys misbehave.

I was very close to my mother. She was a very Christian woman, and although she was far from being one of those people inclined to inflict their own views on others, her words put me off religion forever if only because I did not like the idea of any God spying on me; nor did I much care for the implied threat that I should behave myself … or else. Even so, her words haunted me for many years as I grappled with various concepts of religion and God, eventually discarding both in favour of nature. Nature would offer the young (gay) man I became, a sense of spirituality that came free, no strings (or dogma) attached yet contained within the organised chaos of a time frame-cum-continuum to which the Muse in me could easily relate.

It took me many more years to even begin to articulate on that offer, but was happy to settle for the warm glow it awoke in me and the subsequent poetry it has never ceased to comfort, teach and inspire. Whatever our race, creed or sexuality, we are all but human and - where we like it or not - we are all in the swim of life together. 

This poem is a villanelle.

PHOTO: from the Internet

CLOUDS

Cloud cover

come another dawn

(like cats' fur)

All a-shimmer

(a lonely, weepy sun)

cloud cover

Quicksilver

heavens for everyone

(like cats' fur)

‘Live’ mirror

(humanity looking in);

cloud cover

Analogies

demanding our attention

(like cats' fur)

Fine promises

caught out on the turn?
Cloud cover

like cats' fur

Copyright R. N. Taber 1999; 2016

[Note: revised (2016) from an earlier version that appears in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; revised ed.in e-format in preparation.] 

Insight, the Twinkle in Time's Eye

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

Rarely are our thoughts processed more intensely and tested than as we ponder questions about life and death, especially the latter if only because it represents The Great Unknown and we human beings prefer to know (for sure) what we are up against. Throughout our lives, we have at least the semblance of some control, but over the time and nature of our death we have little or none. More disturbing still, what happens once we are cut free of a life that so loves to play us like puppets on a string and go into free fall? Something or nothing…?

Those who subscribe to a religion think they have the answer while those of us who don’t take hope from nature’s cycle of renewal.

Whatever, thinking about such things, homing on any conclusions (however arbitrary) we may reach and acting on them, is probably as good a preparation for life and death as we can aspire. 

There is much to be said for the old adage, look before you leap, but it has to be said that the looking eye does not always see; it is the inner eye, as prompted by searching thought, that is more likely to home in (or not) on not only what is it looking at but also looking for.

Looking, finding, reworking, making reparation, whatever ...  life, art and science owe much to its wannabes and wanna-knows. As for what anyone really thinks about all they see and hear, few will ever get to know unless they have access to his or her personal space.

INSIGHT, THE TWINKLE IN TIME'S EYE

Squatting on a patch of waste land,
imaging the growing emptiness
of wishful thinking feeding streams
of consciousness running through
alleys, backyards and housing estates,
watching the living and the dead
vying for time's favours in diaries
and poems they were always meaning
to write

Addressing the insubstantial nature

of shadows, inner sight focusing

on the human spirit playing host to body

no more or less than the flow of blood

feeding its veins as myth's muddy waters

close in, re-assessing attitudes scrawled

in everyday graffiti or glued to pasteboard

points of view; scientific, religious…

(does it really matter?) ever attempting

to win us over by fair means or foul

since that first day at school, now exposed

for the saddest, cruellest trick of all

Articulating on life as mind-body-spirit 

preparing mind and body to chance

a coming of age, despite envious gods

and their petty tyrannies if upstaged

by human selfishness, stuff of immaturity
feeding an ego-led imagination
(Oh, and whatever happened to that?)
and leading us astray who so love to think
we know it all

Focusing on and interpreting the purpose

of one starry eye watching out for us

who are frantically rummaging mortality,

for a kinder fate (surely?) than to be left

drifting in full view of old gods gathered

to gloat, our humanity come less than right

for running the gamut of human history

posed by selective readings between lines

of cautionary tales told by one, Jonah,

from the belly of a whale last seen spouting

gobbledegook to hunters well up for the chase

no more or less than for its own sake

Mind-body-spirit, cultivating the wry twinkle

of all-seeing eye

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2016

[Note: This poem has been revised from an earlier version that appears under the title ‘Death Star’ in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber 2010.]

Engaging with the Inner Eye

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

'The best part of beauty is that which no picture can express.' - Francis Bacon

'A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.' - John Keats (Endymion)

It is the inner eye that sees most. I used to know couple who, to all outward appearances, might well have been described as ugly, yet they entertained a lot and friends always enjoyed visiting them  because they were such warm, friendly people who not only took a genuine interest in others, but would always lend a helping hand and ear to anyone in need. Their physical appearance was irrelevant; after a few minutes chatting with either of them. one forgot it as an inner beauty shone through.

Beauty is, indeed, in the eye of the beholder.

ENGAGING WITH THE INNER EYE

There is a beauty in ugliness

only they can see

who can warm their hands at hell’s hearth

and still feel an affinity

with nature

In the ugliest of creatures

there beats a heart

and will to live more splendid than anything

thought up by the art

of egocentricity

In the foul-smelling swamp

of human desire

left to its own devices for want of any insight,

find a lotus flower

shaming us

Yes, an ugly side to beauty,

often seen as worldly,

invariably posing for the press at hell’s hearth

and claiming an affinity

with nature

There is a beauty, too, in beauty

that’s a rare poetry,

braving the daily cat-walk of green-eyed gods,

yet can still feel empathy

with beggars

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]

Lines on the Extraordinary Nature of Ordinariness

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

‘I’d love to write poetry, but…how do I find something to write about?’ people often ask.

Well, try looking all around and letting your senses loose on sight and/or hearing and/or smell and/or touch and/or taste...

[e.g. See also: 'Puddles' ]

The chances are the inner self will respond, and that response is called inspiration.

As for a choice of genre into which to channel inspiration, whether it is writing, music, art...just go for what appeals to you most and never be afraid of someone trying to put you down for a poor result (there will always be someone) because there is no such thing as a poor result where someone has put their inner self on the line by creating something. Success is relative, and a bonus; it is finding inspiration and learning to use it as a creative tool that counts. 

My personal experience, as someone who has suffered serious bouts of depression since early childhood, is that making this particular journey is also very therapeutic.

LINES ON THE EXTRAORDINARY NATURE OF ORDINARINESS

Clouds, magic carpet rides

away from it all…

Birdsong, calling to mind

bathtime rituals

for potential divas to woo

an audience, willing captives

of imagination  

Grass, littered with daisies,

sunspots of memory…

Trees, leafy arms signing,

telling us off for things

we’ve done, forgotten, never

meant to happen

A broken fence, urging us to

repair old friendships…

An empty chair, in memory

of someone who’ll never

sit there any more, words in

the air left unsaid

Crisp, clean pillowcases, all

to ourselves…

Watching a damp patch on

the ceiling spread,

fill the eye like a weepy sky

passing judgement

Ordinariness, the extraordinary
nature of poetry...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2014

[Note: This poem has been revised (2014) since its first appearance in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]

Sleeping Dogs

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

We don’t always appreciate the effect our words and/or actions might have on others, even loved ones. It is so easy to be well-meaning yet misunderstood. Yet, if a relationship is worth saving it is worth fighting for, and all parties should make time to talk things through…

I have been let down badly by friends and family in the past (haven’t we all?). Sometimes we have talked things through and grown closer. However, there have been times when much, as I would have liked to talk things through, some people only have ears for what they want to hear; any 'closeness'  was but a mirage. I dare say they feel the same about me. For all my faults, though, I am always ready to talk things through…with people prepared to consider points of view other than their own. It is rarely a question of who is right or wrong, but simply bearing in mind that, just as we may easily hurt ourselves so, too, it is easy to unintentionally inflict hurt.

The better you know someone, the least likely you are to want to hurt them, and vice versa. The closer you are, though, the easier it becomes to do just that. All relationships need to be worked at; some people are simply not prepared to put in the effort, or cannot see how or why they should, so never really get to know anyone that well. Sadly some people are so self-centred and/ or dogmatic in their approach to others, they find it hard if not impossible to relate to feelings and points of view they don't, won't or can't share.

In my experience, it is possible to pick up the pieces of a broken relationship (of whatever nature) once, even twice, but rare, indeed, is he or she who can find it within themselves to make the effort a third time; better then, perhaps, to let sleeping dogs lie than enter the fray yet again ...

Most friends and family members fall out from time to time, although if a relationship is worth having, it has to be worth saving; as always, it takes two to tango. In my experience, it is possible to pick up the pieces of a broken relationship (of whatever nature) once, even twice, but rare, indeed, is he or she who can find it within themselves to make the effort a third time; better then, perhaps, to let sleeping dogs lie than enter the fray yet again and put our own sense of  well-being, not to mention physical and/ or mental health, on the line.

SLEEPING DOGS

Love may well never die

nor friendship, but sometimes

both may well lie sleeping

within a heart grown, oh, so weary

behind eyes brought

to weeping for all those things

not as we would have them;

accepted, understood, forgiven even,

and never quite forgot,

but left asleep in the arms

of every dreamer

that ever loved or had a friend

where love and friendship

not returned in kind, or even in part

if we include untold damage

to the heart, ignorance of some crisis

of all-inclusive mind-body-spirit

Ah, but neither love nor friendship
can fire those open only to self-interest
with the inspiration required
to subdue the flames of desperation
just long enough to enable
a reaching-out beyond abstract expectation
all but set in stone
that every opportunity needs must wear
appropriate regalia, leaving us free

to spot 'spectators' (by any other name)
intent on having sport with us;

in time, may we come to appreciate

what (and who?) we're up against,

we family, friends and would-be lovers

left waiting at a gate we know
(only too well) may never reopen for us

unless by whim of a kinder fate

Awake, sleeping friendships and loves

stirring in quiet hearts every now and then,
chance overcoming
feelings of rejection by those
who should have known so much better
than to doubt us, recalling
wistful might-have-beens left to fade
into some once-upon-a- time
for mind-body-spirit to turn now and then
like the pages of a fairy story
by Hans Christian Andersen, relating
brave new worlds for children
to carry into adulthood and spread the news
how love will endure and hate expire
if we let it, albeit any tale takes one to tell.
another to share, and that same pair (at least)
to leave lie but sleeping in the heart

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2013

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

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

Logging On To Life

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

Readers ‘Soraya and Magnus’ have asked me to repeat today’s poem as it is their wedding anniversary today and because 'among all the poems in your collection, this is the one we love most.'  It first appeared in a Forward Press (now Forward Poetry) anthology, My Words Are My Voice in 2009 and subsequently on the blog as well as in my collection the following year.

Here’s wishing Soraya and Magnus a very Happy Anniversary, and many thanks for getting in touch. Apart from the fact that I love hearing from readers, this ageing poet is always grateful for any encouragement that comes his way.  [Well, aren’t we all?]

Now, some cruel twist of fate may cause us to lose some of our senses, even most, but never all. For there is one, not mentioned in the poem by name, but will be inferred by the discerning reader, that will always see us through; it is the human spirit whose resilience, sensibility and passion should never be underestimated.  Oh, and yes, it can and often does make a difference.

LOGGING ON TO LIFE

We look, yes, but how to make sense

of a world turning, no matter what or who,

and how to make a difference?

We hear, yes, but how to make sense

of gobbledegook, no matter what or who,

and how to make a difference?

We smell, yes, but how to make sense

of much doctored scents turning the air blue,

and how to make a difference?

We taste, yes, but how to make sense

of the additives and preservatives hullabaloo,

and how to make a difference?

We touch, yes, but how to make sense

of sticky stuff on a knife bent on killing you,

and how to make a difference?

We can but do our best to make sense

of a world turning, no matter what or who,

and try to make a difference

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

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

A Common Garden Snapshot

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

After a great evening yesterday, I just had to come and tell you about it. Now, I am no artist, not least because I don’t think visually, and have the greatest admiration for those who do. So I was thrilled to be invited to a private viewing of 'Authorized’ by artist James Howard. It is his latest solo show, and  a very exciting experience.

The show proved to be very different from anything of his that I have seen before, yet still characteristically sharp, satirical, entertaining and (very) thought provoking.

Regular readers will know that I have enthused about this young man's work before. I have known his parents for years and will continue to watch his creative talents develop and evolve with great interest. His work reflects ways of seeing and feeling that arouse all the observer's senses as if waking them up after a restless sleep. One cannot help but come away from his 'Authorized' with one's own outlook on life and art (and perception of self) under review.

Find more about James Howard at: http://luckyluckydice.com/

Enjoy! [Above all else, any art form best comes into its own once it is not only shared but also enjoyed.]

Meanwhile...

Friends  often comment that I rarely take photographs even when on holiday or passing through new places. My camera is my mind’s eye and it encourages me to write poems.

I get a feeling for places, people too, that I frequently shape into a poem that I can share with others just as they might share their holiday snaps. Such was the case when I visited Scarborough to give a poetry reading there a few years ago. By way of illustration, the second poem is one I wrote about this very pretty and friendly town on the Yorkshire coast.

Welcome to my garden. [Sadly, I don't have my own where I live in London although I do look out over one.]

A COMMON GARDEN SNAPSHOT

Leaves, strewn about in the mud
like underwear torn from a washing line
by a freak wind

Lies, piling up like dead leaves
providing sustenance for the very earth
that nurtured them

Hearts, now joined together,
now ripped apart, like stale bread fought 

over by sparrows

Hopes, tossed like underwear
on a cruel wind over hungry graves ready
to gobble us up

Chase the wind, stumble in mud,
retrieve underwear for a washing machine
or stand by and watch?

Choices, a gathering of sparrows
debating how best to survive a bad winter
through to spring

Graves, wearing hard won badges
of flowers and dead leaves, each sure to be

telling tales on us ...

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