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.

Friday 7 January 2011

Postscript to a Wintry Frost

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blog two years ago and has been requested my 'Marianne' for her partner 'Rose-Marie' and by a reader from Leeds in West Yorkshire who did not give a name (I never reveal screen names).

I am often accused of being whimsical in my poems. Well, yes, I do whimsy.

Many years ago in the course of a mental breakdown, I attempted suicide. Thankfully, I failed. It was a grim experience and I was ill for several years, but it put me on a learning curve and gave me a new lease and appreciation of life.

POSTSCRIPT TO A WINTRY FROST

Early one morning in a winter frost
I walked to the Gates of Death
where so many have gone whom
I have loved and lost;
frozen flowers like miniature statues
lined the winding path I took;
I felt as if I were weaving my way
out of a storybook;
as a weepy sun rose higher in the sky
the statues came alive,
Earth Mother’s daily rallying call
reassuring us of her love

By now it had passed, the winter frost,
and I arrived at the Gates of Love
where so many have gone whom
I have loved and lost;
the gate, it flew open and showed me
a world beyond imaginings,
of peace and beauty everywhere,
the stuff of fairy tale endings;
I sighed, sensing I dare not linger long
where I hadn't yet reached
my journey’s end, though hopeful
for leaving a winter frost behind

Come a time we'll weather a winter frost
to the Gates of Death
and run a gamut of tears, see them open
to a new springtime of our years

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

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Wednesday 5 January 2011

Lament for an Endangered Species

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

We worry about endangered species across the animal and plant worlds, and rightly so, but what about us? Yes, we are right to be concerned about climate change, but aren't we, too,  an endangered species given the way the world’s governments carry on? (Mind you, who elects them...?)

Ah, but we should be wary of playing the blame game as the final stages may well be played out on our own doorsteps. Across the world, including here in the UK, a significant number of young people are losing the plot.

Street crime and gang culture are on the rise especially among young people, and those involved need to ask themselves some important questions, not least what they really want out of life. If the answers include blood on their hands, possibly an early death and/or a long prison sentence... then I guess they will go ahead... throw their lives away and the lives of others while they're about it.

I'm told it's all about acting 'big'. Well, there is nothing big about it at all of course although I suspect that in many cases it is all an act. Those who see sense walk away before it's too late. Now, that's big.

LAMENT FOR AN ENDANGERED SPECIES

I walked out early one morning
and heard a lark singing
a song I’d only vaguely heard
before, its melody
of a curious beauty, yet weeping
blood and tears

Once, I'd get on with whatever
presents itself  at the time,
only vaguely conscious of feeling
all the more inspired to surpass
at the task in hand for a song worthy
of reassuring lost souls
at Heaven’s door kept waiting
for an answer...

Once, I'd roam territorial streets
find sounds of laughter
lifting me till someone's crying
moves me to follow
the awful sound down side roads
and back alleys, leading
to a human being left bleeding 
from knife wounds

Eyes wide open, lips appealing
to our common humanity
for help to see out another day,
hear what a skylark
has to say before too late,
world already darker,
its streets busy ringing war cries
between phone alerts

Now, I roam the streets at twilight
wishing I’d arrived in time
to save the young man who died
in my arms… wondering who
could have had such little respect
for human life as to rob youth
of its future, family life of its soul,
friendship of a like spirit?

Born to achieve this or that goal,
he had but found himself
in the wrong place at the wrong time,
no lark’s song of hope and glory
come close to gang culture’s senseless
prose and blank verse

Come night, a star for every lark come
to sing us to our graves

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2019


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Friday 3 December 2010

A Christmas Truce

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

Religious festivals should bring people together. Yet, so often they follow the age-old tradition of religions worldwide and, in the end, but cause division among family, friends, neighbours....

Christmas is no exception for many of us.

Even where people are brought together for a day or two, it is often no more than calling a truce. Before we know it, we are divided; fighting, insulting, demanding more than we deserve, failing to enter into each other’s points of view...or simply ignoring each other again.

Even so, calling a truce can be a new beginning ... if we let it, always bearing in mind that it takes two to tango' there has to be the will to get together, albeit often absent for all kinds of reasons it is not for any of us to judge.

A CHRISTMAS TRUCE?

Sought, a safe haven on Christmas Day
from family stuff, presents round a tree,
giving the rein to how things should be,
denying what stares in each tinsel face;
A stranger in red mentioned such a place
where I might escape, find sanctuary,
even peace - away from all pretence
at burying home truths under layers of truce,
letting sweet carols on the ear replace
a harsher cacophony of lies, more lies,
accusation (and retribution?) for crimes
against the ego (never mind humanity)
in the daily round of sheer hypocrisy
and petty discrimination against whatever
points of view that can’t, won’t, shouldn’t
always go with the flow in case we tread
on Someone’s feelings, trigger into motion
a tedious, even violent chain reaction,
that might go on for years, spill more tears
than for Judas or lied about Christmas

So, where to go? I asked a jolly man in red
who started laughing, said to use some
common sense and moved on, leaving me
for dead among piles of pretty wrapping,
more calls for a truce, plates of mince pies
and sausage rolls blind to a soul’s fears,
deaf to its prayers

[From: A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]

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Thursday 2 December 2010

The Snowman

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

[Update: December 23rd 2018; There has just been a devastating tsunami in the Java region of Indonesia. Whatever our religious beliefs (or those like me who subscribe to no none) let us spare a thought if not a prayer for all those affected. Ironic, isn't it, that world divisions only seem to unite, if only briefly, in the face of tragedy?]

Christmas 2010 is coming! Do we cheer, sigh or groan? Take your pick.

Now, when we celebrate a religious festival, obviously we are celebrating that religion whether it is Christianity, Judaism, Islam or Hinduism...whatever. At the same time let us remember those who are no longer with us, especially those who taught us how to keep its spirit alive with and open mind and heart so that all we celebrate has meaning way beyond its holy books and various rituals.

Regular readers know I am not a religious person but religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality. I, personally, found that in nature after religion let me down. Even so, I bear no grudges and respect other people’s religious beliefs – just as nature does - even though these are often tainted by intolerance and prejudice, including homophobia. Could that be, I ask myself, where human nature far too often goes so badly wrong?

The UK is experiencing its worst early snowfalls for eighteen years. The snowmen at least have never had it so good.


THE SNOWMAN

Snowman in the sun, icy patches
on the ground;
eyes of conkers soaked in vinegar,
reminder of autumn roll-over;
grandpa’s army coat lent a vintage look;
carrot nose, smiling mouth
(like a rhubarb stick);
we called him Jack, grandma’s cane
helping him stand or, rather,
keep him steady in reindeer tracks,
ready to lend a hand

Through the night we waited to see
if Jack would take his cue
from the likes of you and me, fairy lights
on the tree...but we dozed off;
we opened our eyes,
Ma flinging the curtains wide,
(no sign of Jack outside);
among gifts around the tree,
for any who care to look and see,
a card attached to a plain white box
reads simply...

'Thanks for the Memory'

Copyright R.N. Taber, 2004

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.]

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Monday 29 November 2010

Epitaph For A Rose

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

Someone recently commented that, at 65 (in December) I look in pretty good shape if a bit frayed at the edges. My excuse for the latter is that I’m getting old(er).

I look around and ask myself, does the modern world have that same excuse?

EPITAPH FOR A ROSE

Amongst litter in the gutter, rose petals
frayed at the edges;
in acid raindrops making holes in the sky,
dreams absconding wherever…
anonymous footprints, marking out tracks
well travelled;
clothes, bright and dull, offering sanctuary
to troubled souls;
backs of balding heads telling fairy stories
of halcyon days
(were they to turn, what meeting of minds
before eyes averted?)

Reflections in shop windows passing us by
like kerb crawlers;
a toy gun sounds off a warning shot about
turning into dead ends

A deaf person signing to us has more to say
than we who can’t hear;
a blind person’s white stick, intently probing
our anxieties;
banks of cloud rolling away to let the sun in
on a street’s secrets;
Apollo’s kiss on parted lips, a taste of history
repeating itself;
a rumble of passing thunder in the distance
suggests a battle over;
rose petals, but litter in the gutter of a world
fraying at the edges

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

[Note; First published in Poetry Monthly International, January 2009 and subsequently in On The Battlefields Of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]

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Sunday 14 November 2010

Last Post

[Update March 12 2018]:Today’s poems (on both blogs) a were written especially for Remembrance Sunday. I am repeating them here not only because 2018 marks 100 years since the end of World War 2 but also because we should always remember.

'They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.' -  a stanza from 'For the Fallen' by Robert Laurence Binyon 
(1869-1943) as published in The Times newspaper on 21st September 1914.

Yes, let us remember always...not only our war dead and their families but also those wounded in wars past and present and their continuing battle with pain just for getting on with their everyday lives in ways so many of us take for granted. We owe them...and how!

Ah, but when will humankind ever learn? Oh, when will we ever learn...?

LAST POST

They shot me down on foreign soil
and the first sound I heard was a child’s cry
at the moment of birth
and I wished the child and parents well,
that they would see a kinder end
than me, wracked with pain, no less so
for knowing I would never see
either homeland or loved ones again
yet had done my best (can anyone
do more?) and had no regrets but one
about fighting a war like this

A continuing absence of peace

They lay a black cloth over my face
so I should not see comrades close to tears
for the worst of fears
we put behind us who fight such wars
as we don’t always understand
but do our duty though it be in a land
as far away from the pub
on the corner of our street as heaven
from hell where they all but meet
here in Afghanistan

A continuing absence of peace

They put me in a box and closed the lid
so I would not feel the tears of passing clouds
on the journey home
or hear the strains of the Last Post
acknowledge me gone
nor see the flags lowered as silent crowds
line the streets of a small town
taking me to their hearts as if I were one
of their own, as they have done
for others like me, making our journey
less lonely for this

A lasting empathy with peace

The first sound I heard as they lowered me
into the earth was a child’s cry at the moment
of birth and I wished the child
and parents well in a kinder world than this
that saw me fight to save it
from a hell of its own making, no less so
for centuries of tradition
and a culture of oppression seeking
to break free while keeping faith
with its finer principles and (far) kinder
ways than this

A continuing absence of peace

“A good person, worthy sacrifice, fine soldier...”
Too late, I cannot hear.

Copyright R. N. Taber 1999, 2010

This second poem is a villanelle, written July 2009 to mark the death of Harry Patch, the last British veteran of the First World War.

A FEELING FOR PEACE AND QUIET

On old Memory Lane, all is quiet
for those who fought a war to end war
so we may make our peace with it

Among cries of the fallen, a shout,
(At ’em lads, at ’em, that’s the score!);
on old Memory Lane all is quiet

They bore old age, faces firmly set
to do them proud who had gone before
so we may make our peace with it

We will always be in their debt,
dead and wounded on a foreign shore;
on old Memory Lane all is quiet

We must never even try to forget
those whose freedom’s colours wore
so we may make our peace with it

War, war and still more of it yet;
on the landscape of love, a weeping sore;
on old Memory Lane, all is quiet
so we may make our peace with it

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: 'Last Post' first appeared on the Internet in Ygdrasil, an online poetry journal 1999; both poems are included in my collection On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]

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Saturday 6 November 2010

Every Poem Tells A Story

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

I have always loved reading, writing and telling stories. I dare say you will have noticed how this carries over into many of my poems.

EVERY POEM TELLS A STORY

Every poem tells a story…
about love, hate, shame, glory,
whatever inspires, lights
the fires of creativity, blind coals
in secret cavities of the soul
that now and then burst
into flames, lighting up the mind,
exposing the heart’s needs,
its strengths and weaknesses
born of love, lust, hate, pain,
grieving for the world's repeating
its worst again and again,
leaving poor humanity to follow on
as best it can, put right
its wrongs, conveniently rewrite
the saddest songs of war,
disasters, wounds that will never
truly heal - with lines even
a paralysed heart can feel, though
it take a while to penetrate
its body armour, participate in the
latest United Nations resolution,
promises of aid on the way, more than
mere dreams fading as each day
turns into night, night into day, no one
(still) anything wiser to say
than - Let’s pray. And where is God
looking out for whom, exactly, a child
dying of AIDS or starvation…?

Every poem tells a story with as many endings
as humanity's interpretation of its meanings

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; rev. 2021

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005; rev. 2021.]

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