A Poet's Blog: Roger N.Taber shares his thoughts & poems...

Thoughts and observations by English poet Roger N. Taber, a retired librarian and poet-novelist.- "Ethnicity, Religion, Gender, Sexuality ... these are but parts of a whole. It is the whole that counts." RNT [NB While I have no wish to create a social network, I will always reply to critical emails about my poetry. Contact: rogertab@aol.com].

Name:
Location: London, United Kingdom

Sadly, a bad fall in 2012 has left me with a mobility problem, and being diagnosed with prostate cancer the same year hasn't helped, but I get out and about with my trusty walking stick as much as I can, take each day as it comes and try to keep looking on the bright(er) side of life. Many of my poems reflect the need to nurture a positive-thinking mindset whatever life throws at us.

Wednesday 30 June 2021

Art Forms, Life-Forms

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ART FORMS, LIFE-FORMS 

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

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

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

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

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

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Sunday 6 June 2021

The Rose Garden OR Missing, the 'I' in a Jigsaw

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

Not infrequently, older folks like yours truly express regrets that life hasn’t panned out quite how they wanted or even expected. Oh, how well I know that feeling! 

A reader recently emailed to say he enjoyed my fantasy novel ‘Mamelon’ on my fiction blog and thinks I should have tried harder to find a publisher. Many thanks for that, it made my day. Even so, one of many home truths I’ve had to face up to over the years is that I don’t have what it takes to be a good novelist, and wasn’t prepared to be a second rate one. 

I have no illusions about my poetry, either, but it has always been a favourite art form of mine and I not only wanted, but needed to try my hand at it, not least because it is one part of my jigsaw that more than compensates for my never quite getting to bring the picture on its cover to life. Not having a partner or children, I wanted to leave something of myself behind, if only a portion of healthy food for thought. (Yes, well, hmmm... ) 

Writing poems encourages my innermost thoughts to find a voice; hopefully, they may encourage others to do the same; too often we become frustrated, angry, tearful... whatever... because we cannot put a finger on what is persistently nagging away at us. A good counsellor can help, but a bad experience with a psychotherapist to whom I was referred years ago convinced me to stick with the poetry. 😉 

So far, so good... in spite of growing old and wrestling with implications unique to each and every one of us on a daily basis. Poetry as creative therapy alone, brings purpose to my life, much as the gardeners among us find purpose in nature and nurture; more reason to look forward than back, always important, but perhaps more so in our later years. Oh, not every seed we sow will grow and flourish, but as my mother used to say, “Better to live with hope than without it...” 

Who knows, we may well live to enjoy our very own rose garden; my guess is that more people do than don’t, given the inner eye’s innate gift for homing in on missing pieces in human time and (personal) space... 

THE ROSE GARDEN  or MISSING, THE ‘I’ IN  A  JIGSAW  

Jigsaw, depicting a rose garden scene,
almost complete, but for missing pieces
I can’t find for looking high and low,
tears of frustration but a small measure
of my anger at being unable to see the task
through to its completion 

It’s parts of a tree that’s missing leaves
that’s left me in despair, though not worth
a tear (I hear a voice in me sighing);
such is the way of life, parts gone missing,
gaps that need filling or else we’ll be judged
for not even trying... ?

The child I was, so much older now,
still frets over a jigsaw never completed,
angry at being made to feel defeated
by circumstances beyond human control
mind-body-spirit still aspiring to pull roses 
out of its very  own top hat 

I’ll never forget that damned jigsaw,
its picture garden incomplete to this day,
but no tears, only more sighs for lies
by ways of a world promising a rose garden
whether or not a global consciousness is (ever) 
up to either nature or nurture

Though humanity the sum of our parts:
age, gender, ethnicity, sexuality, etcetera,
and we may never get to see the picture
as a whole, for all we may do our damnedest
to copy its cover; no matter, while we can say,
hand on heart, we made a start? 

Few of us truly expect a rose garden
by way of life’s fulfilling all sweeter dreams,
but not all other dreams are second best,
or all missing pieces Black Holes in our history,
nor our fault either if we can’t see for looking out
for parts of such jigsaws as we're not

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

 

 

 

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Wednesday 15 July 2015

L-I-F-E, and all that Jazz...


Once, years ago, when feeling low, I overheard a conversation in a bar:

MAN (despairingly and a little drunk) I don’t know where I’m going any more or who the hell I am even…

WOMAN (wearily) Oh, sure, and all that jazz…

MAN: Huh, I don’t even like jazz…

WOMAN: You don’t like jazz? Then you don’t have much of a liking for life, man, and it sure as hell won’t take much of a liking to you either….

After a sober pause, both burst out laughing and joined several other couples swinging to a lively number on the dance floor like saplings in a summer breeze. I went home feeling more upbeat than I had in ages although not sure why…and that feeling has lasted - through thick and thin - ever since. Maybe it has something to do with especially enjoying jazz among all kinds of music (and vocal) that do their genre justice.... 


L-I-F-E, AND ALL THAT JAZZ…

Looking back
at angry shadows waving 
madly at me,
but not in a friendly fashion,
clearly blaming me
for doing what I should not
have done,
being where I should not
have been,
saying what I should never
have said

Looking ahead
at more shadows waving
madly at me,
and can’t even tell if friends
or enemies
urging I do what I want
to do,
be where I feel meant
to be,
say what (too long) needs
to be said

Swinging round
like a scarecrow in the wind
at what’s behind
making my heart skip beats
out of fear
for all the mistakes I’ve made
and half made,
put right and half put right,
left uncertain,
no idea which way
to turn

Standing quite still,
listening out for something
(or Someone?)
to point me in the direction
I need to go;
right fork, left, fork, or give up
and turn back…
till sounds of bright music
pointing me at trees
making the kind of mad  jazz
that’s a life force 

Turning my back 
on fear, galvanised by nature
to chase after life
as a child might a butterfly
if only because
it, oh, so beats doing nothing,
going nowhere,
being no one, feeling sorry
for the child self
that never caught a butterfly
or listened to jazz

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015



























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