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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

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

 

 

 

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

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

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