Anatomy of Illusion

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

It often seems to me that everyday life is all about reading between lines, exposing rhetoric, making choices based on hunches…and hoping for the best.

ANATOMY OF ILLUSION

World keeps turning;

life choices

like everyday heroes

exposing tricks of light

for shadows

World keeps turning;

its worst divisions

hosting jaded heroes

performing tricks of light

among shadows

World keeps turning

open minds,

its comic strip heroes

chasing Job’s comforters

into shadows

World keeps turning;

room at the top

for air brushed heroes

blaming the worst selfies

on shadows

World keeps turning;

Earth Mother

inciting its heroes

to challenge illusions cast

by shadows

Shadows, infiltrating

a world turning

on everyday heroes

tripping the light fantastic

into chaos

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Lines on the Extraordinary Nature of Ordinariness

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

‘I’d love to write poetry, but…how do I find something to write about?’ people often ask.

Well, try looking all around and letting your senses loose on sight and/or hearing and/or smell and/or touch and/or taste...

[e.g. See also: 'Puddles' ]

The chances are the inner self will respond, and that response is called inspiration.

As for a choice of genre into which to channel inspiration, whether it is writing, music, art...just go for what appeals to you most and never be afraid of someone trying to put you down for a poor result (there will always be someone) because there is no such thing as a poor result where someone has put their inner self on the line by creating something. Success is relative, and a bonus; it is finding inspiration and learning to use it as a creative tool that counts. 

My personal experience, as someone who has suffered serious bouts of depression since early childhood, is that making this particular journey is also very therapeutic.

LINES ON THE EXTRAORDINARY NATURE OF ORDINARINESS

Clouds, magic carpet rides

away from it all…

Birdsong, calling to mind

bathtime rituals

for potential divas to woo

an audience, willing captives

of imagination  

Grass, littered with daisies,

sunspots of memory…

Trees, leafy arms signing,

telling us off for things

we’ve done, forgotten, never

meant to happen

A broken fence, urging us to

repair old friendships…

An empty chair, in memory

of someone who’ll never

sit there any more, words in

the air left unsaid

Crisp, clean pillowcases, all

to ourselves…

Watching a damp patch on

the ceiling spread,

fill the eye like a weepy sky

passing judgement

Ordinariness, the extraordinary
nature of poetry...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2014

[Note: This poem has been revised (2014) since its first appearance in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]

Artist Unknown OR Smoke and Mirrors

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

As a child, I was fascinated by a tramp who always sat on the same bench blowing various shaped smoke rings. People would often pause to watch, and then go on their way without even a kind word for the poor man although a flat cap at his feet would fill with a significant number of coins (various denominations, even the occasional note) as the day progressed.  

One day, I asked him why he just sat there blowing smoke rings. "Because I can," he said. But why, a 9 year-old Roger T wanted to know, did people give him money?  "Because they can," he said. Besides, he added with a wry smile, "They either like or don't like what they see, but it makes them feel better, for reasons best kept to themselves, to pay me anyway. I'm a good deed, lad, and nothing beats it when it comes to compensating for ...whatever."

His words meant nothing to me ... then.

 ARTIST UNKNOWN or SMOKE AND MIRRORS

Every day for years…

a tramp sat on a wooden bench

on the edge of town, no party to its life,

of smoke and mirrors

Passers-by were privy

to glimpses of have-a-go heroes

for peace and love, war and hate, chasing

smoke and mirrors

Audiences would gather,

see-feel wrong moves and right,

failures and successes, catching them out

in smoke and mirrors 

Smiles and laughter

(public fronts for private truths)

last seen grabbing at defence mechanisms,

all smoke and mirrors 

Every day for years…

Tramp on Bench, a live sculpture

shaping tell-tale coughs and dragging feet

in Smoke and Mirrors

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

[Note: This poem has since been significantly revised since first appearing in the January-June ed.'of CC & D magazine published by Scars (US) 2014. See http://scars.tv/ccd.htm for the CC &d D web page; the poem's original title was 'The Artist' and I am encouraged that feedback suggests some readers have enjoyed both versions.]

Configuring Personal Space

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

A human being is a human being is a human being, whatever his or her race, creed, sex or sexuality. 

Love is a live poem. 

Just as a poem is a poem is a poem whatever its structure or theme, so, too, love is love is love … in whatever shape or form.

Those who rage against the world's lovers on grounds of  race, creed, sex or sexuality, rage against humanity.

I look at various socio-cultural-religious factions dead set on imposing their ideas and ideals on anyone who does not share theirs … and …thank goodness for the enduring power of love, rising above all else. 

‘Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears.’ - William Shakespeare (Romeo and Juliet)

CONFIGURING PERSONAL SPACE

Today is all we have;
yesterday left long, long, ago
where tomorrow plays host
to a sandman waiting to say,
‘Hello’

Tonight is all we have;
tomorrow left long, long, ago,
and yesterday never was
until love came by and said,
‘Hello’

This life is all we have;
its ghosts left long, long, ago
on fleeting wings of time
inspiring  a sandman’s cheery
‘Hello’

This love is all we have
to be sure, ourselves, to know
in that personal space
forever sounding out its first
‘Hello’

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

(Selective) Storage and Retrieval

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

Now, it is always good to remember someone with love. Oh, yes, and how! Yet, love, too, sometimes needs to move on. 

As I have said on my blogs many times, remembrance does not mean leaving love behind. Trust the human body, mind and spirit to always find a way, carrying its life force to pastures new so flowers that slept in winter can bloom again if never quite the same but, rather, like reworked pictures and text in a storybook that remains, nevertheless, a firm favourite.

If one quality of the human spirit might be said to  outshine all else, it has to be its capacity for love... in all manner of wonderful ways; loving people, places, animals.... love does not  discriminate.

STORAGE AND RETRIEVAL

I tied my heart

with string, deposited it

in a drawer with a pair of cuff links

and a blond hair

Like a child,

I’d go there just to look

as if contemplating illustrations

in a storybook

I flung open

the drawer (par for love)

and buried my treasure under a pile

of new shirts

Ready to put away

wishful thinking, cufflinks

and hair, cut the string keeping us 

in a time warp

You and me, pages

of a story now all smudged

and yellow where I share my pillow

with another

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; rev 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Storage and Retrieval' in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]

Back in Business OR Imagination, Lifesaver

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

When I am struggling with depression, it can often feel like I am in a gloomy room with no windows, just lots of doors, and every door I try is locked. In desperation, I yell for help, but no one comes. Hope is nowhere to be found. I stare at my hands as if expecting to find help there. The lifelines on each palm leap out at me, and do a little dance. My fingers make a grab for them, anxious to return them where they belong. Suddenly, I am left holding a key and know instinctively that it will turn in the lock of the next door I try.

Oh, the lock may well be stiff, and the key take some turning, but I persevere in the sure knowledge that beyond the damn door there has to be something better than being stuck alone and scared in a darkened room; a life, for example.

Ah, the wonder of imagination, not unlike a lotus flower surviving the murkiest depth as nature intended although I guess any old metaphor or synonym for survival will do so long as the inner eye can focus on it, and stay focused.  Yes, it may take a while, but for me at any rate, it’s how I (eventually) find myself back in business. 

You don't have to be a writer or even into the arts at all; gardening, painting and decorating, any form of creative therapy is likely to get the better of depression. Don't expect quick fix, but persevere and give yourself a fighting chance to get back on form... and if you know anyone suffering with depression, please give them a helping hand and (even more importantly) a helping ear.

As for inspiration, there is plenty out there and just finding the motivation to look for it is an important first step towards a better, kinder life. Picking up a book is as good a start as any as you'll find all life between the pages or just go to a window and look out; the chances are you'll start to find that motivation already creeping up on you. I say 'creep' because it invariably takes time to mend what's broken, but a start is a start is a start... and there's no time like the present for getting on with the business of living hopefully...

BACK IN BUSINESS or IMAGINATION, LIFESAVER

Sometimes when I’m feeling low

I’ll enter paintings on walls,

engage with crowds at market fairs,

let history course my veins,

giving selfhood a new dimension

and fresh direction, letting

a lazy inner eye know we’re back

in business

Or I might stroll along rugged cliffs,

communing with waves below,

pause to chat with a friendly peasant

whose lot more harsh

than I will ever know, text books

do justice or any sympathy

with poverty even begin to bring

it home...

An old farm house might invite me

to join its ghosts in a hearty meal,

the inimitable smell of home baking

lingering long after we’re eaten,

reviving my other senses, replacing

lethargy with motivation

enough to find satisfaction in putting

imagination to work

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

[Note: The alternative title has been added since the poem first appeared in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]

Ghost Story, a Cautionary Tale

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

Regular readers will be aware that my interest in ghosts and a posthumous consciousness contribute to other themes in many of my poems, especially later ones. 

Now, I have seen people put in hours (and years) of unpaid overtime in various occupations for precious little thanks.  The cost to the worker in terms of family and social life, not to mention his or her health, is immeasurable. 

It may well be a sweeping statement (a general truism all the same) but the more a worker does, the more management is likely to let him or her do until such a time as it no longer suits management, for one reason or another.

We all try to be conscientious at work, but there is such a thing as overkill…

Time is never on our side  so it is down to each and every one of us to get our priorities right; work will always be high on the list, yes, but making time for ourselves, family and friends should be our number one priority since for them, too, time is not on their side and we never know for how long we may have them in our lives. I often hear people say, 'When I retired I will...' but by then it may well be too late. Besides, not everyone makes it to retirement...

Time is, at the very least as unpredictable as it is fickle. As for any work ethos, we need to take it seriously, of course, while at the same time making sure it does not prevent us getting a (real) life.

GHOST STORY, a CAUTIONARY TALE

Over a period of years,

I could never help but notice

the slim, shadowy man

always waiting at my bus stop

never caught one

None of my business

of course, but eventually I asked

(pretending to care)

just what on earth he thought

he was doing there

He flung me a sad grin,

‘Well, no need to catch a bus,

been dead a good while...’

‘You're a ghost?’ I even managed

a wry smile

His laughter was kindly

(no cause for fear) ‘I love meeting

buses, watching faces

heading home, see lights coming on

in their eyes…’

‘I read between every line,

(the love, the strain) observe them

glance at their watches,

cursing time for its never taking

prisoners…’

‘It's all there - behind

the eyes, polite smile, creased brow;

hope, love, fears,

laughter, doubt, like a shopping bag

of groceries…’

‘It's the lonely ones

who really get to me, chasing a trail

that never ends;

so many good people, too busy even

for family and friends."

‘Rich or poor, famous

or an anonymous face in the street,

needs must…

family and friends first, the work ethic

a worthy second best…’

I asked him to read my face

with some misgiving. He chuckled.

‘No need. Who has time

for a ghost has a lot to make up for

to the living.’

I'd been working late again,

and after chatting with the ghost

I wondered all the way home

which one of us was truly dead or alive

the most

Years on, same bus stop,

(been partying, and had a skinful)

my love and I saw someone  

talking to the wall, and passionately

wished them well

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2014

 early version of this poem appears in 1st eds. Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books,2001.]