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].

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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.

Sunday 30 October 2011

Time Out

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

Today’s poem last appeared on the blogs in 2009 and I am repeating it today especially for a ‘L. P.’ who has been in touch to ask how best to tell family and friends he is gay. Another young man once asked when I thought might be a good time to tell his parents he had no intention of marrying the young woman his family have chosen for him. I also told them both that, it is their decision and theirs alone, but the longer they wait, the harder it will be. Nor should we blame ourselves for any hurt caused by standing out ground when we feel the need. We are not answerable for the shortcomings and/or short sightedness of others.

Is there ever a right time to tell someone something with which they may feel uncomfortable? Home truths, for example, never go down well at first if at all.

Ah, but we should not underestimate the power of common sense, and even less so the heart’s capacity to argue with questionable reason...and win.

Just as most LGBT people need to make time to tell family and friends about their sexuality, so those among the heterosexual majority who decide to go against parental well-meaning for their well-being and choose another path also need to choose their moment with care. Yes, with care, for diplomacy can only ever help win over the opposition.

In some instances, of course, there will rarely if ever be a ‘right’ time to raise this matter or that. Yet, the more serious the matter and the more intensely it concerns us, the more important it is that we make time to let the people who matter to us know that it’s the way in life we propose to follow, and are confident it is right for us.
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Whether any attempts at diplomacy succeed or not, only time will tell ... and time demands both parties fully respect if not fully understand each other's point of view. Everyone needs to take time out in their lives to reconsider taking sides against others simply because they are 'different'; in other words, they do not conform to our own conventions/expectations. I suspect it is up to younger generations, from all walks of life, to lead the way in proving that our differences do not make us different, only human.

Did I say it was easy?

TIME OUT

Doors half opening, half closing;
windows flung wide, slammed shut;
roads stretching, bending;
children born and growing so fast;
parents coming, going,
working, and trying their hardest
to make out they won’t
even mind dying, but only so long
as the timing’s - what, right?

Earth flung, heaped, piling up;
nature’s buds opening, now closing;
dirt tracks stretching, bending;
world's birds singing while nesting;
parents coming, going,
and working at trying their hardest
to make out they won’t
even mind chicks flying off so long
as the timing’s - what, right?

More flinging, slamming about;
hungry mouths opening, now closing;
bony legs stretching, bending;
a capacity for love born, growing fast;
doubts coming, going,
working at trying their hardest
to fool us they not only
have our very best interests at heart,
but their timing’s - what, right?

Seasons of animal, vegetable, mineral,
leaving no time to make sense of it all

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2011

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

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Friday 28 October 2011

Hollywood Boulevard

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

Many of us dream of fame and fortune, especially when we are feeling low and life is not working out too well for us. Fortunately, most of us have both feet planted firmly in terra firma and begin to mull over the down side of fame and fortune; lack of privacy, petty jealousies and one-upmanship, not forgetting critics who haven’t a creative bone in their bodies yet feel qualified to judge the creative performances of others...

Better by far to settle for the best of things on our side of the proverbial fence. Even so, a little daydreaming does no harm...

Me? I just enjoy writing poetry, as much as a form of creative therapy as an art form. I have been prone to depression since childhood, and it is no coincidence that my first published poem appeared in my school magazine when I was only 11 years-old. Writing, painting, music, gardening...any form of creative therapy that a person enjoys and can keep his or her demons at bay has to be worth the effort...doesn't it?  As for fame and fortune... a welcome by-product, of course, but far less of a priority than any pleasure and personal satisfaction, especially when the shared by others, and making a difference. I don't expect anyone to like everything I write, but I so love it when readers get in touch to say that reading a poem of mine - in either of my poetry blogs, general or gay-interest - has helped motivate them to improving their quality of life.

HOLLYWOOD BOULEVARD

Walked with Fame one afternoon, watery sun
and a misty rain;
man, woman, couldn’t tell - Humphrey Bogart
or Lauren Bacall?
Better than any movie, the suspense
was really getting to me,
and where would I be by the end of the day?
(Good question...)

Strained to hear what my companion
had to say about it, though abysmally scripted;
caught words like fate, jealousy, love, hate,
sounding as trite as Mother’s plastic mac worn
to fend off a heavy summer storm;
only, no storm broke nor did any ghost
call me out, settling for thinly disguised threats
and nagging innuendo

Should I take the bait? Oh, I thought I might,
but - no!
Rather, I quickened my step, widening the gap
between us,
hardly able to see hand in front of face
for tears,
a now glaring sun hastening to dispel mist, rain,
and human anxieties

Copyright R. N. Taber2005; 2009



[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in 1st eds. of A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2005; 2nd ed. in preparation].

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Wednesday 26 October 2011

Footprints In A Field Of Dreams

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

Today’s post is duplicated on both my general and gay-interest blogs.

Many thanks to those readers who have been in touch with kind words about my latest YouTube video filmed in the Memorial Garden in London’s Grosvenor Square created in memory of the British victims of the 9/11 attacks. One lady has asked me to repeat the direct link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bF9KHwjC6zg

And if it doesn’t work, just go to my YouTube channel:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Meanwhile...

How many times, I wonder, do we ask ourselves why, oh, why do we bother and just what is it all for?

FOOTPRINTS IN A FIELD OF DREAMS

The world, it’s so big;
we, we’re so small,
and, oh, what’s the point
of it all?

The flowers, they grow
only to rise and fall,
and, oh, what’s the point
of it all?

Some people succeed
where others fail
though they try so hard
at it all;
others, they struggle on
at hardship’s call,
the most deserving among
us all

I look from my window
and feel so small
but, oh, that’s the point
of it all;
expanding its parameters,
walking tall,
and where doesn’t matter
at all

I’ve watched flowers die
where their petals fall
but, oh, that’s the point
of it all

It’s love peace and beauty,
though they be fragile
will see us win our wars
after all

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

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Thursday 6 October 2011

Past-Present-Future, Time Traveller

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

I can be whimsical, even quirky in some poems. Some readers enjoy this, some hate it while it would appear that yet others can even feel inspired.

Today’s poem has not appeared on the blog since 2008. I have been asked to repeat it by ‘Angela’ who has been in touch to say, ‘...it inspired [me] to start tracing [my] family tree, with such amazing results that I am now passionately into genealogy.’

Good luck with that, Angela.

PAST-PRESENT-FUTURE, TIME TRAVELLER

One day I visited a churchyard
looking for a gravestone;
I found it, but only after hours
foraging among weeds;
I knelt down and cleared away
years of moss and grime;
in time, I could even make out
a legend, dates, a name

I felt cold, cheated, no feelings
of compassion for the dead;
here lay a total stranger, albeit
of my family line (so what?);
it filled a box on the family tree;
the rest, but photographs,
letters, and a diary with pages
faded or missing

I’d found what I was looking for
so why linger there?
I tried to leave. My legs refused
to do as I wanted;
I couldn’t move, even after a few
conspiratorial drops of rain;
then the stone opened like a door,
and I needed no telling

I entered, began feeling my way
along a gloomy tunnel;
in a light at the end stood a man,
his features obscured;
as I closed in, he spoke. I strained
to hear a choked voice
saying it was ages since anyone
had sought him out

He said I had the family likeness
and it meant a lot to see;
then he was gone and I was left
staring at a gravestone;
that day I visited a churchyard
looking for family,
I found it, and was infinitely
glad I’d come

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

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Sunday 2 October 2011

Among Games People Play

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

We see politicians and religious leaders at it all the time, but can any of us say in all honesty that we have never played the blame game?

 AMONG GAMES PEOPLE PLAY

There's a secret game people play,
that rarely stays a secret very long;
before you know it, they'll leak it,
see gossip machines into overdrive

It’s a so-nasty game people play,
that nearly always gets (far) worse
before any signs of getting better
for anyone whose head in its noose

It’s a so-sorry game people play
that must (invariably) end in tears,
 its losers left cut to the quick,
while rare, a ring-leader who cares

It’s a so-lonely game people play,
(needing to be one of an in-crowd)
eager to point invisible fingers
at human kindness going belly-up

It’s a game we all love to deplore,
yet who among us can honestly say 
we've not played gossip machines,
regardless of any risks to overdrive?

It’s the blame game people play,
deemed as good a diversion as any
from errors of their own ways
(masks mistaken for friendly faces)

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011












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Friday 30 September 2011

Universal Soldier

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

Today’s poem has appeared on the blog twice; in 2007 and 2009. I am repeating it again for no other reason than I feel a need to let off steam.  Hopefully, new readers and those who never have time to browse the blog archives will enjoy the poem and regular readers won’t mind becoming reacquainted with it. Mind you, I cannot (and don’t) expect everyone to like every poem I write...

I am coping with hormone therapy for my prostate cancer, but with some difficulty. I dread going shopping on my own. Some days, it seems that everywhere I go I am a target for abuse, the more so for refusing to take being treated badly with a nod and a smile as if that’s perfectly okay. I can’t wait to get home, sometimes close to tears and falling apart, to let several cups of tea help put me back together again. [Mind you, my mother did warn me that as you get older, you become more and more invisible...] Oh, well it is what you come to expect when you live in some areas of London. So why don’t I moved away? Well, I can’t afford to, and besides why should I?

What is it about humankind, I often wonder, that our need and desire for peace of mind is invariably undermined by someone else’s appetite for conflict? I guess the trouble is, the latter often if not always provokes the same in us.

It doesn’t even take a war, not here in London anyway. You might glare at someone for nearly knocking you flying because they are on their mobile phone so you are expected to get out of their way, but weren’t quite quick enough, and the next minute you are on the receiving end of a stream of verbal abuse. Or you are crossing the road and someone walks right in front of you causing you to stumble. (It is your fault, of course.) Or you are on an escalator at a London Underground station and someone in a hurry pushes you so you fall but (hopefully) avoid a serious accident. You protest and are either ignored or, again, verbally abused for being in the way. Or you are coming out of a shop, and some cyclist who thinks he or she has every right to ride on a busy pavement sends you sprawling and rides on without a care. By the time you are nearly home, the slightest thing is likely to trigger rage, and then someone suggests you need anger management.

An average week (if not day) in the life of a pensioner in London...

Yesterday a little lad about 6 years-old was playing on the floor in a store where I was queuing. Apparently, I knocked his head with my basket. The mother laid into me verbally as if I had done it on purpose. She demanded I apologise in such a way that I stormed out of the store without purchasing my items rather than stay within an inch of the woman and her children another second. Maybe she was right and I was wrong. Whatever, it was the last straw in a chain of events that made me feel like going to war with the entire human race; end-game, annihilation.

Today has to be a better day...Well doesn’t it...?

UNIVERSAL SOLDIER

Wrestling in the womb
with thoughts I cannot know,
feelings unable to show,
I start to grow…
the way of all humanity
that’s gone before, a personality
and identity to call my own
though I take my place
in a world anxious for a face,
to place here, there, 
within the easier confines 
of a history classroom taught, 
and purpose-built

Wrestling in the womb
with thoughts I cannot know,
feelings unable to show,
I continue to grow…
a microcosm of all human
endeavour, facing the complexities
of fate without a murmur,
one to one with God
without fear of the world’s
goading icons, relishing centuries
of silence brought soundly
to bear upon Man’s first cry,
'War, war, war!'

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]

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Wednesday 28 September 2011

Whatever Happened To Once-Upon-A-Time?

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

Regular readers will know that I am often revising earlier poems, usually only slightly, but sometimes more drastically even when the original has already appeared in one or more poetry publications. Why? I suspect that, years on, I am quite simply looking at the same poem/s and their theme/s from a different perspective; it is not necessarily a criticism of the earlier version.

The first version of this poem was written in 1996. It had already appeared in Thoughts from the Pen, Book Mark (1997), Meridian Poetry Magazine (1998) and Visions of the Mind, Spotlight Poets [Forward Press] (1998) before I included it in my first major collection in 2001. The second version is a revision with which I have been toying only recently.

So which version do you prefer?

Ah, but the sheer escapism of my childhood continues to see me though the harsher aspects of reality. So much for growing up...

(1) WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ONCE-UPON-A-TIME?

Fairies in the garden,
dragons in the sky;
Shadowy mists of Avalon
risen high;
Home, some dark cave
in a far, far distant time;
Poetry and heroes,
legends in their prime
come to rescue us from
the terrors of bed-time;
All gone, kids grown,
and who's passing on
secrets of protection
to a generation
that prefers computer games
or, better still,
copycat storylines
from Pandora's Box?
Issues of the day, strategy
in a ratings war. Peter Pan
shot down over Walford;
Beasties under the bed
breaking out like chicken-pox
on a child's face

And no hiding place

[From: Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001]

(2) WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ONCE-UPON-A-TIME?

Fairies in the garden, dragons in the sky;
shadowy mists of Avalon risen high;
Home, some dark cave in a far distant time;
poetry and heroes, legends in their prime,
come to rescue us from the terrors of bed-time;
All gone, kids grown, and who's passing on
hard hat protection to a generation
that prefers computer games, copycat story-lines
from Pandora's Box?

Issues of the day, strategy in a ratings war
(Peter Pan shot down over Walford);
Beasties under the bed, busy breaking out
like chicken-pox on a child's face

And no hiding place...

Copyright R. N. Taber 1997; 2011

[Note: Walford is a fictional London Borough in a long-running BBC soap opera called Eastenders.]

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