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.

Thursday 21 March 2024

Viva la Villanelle!


From Graham, Roger’s friend and ole’ drinking buddy


Greetings from sunny Essex, UK.

Spring has arrived in a delirium of birdsong and the intoxicating scent of cut grass. The sun flames low, setting the river ablaze like smelted gold; gilding trees and rooftops. My gaze lingers as a curtain of dusk draws down; a darkening vignette blushes vermilion, among peach and lilac clouds. Stirring a quixotic soul to reverie.

But meanwhile… throughout the two decades I’ve known Rogie he’s loved writing villanelles. You may have noticed there’s entire forests of them populating this blog (and even more in printed collections). His enthusiasm even extended to encouraging me in the art. Although I rarely dabble nowadays. There’s something quite satisfying in their construction. A bit like finishing a crossword puzzle or a Sudoku. They may even have wellbeing benefits, who knows? Stimulating theta brainwaves or something…?

Assuming you’re interested in poetry (and not here checking for offensive content), I’d encourage you to try composing a villanelle of your own. It’s a fun challenge and could help to while away the boredom of commuting? Or offer a welcome distraction from the banal babble, ear-piercing screeches and nose-picking forays of fellow passengers? Certainly preferable to bumping along in a packed carriage facing someone daubing makeup on in some bizarre homage to Picasso?

Rog sometimes bestowed framed villanelles to friends for special occasions. (I’ve included an example near the end; ‘Free Spirits’.) I hope this might offer an added incentive to get writing. Imagine… sending an amorous villanelle to your secret valentine, or a Mother’s Day tribute that would touch the heart. Alternatively, it could be a satirical vehicle on the growing global trend in demagogues and dictators? Whatever, your choice.

I’ve included a writing guide below:

 

*  *  *


A lay-person’s guide to villanelles (by Prof. Phil E. Stein)


So I won’t bore you with stanzas, tercets and quatrains, blah blah…

Structure and rhyming scheme:

Simply, a villanelle is a poem of nineteen lines which is divided into 6 verses. The first 5 verses are 3 lines each. For each of these verses the first and third line rhyme. The very last (6th) verse has 4 lines - with the first, third and last line all rhyming.

A second (different) rhyming scheme is used on the second line of all 6 verses.

Line repetition:

From the first verse - Line 1 and line 3 repeat alternately on the last line for verses 2, 3, 4, and 5.

In the last verse things change. Line 1 and 3 from the first verse couple together – forming the last two lines.

It’s probably easier to understand structure if you search out some examples. Such as ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’, by Welsh poet Dylan Thomas.

Note 1 - on composing villanelles: I’m not aware of any limit on line length. So provided you can read aloud each entire line without gasping for oxygen then it’s probably fine.

Note 2 - on rhyming: ‘Internal rhyme’ can be used in the rhyming scheme, i.e., words with a similar vowel sound but not an exact rhyming match.

Tip: try jotting down two separate lists of all the words that work with your two rhyming schemes. You can then select from these while composing. And remember that line 1 and line 3 in the first verse need to make sense when placed together in the very last two lines. 


*  *  *


As you can probably tell, I’ve never studied literature like wot Roger done. But I can at least pass on his verve for villanelles! I’ll leave you with some selected examples. And as a cheeky bonus I’ve even included one of my own.

Happy writing! x

 

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

 

THE ZEN OF DISCERNMENT

Like ghosts, our years pass us,
(the mixed blessings of memory)
as hauntingly beautiful as stars

No lesser regard for science
than Earth Mother’s finer poetry,
like ghosts, our years pass us,

Images of laughter and tears
finest art can only ever but copy,
as hauntingly beautiful as stars

No hopes wing more precious
than family and friends in harmony;
like ghosts our years pass us

Come birdsong to fine old trees,
so joy and pain creating our history,
as hauntingly beautiful as stars

As centuries turn nature’s leaves,
so each human heart creates eternity
like ghosts, our years pass us,
as hauntingly beautiful as stars


Copyright R. N. Taber, 2011. Dedication: Jim Howard. From the collection Tracking The Torchbearer.


*  * 


FREE SPIRITS

To Earth Mother, joy among tears
wherever we run
the gamut of life’s fears

Keeping faith with friendly trees,
embracing every one;
to Earth Mother, joy among tears

Come glorious sunsets on pastures
pink and green…
the gamut of life’s fears

Choice, all humankind gladly frees
to be true to its own;
to Earth Mother, joy among tears

Peace (nature too) will find enemies
where its colours run
the gamut of life’s tears

Gay love, blessed by summer kisses,
a bid for freedom won!
To Earth Mother, joy among tears,
the gamut of life’s fears


Copyright R. N. Taber, 2012. Dedication: written for Paul & Rob to celebrate their Civil Partnership in Biggleswade, Saturday 11 July 2009. From the collection: On the Battlefields of Love.


* *


WATERWAYS OF BRITAIN: MAKING PEACE WITH PROGRESS 

On the waterways of Britain
(many neglected for years)
Man and nature as one again

Compensating for acid rain,
find honest sweat and tears
on the waterways of Britain

Ever mindful of loss and gain,
(Oh, spirited volunteers!)
Man and nature as one again

A testament to industry’s pain,
toiling through its centuries
on the waterways of Britain

Hosting the occasional swan,
even water voles and otters,
Man and nature as one again

Among such, pages written
of a nation’s finer endeavours;
on the waterways of Britain,
Man and nature as one again


Copyright R. N. Taber 2016. Note: I wrote this poem to accompany a video shot by Graham Collett for my You Tube channel: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WA8VQoPgX2M


* *


A TREATISE ON EFFLUENCE
[or CONSUMERISM ANGST]

They’re feeding me crap
I’m the worm that turned*
I’m biting back

For our burger and bap
a forest burned
They’re feeding me crap

I am more than a stat!
Processed-mind; unlearned
I’m biting back

Your snake-oil snack
leaves my stomach churned
They’re feeding me crap

This consumerist trap;
my escape route discerned
I’m biting back

I’ll dump all these apps
Sail to Crusoe’s island!
They’re feeding me crap
I’m biting back


By Graham Collett, 2024. [Apologies for this vulgar effort!]

* ‘Even a worm will turn’ is an English language expression used to convey the message that even the meekest or most docile of creatures will retaliate or seek revenge if pushed too far. It was used in William Shakespeare’s play Henry VI. (Sourced from Wikipedia).

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Sunday 9 October 2016

Pictures in an Exhibition

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

A reader from Switzerland has emailed me to ask - as people often do - why a poet writes fiction. Well, there is poetry of a kind in fiction too. I needed to try my hand at writing novels, partly because I knew I would enjoy it (as I did) and partly because i suspected it would bring me closer to an understanding of human nature...as it has; as, indeed, do all the arts, each in their own way. Take fiction; it is not all about plot, but creating characters, good and bad. The writer needs to explore the various interrelationships of mind, body and spirit. Hopefully, this has also made me a better poet... but that, of course, is up to you, my readers, to decide.

Most of my novels - published and unpublished - remain in serial form on my fiction blog. Each serial is preceded by a separate synopsis post. It wa my original intention that as each complete novel  would be published to Google Play in e-format and removed from the blog. but a number of readers have emailed to say they cannot access Google Play. For this reason, I will be publishing my gay-interest crime novel 'Blasphemy' to the blog again while continuing to make it available on Google Play. All my novels on the blog are listed at:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2016/05/news-updates-fiction.html 

It seemed a good idea to publish today's poem here (see below) at the same time as answering a number of queries about publishing my novels (and poetry collections) as e-books to Google Play over the next few years, thereby, making those that have only ever been on sale in the UK available to readers worldwide. UK sales were not too discouraging; first (and only) print runs sold quite well. Even so, I am definitely more of a poet than a novelist, although I enjoy writing fiction, and sheer enjoyment has to be as good a motivation as any.  [Few publishers have shown much interest in my fiction and not all those serialised on the blog have been published in print form; copyright to each, though, remains exclusively mine.]

A librarian in public libraries most of my working life, it would both amuse and sadden me to see hot-blooded heterosexual readers hovering  near the counter until no one else was waiting before presenting any gay-interest items (a novel,  DVD, biography of a gay icon etc.) to be issued or discharged. Many libraries have now installed issue/discharge machines that will spare them any such embarrassment. Yet, why be embarrassed?  Imagination is an Open House. I can only put it down to human nature’s preoccupation with a ‘guilt by association’ ethos and habitual inclination to jump to conclusions.

I wrote this poem while thinking about writing my first novel, ‘Dog Roses; a Gay Man’s Rites of Passage.’ The book was never published except on the blog. No publishers were interested, but that did not matter. By the time I had finished writing it, I realised why I had so needed to write it in the first place. Putting aside aspirations of fame and fortune (just as well) I needed to stop thinking about exploring human nature through fiction as with poetry, and just get on with it, give it my best shot. I have no regrets; it provided no less as rewarding an experience as poetry but via different routes and from different angles. (As for so much as a hint of talent, well, that’s something else altogether…and up to you to form your own opinions.)

I used to regret not being able to paint, draw, compose or play music... until it came home to me how all the arts share a common source; the writer, composer, painter, whatever. needs must get as close to human nature as any gardener or farmer to the very soil we feed and which, in turn, feeds us. How far the analogy can be carried, of course, depend as much on the nature of the soil or genre as that of any of us reaping its rewards; reader, listener, observer, all have no less a part to play than whomsoever's hands planting whatsoever seeds.

This poem is a villanelle.

PICTURES IN AN EXHIBITION

Exploring the human condition,
its good, bad and ugly
life forces stranger than fiction

Any flaws demanding attention,
(for all a subtle simplicity)
exploring the human condition

Nature, its greater contribution
side-lined by humanity;
life forces stranger than fiction

Exposed, a common retribution
(reasoning a moral propriety)
exploring the human condition

Satirised, a political observation
of this life’s tragicomedy;
life forces stranger than fiction

Society, pictures in an exhibition
for whomsoever cares to see;
exploring the human condition,
life forces stranger than fiction

Copyright R. N. Taber 1997; 2016






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Wednesday 7 January 2015

Hero in the Line of Fire

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

[Update Jan 7, 2018: Today marks three years to the day since the attack on Charlie Hebdo in Paris. We should not and dare not forget...] RT

Today's poem was written several years ago, but will resonate today with believers in Freedom of Speech worldwide.

What appears to have been yet another barbaric act of terrorism in Paris on staff of the French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo, killing and injuring a number of people, including two police officers, is a terrifying reminder of the times in which we live. There is NO excuse for it whatever.

The killers were reportedly heard shouting what translates as ‘We have avenged the prophet’; a prophet who would have been appalled to have His name so abused.

Humour, especially satire, will always be controversial, but should never be allowed to fall victim to either political correctness or any socio-cultural-religious persuasion. It is one of the most effective Weapons of Peace by which various elements of society can be freely criticised. The keyword here, of course, is ‘freely’. All of us - especially writers and journalists - must feel free to criticise wherever and whenever they feel criticism is justified. Others, of course, must be similarly free to agree or disagree.

Any attack on Free Speech is an attack on us all. We can but trust the perpetrators of this latest horrific event will be tracked down and brought to justice.

I love Paris and the French people. My thoughts and sympathies - as I imagine those of all my readers - are especially with the families and friends of those killed and injured in Paris earlier today. May they draw on the power of love to help them through the coming hours, days, months and years with the kind of strength and courage that epitomises the very best of human nature.

Where certain elements of any society are inclined (as are all of us, up to a point) to take its beliefs as 'written on tablets of stone' these are - and always will be - a legitimate target for satire if only to encourage us be less inflexible and/or dogmatic. We need to regularly review our perspectives on life, including those on the society in which we live, and at the very least draw attention to any perceived failings. Isn't this what a free press - indeed, free speech - is all about? This, too, I fear has been increasingly under threat for some years, especially by a significant (but vocal) minority who so love to play this or that socio-cultural-religious card...

This poem is a villanelle.

HERO IN THE LINE OF FIRE 

Where society a hypocrite or liar,
politics the ultimate blame game,
find a sharp-tongued ally in satire

Invariably, no smoke without fire,
(point the finger, give it a name)
where society a hypocrite and liar

Global warming, threat more dire
for all those repudiating the same;
find a sharp-tongued ally in satire

World leaders, negotiating its mire
(power, among the perks of fame)
where society a hypocrite and liar

Religion, where AIDS toll higher,
its rhetoric loud, reasoning lame;
find a sharp-tongued ally in satire

Drugs-arms dealers loath to retire,
(Greed, the name of the game);
where society a hypocrite and liar,
find a sharp-tongued ally in satire

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2012


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Monday 24 February 2014

Spinning Yarns


As a child, I loved reading myths, legends and fairy stories. As an adult, I began to realise that many are an entertaining metaphor for real life. Even so, not all magic is wishful thinking. Yet, the same imagination that fed on those stories so long ago continues to see me through the same need for escapism some 50+ years on.

The trick, of course, lies in learning to separate fact from fiction, wishful thinking from reality, naked truth from bare-faced lies....

SPINNING YARNS

Storytellers would have us believe
that once there was magic in the world,
a time when we all sang songs
of peace and love till a twilight fell
that had us playing hide-and-seek
among ruins of halcyon days confined
to make-believe

Storytellers would have us believe
that once there was chivalry in the world,
a time when men opened doors
for ladies without their being accused
of sexism, nor would a lady mind,
but take pleasure in being noticed so,
by way, too, of common courtesy  

Storytellers would have us believe
that once there was the stoicism of Penelope
who contrived to remain faithful
to the love of her life without being accused
of pandering to her man,
rather of ingenuity for putting a unique
spin on love

Storytellers would have us believe
that the old gods were jealous of each other,
interfering in the ways of humankind
that played them at their own games and won,
tore down their temples,
created a copycat Olympus
on Capitol Hill 

Storytellers would have us believe
that once there was magic in the world,
a time when we all sang songs
of peace and love till a twilight fell
that had us playing hide-and-seek
among ruins of an innocence confined
to childhood

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

[Note: While I never made it as a successful novelist, I confess have really enjoyed trying my hand at fiction from time to time; if interested, go to: http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2016/05/news-updates-fiction.html on my fiction blog where most of my novels (published and unpublished) are serialised.]


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Monday 25 February 2013

O, Cervantes

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

Since the 1970s, pressure of work on the average person has at least doubled; fewer staff and the common misconception by (too many) managers that just about anyone can be replaced by a computer has been a major contributory factor. Only ten years earlier, my teachers at school had been telling us how wonderful the 1980s would be once machines were doing the lion’s share of the work we were paid full-time wages for part-time hours. [Whatever happened to the Golden Age of Leisure we were promised?]

Oh, but show me a windmill!

O, CERVANTES

One commuter rises
at seven, has to run for the train
at eight after ritual peck
on doorstep, and warning the kids
not to be late for school

Arrives for work wearily,
re-sorts any post meticulously,
checks with a secretary
about what’s worth knowing
on the grapevine

Another day done,
breaks for tea well-deserved,
our hero heads home,
packed like a helpless veal calf
on the continental run

Turns a brassy yale
at about half-six most days,
picking at supper
by seven ten, sends screaming kids
to do their homework

Starts to tell the wife
about his own work, and then...
(Damn, the mobile again!)
A smoke, glass of red, some soap TV,
(pity about the ulcer, scary.)

No outstanding bills, and never
a thing about windmills

Copyright R. N. Taber 1999; 2013

[Note: An earlier but only slightly different version of today’s poem was written in 1972; it appeared in Poetry Monthly (1999) that has since closed down and iAll in One Day, Poetry Now (Forward Press) 2001 prior to my first major collection,  Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001;]

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Friday 23 March 2012

Master Baiter

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

This wryly emotive poem was written as a protest against political correctness creeping into and even censoring humour and satire. As I have said before on the blogs, if we cannot laugh at ourselves, we might as well be dead.

I speak from personal experience. As a partially deaf person, I had a speech defect for many years and peers were always making fun of me for it. I’d simply exaggerate the defect and make them laugh; the teasing invariably stopped. For the same reason, I’d often mishear what people said and give a totally inappropriate answer to a question. Again, I learned to laugh it off although my teachers at school despaired of me.

It was years before hearing aids were available here in the UK for my kind of (perceptive) deafness and life is much easier and richer for that.  Even so, I like to think my sense of humour - if quirky at times - prevails and helps me carry on the Monty Python tradition of looking on the bright side of life.  It saw me through a traumatic youth and early manhood at a time when being gay was a criminal offence .(It still is in some parts of the world!)

Never underestimate the power of humour. As regular readers will know only too well, it helped me through a severe nervous breakdown some 30+ years ago when I almost lost it to the extent that I attempted suicide and very nearly succeeded. Thankfully, instinct eventually kicked in. I survived to tell the tale and bore the pants off everyone.

Incidentally the dictionary definition of peristalsis reads, ‘The wavelike muscular contractions of the alimentary canal or other tubular structures by which contents are forced onward toward the opening …’

This poem is a kenning.

MASTER BAITER

I take centre-stage,
audience in the palm of my hand,
or wait in the wings for a cue
along the lines of something borrowed
that was blue but turned green
in the wash so let’s air the laundry,
on the Internet (of course)
so socially screwed-up networks
can web-stream the divorce

I make politicians smart
till he or she is wriggling like a maggot
on my line at election time,
drive religious folks to drink (or worse)
for exposing a putting of cart
before horse and making sure it’s loaded
so a congregation’s conscience
all the lighter (and its pockets) saved
by heaven-sent Muppets

I make misanthropists believe
that what their keeping up their sleeve
is the sunshine of a smile,
ready to spread like butter on my bread
(though some say that’s not healthy)
to help keep hearty a world on the blink
that, damn it, needs the likes of me
to get it thinking about mud it’s throwing
and where it’s sticking

Take your cue from me, catch a whopper;
I am called Humour... (Gotcha!)

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

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Sunday 11 July 2010

The Teacher

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

A reader has asked "... why on earth would anyone would want to access Edwin Black’s blog or even follow it?"  [at http://bardicblackspot.blogspot.com ]

Apparently, he doesn’t find it in the least amusing and considers it, at times, to be ‘quite offensive’. Well, Edwin doesn’t offend me. He makes me laugh…sometimes uncomfortably, it’s true. But isn’t it that element of discomfort, often associated with humour, that gives rise to various concerns that, in turn, offer food for serious thought?

Everyone’s sense of humour is different of course. Even so, surely it’s better to let it run a whole gamut of expression than settle for its getting stuck in any particular groove?

Incidentally, Edwin performed on the 4th plinth in Trafalgar Square last year a couple of months after my own appearance as part of Antony Gormley's  One and Other 'living sculpture'  project:

http://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223121732/oneandother.co.uk/participants/Edwin [This link is temporarily out of action as it is incompatible with new B L software, but B L hope to reinstall all the plinth links at a later date.] RT

Me, I guess I have a predilection for anything (and anyone) that makes me laugh.

This poem is a kenning.

THE TEACHER

I light up dark corners of the heart,
bring smiles to lips turned down in a scowl,
temper sorrow with happier times,
turn back even pain’s relentless attack
into a victory for the human spirit’s
capacity for rising above the worst of things,
and reaching for its kinder side,
on show but, oh, too rarely, in a world
preferring secrets and lies

I give Youth a chance to score points
over peers preoccupied with one-upmanship
in some bleak, sordid arena
of gang warfare, where the weak are seen
as targets for bullies, even killers,
armed with knives and guns on the grounds
that actions speak louder than words
and it’s only fools learn the body language
of peace and love

I bring to Old Age welcome respite
from an inclination to turn back the pages
of memory, wishing we had done
things differently, trod more carefully
among muddy leaves of desire,
considered the needs of others more
in our anxiety to leave footprints
of memorable endeavour once left to wing
time’s corridor forever

Oh, I can be cruel (can’t we all?) Yet, no finer
teacher of life’s ways than I, called Laughter

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

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