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 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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Friday 5 November 2010

The Dancer Upstairs

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

Love poems are for everyone. Does the sexuality of the poet really matter? A reader spotted this poem on my gay-interest blog in September and has asked me to repeat it here for her boyfriend's birthday today. [I have since revised the closing couplet.]

THE DANCER UPSTAIRS

I lay in bed
listening to the music upstairs,
no wish to sleep,
my thoughts dancing in tune
with pretty dance steps;
now gliding across my world
like an ice queen;
now gate-crashing my privacy
like a rock star

I lay in bed
in a frenzy, like the music upstairs,
growing more frantic
every second images of you
take the floor;
now introducing me to your world's
choreography;
now swinging us into an ecstasy
of rock 'n' roll

I lay in bed,
relating to gentler sounds above,
as if the music, like me,
had finally grown weary of passion
and seeks peace;
now lifting me on wings of grace
like a dove to nest;
now asking me with sweet echoes
that I submit to love

Hearts enthralled by a midnight rain,
we kissed again ...

Copyright R, N. Taber 2010

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Saturday 30 October 2010

Halloween Landscape (Two Poems)

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

It doesn't have to be Halloween for mind-body-spirit to stray into a Halloween landscape. Indeed, there are times when can feel like we are an everyday part of it, and it of us. As for its ghosts, they are ours, too, nor all meaning us any harm; on the contrary, the majority represent a posthumous relating to loved ones that will comfort and inspire use is if only we will let it.

HALLOWEEN LANDSCAPE

One Halloween, I sought the dead
among trees all but stripped bare,
only to recover the living instead

Heart heavy, legs weights of lead,
I took my cue from bleak despair;
one Halloween, I sought the dead

By a wicked moon, too easily led,
I let Death's voices lure me there,
only to recover the living instead

My ghosts happy to see me, I fed
on that like a king to banquet fare;
one Halloween, I sought the dead

Too soon, an owl’s wings overhead
flapped like a shroud over us there,
only to recover the living instead...

Unafraid, where once I'd have fled,
I felt inspired by dawn's first glare;
one Halloween, I sought the dead,
only to uncover the living instead 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

[Note: This poem has been revised since appearing under the title 'Fair Game' in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]

RECONCILING WITH EARTH MOTHER

Come Celtic revels,
witches and warlocks abroad
casting ancient spells

Voices, coaxing me
to take wing, soar like a bird
come Celtic revels

The world, it but calls
upon me to fall on my sword,
casting ancient spells

Earth Mother, she fills
my heart with a loving word,
come Celtic revels

Human spirit, unafraid
of some self-titled time lord 
casting ancient spells

Be sure, it will not be I
lets Earth Mother go unheard,
come Celtic revels
casting ancient spells

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007 





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Wednesday 27 October 2010

Blue Remembered Hills

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

To the reader who asked how I managed to get an entry on wikipedia as he is a writer and wants one too, I honestly have no idea. A friend emailed me a few years ago to say that she had discovered it while browsing. I occasionally update it myself to include later publications as the original entry only included those up to The Third Eye (2004).

Meanwhile…

I dare say few among us have no regrets where love, even life, has not turned out quite how we’d hoped…

How many of us, too, have poised on the brink of a second chance and let something or someone get in the way of making the right decision…?

More than once in my life I have let nature decide for me although it has sometimes taken years before I understood just how precariously I was placed at the time or how Earth Mother saved me from the ultimate abyss, even if it meant I had to descend a good way down before discovering light enough in me to fight the darkness threatening to overwhelm me.

'Into my heart an air that kills
   From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
   What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
   I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
   And cannot come again.'  - A. E. Housman (from A Shropshire Lad)











BLUE REMEMBERED HILLS

I saw blue hills clash with clouds,
a gentle rain sweeping down
on where I stood, a misty haze
like memories rushing in
where angels dread in this head,
this heart, this soul, drenching
the spirit with regrets thought long
since withstood, now exposing
those half-lies we told, rushing in
on us threefold, tearing the veil
of deceit we wove with contempt,
no home truth exempt, shown up
for what we are, less than we were,
even in the womb, our fate left
to chance though joined even then
by mists sweeping out of Eden

O, for a gentle rain now where blue
remembered hills clashing with
clouds to bring thunder, lightning,
frightening us with angry faces
descending with spears to make good
(fat chance) the lives we took
when first we chose to lead them
a rare dance across hill, vale,
town and country, hiding out in a city
rather than submit, admit they
were right, we were wrong, love’s
sweet confusion but illusion,
forced in the end to part with words
that sweep down upon me now
where I wait for a clashing of clouds
and rising tide of memory to abate

Earth Mother, poised to set me free...
(or maybe too late for that already?)

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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Tuesday 26 October 2010

Whose Footprints...?

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

This poem was read on BBC Radio 4’s Something Understood programme in November 2005. It first appeared on the blog in 2008 and has been requested today by ‘Declan’ for his wife Caitlin as it is her birthday.

Happy Birthday Caitlin!

Apparently, the family live in Somerset so might also enjoy my Somerset poems for Watchet, Dunster and Porlock, three historic villages on the coast that I have included in my latest collection On The Battlefields Of Love (2010); you can also find them by clicking on the BBC Somerset link:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/local/somerset/hi/people_and_places/arts_and_culture/newsid_8144000/8144465.stm


WHOSE FOOTPRINTS...?

Footprints in the grass
might belong to anyone
enjoying a stroll
in quiet woods whether
mulling over problems,
making decisions
or wishing away pain
in the rain

Footprints in the grass
pass a huge oak and pause,
listen out...
for Nature’s cheerful voice.
Only, no birds singing,
or a grasshopper,
just more rain clawing
at the skin

Footprints in the grass,
like old friends fallen out,
desperate to put
things right...
suddenly, veering off
the beaten track,
a spring in each step, no
turning back

Baggy clouds starting
to break up; sun shining
through; birds singing
and, yes, grasshoppers too;
a gentler rain, flowers
opening their hearts
like hopeful footprints
in the grass

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2010

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from the original as it appeared in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]

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Tuesday 12 October 2010

The Secret Garden

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

This poem has not appeared on the blog although I posted it on my gay-interest blog back in January 2009.

Gay or straight, we are all entitled to some privacy and deserve respect, not condemnation, for personal decisions we make for reasons that are perhaps best known only to ourselves. A straight couple who read the poem in my collection have asked for this poem to be posted on the blog. They, too, have problem with prejudice. Both are Muslims but one is a Sunni and the other a Shia, branches of Islam historically opposed to each other. As a result, they are in hiding from family and friends.

Few important decisions that we are called upon to make in this life are easily made. Yes, we might think someone has made a wrong decision but it is their decision to make and their life that will be affected by it…not ours. Some people, instead of judging others, would do well to wonder how others judge them.

We all, each and every one of us, need support and encouragement to feel GOOD about ourselves. Only in this way can we do our bit, privately and publicly, for the general GOOD of our particular society and help make the world a better, kinder place; one in which people count for who they are, regardless of colour, creed, sex, sexuality, age or position in life with regard to wealth, poverty, career, vocation or whatever…

For humankind to deserve surviving its custom made slings and arrows, it needs to demonstrate its humanity. As I have said before and will almost say again…take humanity out of any socio-cultural-religious equation and all that’s left is Ground Zero.

THE SECRET GARDEN

Mouth on mine
devouring a lonely heart,
imploring me to start
living again and forget
we were but strangers
in the rain, shy glances
at shop windows
regretting missed chances,
non-starter romances

Hands on my body,
driving lonely avenues,
past secret gardens
blooming with flowers,
fruits of light showers,
lonely hours keeping busy
rather than let feelings
of intimacy get the better
of me; a native sexuality
more a part of me than
hand thrust in glove,
whose familiarity brings
warmth, sensuality
words can never explain
any more than strangers
like us, seeking to come
in from the rain

Penetrating the silence
of my soul, a driving force
I never thought to know
again, bringing truth and life
to my secret garden,
songbirds leading the world
in heavenly celebration
of such perfect harmony,
as you and me

Sexuality, as deserving a flower
as any of due nurture


Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2010

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]

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Monday 20 September 2010

The Message OR Aspiring to Peace on Earth

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

[Update. June 5th 2017]; In the light of the latest terror attacks in the UK, the Prime Minister has said that we should be less tolerant of Islamic extremism. I would add that we also need to stop walking on eggshells in the name of so-called political correctness for fear of causing offence to an ever growing Muslim population. Political correctness is - quite rightly - meant to prevent abuse of people for their socio-cultural-religious ethos, NOT ti excuse intolerable behaviour in anyone.]

[Update, June 19 2017: In the wake of the attack on Muslims leaving a mosque in the Finsbury Park area of London in the early hours of this morning, it is more important than ever to cherish the freedoms we value, especially everyone's Human Right to follow the religion of their choice...or no religion at all, as I do. Terrorist and Far Right acts and propaganda would divide and destroy communities worldwide; the majority of peace loving humankind must show we are bigger and better than that.] RT

Today's poem also appears on my gay-interest blog since it is, of course, not only gay people but all decent human beings who are threatened by a depraved view of Islam as practised by terrorists in its name.  

As regular readers know, I subscribe to no religion. Nor would I call myself an atheist as I like to think I have a strong sense of spirituality ... that I take from nature, nowhere else. However, I have open-minded, open-hearted friends of all faiths, including a Muslim friend. It is my experience that the majority of ordinary men and women, whatever their belief or non-belief, are ready and willing to take others as they find them and don't let religion - or any other differences - get in the way of being kind or even establishing lasting friendships … however much some of their leaders, deliberately or otherwise, might encourage them to do so.

Tragically, it is the fundamentalists (in any religion) who shout the loudest and not only make themselves heard but are exploited by a world media who would have us believe they are 'typical' Muslims, Christians, Hindus ... whatever.

Sadly, it has been my personal that the majority of religious people (of any religion) are intrinsically homophobic. However, I am glad to say I have also encountered a good many exceptions; hopefully, these will eventually prevail over the bigoted majority.

Whatever, these are as worrying times for gay people as anyone else. For example, a local newspaper in Tower Hamlets, a borough in the London’s East End that has a significant Muslim population, recently reported what reads as a very disturbing case. A teenager, apparently described by teachers at his school as “devout, humble Muslim” was recently acquitted on the charge of murdering a school student support office last November amid allegations that the victim was a “predatory paedophile”. The 17-year-old defendant admitted wielding the kitchen knife that fatally injured the man but said he had feared being raped or killed by him; he also admitted taking a knife with him in case the man tried to force him “into sexual acts”. Subsequently, he was unanimously cleared of both murder and manslaughter by the jury:

http://www.asianimage.co.uk/news/united_kingdom/8353101.A_Level_pupil_is_cleared_of_murdering_student_officer/

My problem with this case is that, as the article reads, whether or not the victim was an alleged paedophile or gay man, if the student thought he might be sexually assaulted, why visit the man anyway and take a knife with him  ... ? Does this not give the green light to the view that 'It's okay to kill a gay' as I heard two schoolboys discussing on a bus only the other day? Worse, could it not also be interpreted as fueling the misconception, commonly expressed by the less enlightened among the heterosexual majority, that gay is synonymous with paedophile?

Whether shaped by the Far Right or fundamentalist extremism, a deplorable narrow-mindedness would appear to be on the rise in the US and Europe, along with others factions easily influenced by some of their worst sentiments. Yes, they may well win battles in the years ahead…BUT...they cannot and will not win the war against those who uphold the principles of a common humanity. Humanity is bigger and better than anything they may choose to throw at us.

This poem is repeated on both blogs.

THE MESSAGE or ASPIRING TO PEACE ON EARTH

The message of Islam is peace
though some people have other ideas;
beware, who dares undermine this

It’s of love the Koran teaches
though some people play on its tears;
the message of Islam is peace

To the world, its prophet reaches
though some people play on its fears;
beware, who dares undermine this

The truth about Islam is kindness
a prophet’s wisdom across centuries;
the message of Islam is peace

May religion, its martyrs embrace,
reject paltry egos poisoning its prayers;
beware, who dares undermine this

We are a common humanity, no less
for its religions and secular philosophies;
The message of Islam is peace;
beware, who dares undermine this

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

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Tuesday 14 September 2010

Crocodiles In The Water

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

I wrote this poem some years ago after a conversation with a young student whose family in his home country have to walk miles every day to fetch clean water. He was genuinely shocked that we, here in the West, take the simple, everyday act of turning on a tap so much or granted.

After the poem appeared in various print and online publications, readers wrote in whose various countries of origin were mostly in Africa (but also, latterly, Iraq) to say much the same thing.

We are living in the 21st century, for goodness sake! The West should be ashamed that we do not do more to provide basic amenities for poorer people world-wide.

We must do more: http://www.megree.com/e/3

Thhis poem is a villanelle.

CROCODILES IN THE WATER

A common slaughter,
Third World dying
for want of clean water

Children’s laughter
turns to crying,
a common slaughter

Each young-old grafter
grown sick of trying
for want of clean water

At some capital altar,
disciples denying
a common slaughter

A 21st century arena
found sadly lacking…
for want of clean water

Through gold teeth, eager
summit tipplers belying
a common slaughter
for want of clean water

[From: The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004]

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Monday 6 September 2010

No Storybook Hero + In Praise of Sea Thrift (2 Poems)

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

[Update Dec 1, 2017]: A reader (from Cornwall) has emailed to ask what inspired my fantasy novels, Mamelon 1 and  2 . Well, the plain and simple answer is that there in me - as quite probably in most if not all of us? - a Peter Pan character likely to spend the best part of a lifetime trying to get out and hoping (usually in vain) that no one will notice. Anyone interested will find my Mamelon novels on my fiction blog where a brief synopsis precedes each:
Meanwhile...

As requested by ‘Jane’ (also in Cornwall) I am repeating a poem (the second below) and some comments I posted on my gay-interest blog back in June which prompted protests from several readers in Cornwall. No offence was intended. I simply wrote how it is, for me personally at any rate. Much as I love visiting what has to be one of the most beautiful parts of the UK, I have never found it very gay-friendly.

As I mentioned in a previous post, when Cornwall held its first ever Gay Pride march in Truro, August 2009, I emailed the organisers to wish them well, only to receive a nasty reply telling me to stay away as they wanted no truck with gay activists. I hadn’t intended to participate or so much as implied that I might…and replied that I am no activist, just a poet.

I had friends in Cornwall once but - surprise, surprise - they have moved away.  I wouldn't mind betting that no one among the gay community there is anywhere near as as intolerant and insensitive as it would appear are the heterosexual majority. Fat chance of a gay poet making much of an impression there! Only recently, a reader emailed to say they had offered a Cornwall library one of my poetry titles after receiving one as a present but had already bought one. The library declined to accept and it appears that a member of staff made a point of referring to the fact that my collections include gay material. As a librarian working in public libraries for many years, I was quite upset. I guess this just goes to show how the UK has a long way to go before it is united against homophobia. While I won’t be put off visiting beautiful Cornwall, I won’t be popping into any of its libraries either…or engaging with the locals in any gay-interest debate.

No gay activist, me, honestly. I’m just an Ordinary Joe who also happens to be a poet who, in turn, also happens to be gay.

NO STORYBOOK HERO

When I listen to the waves,
they always tell the same stories
told by leafy choirs
long, long ago…how one day
I’d be riding a white horse
to fame and glory….
Only, life never took me that way,
but in other directions
despite objections from alter ego,
friends and family;
I wasn’t meant be a hero of the kind
that rides out storms, surfs
giant waves, climbs snowy peaks,
charges to the rescue,
bugles blaring, just in time to save
the goodies from the baddies
the way they manage it in movies
and all-time best-sellers

Life, it found another role for me,
an Ordinary Joe in the street,
trying to make the best of things,
struggling to make ends meet
nothing to lose, everything to prove
because I’m gay 

I was never cut out for the kind 
of grand heroics
found in lively tales of derring-do,
though knock me down
and l will bounce right back
like a smiley clown,
(better applause than tears)
get on with my life as best I can,
take it on the chin
like a ‘real’ man, play my part,
from the heart, for who I am,
no hero leapt out of fantasy fiction
but an Ordinary Joe fighting
old prejudices, siding with the trees
against a world feeding myths,
lies and stereotypes
to its children who, in turn, hopefully
know better than to listen

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007, 2010

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, 2007] 


Sea Thrift

This poem is a villanelle:


IN PRAISE OF SEA THRIFT

Guardians of our history,
looking out for us
among rocks by the sea

Shadows once the enemy,
now protectors,
guardians of our history

As natural as we to nudity,
rising, falling waves…
among rocks by the sea

Lovers, like fishes set free
from glass cages,
guardians of our history

Witness Apollo frantically
planting kisses …
among rocks by the sea

Careworn, fickle humanity
tearing out its pages,
guardians of our history
among rocks by the sea

[Cornwall, June 2009]


Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

[Note: This poem appears in my collection Tracking the Torchbearer, Assembly Books, 2012]]





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Thursday 19 August 2010

Shell Seekers

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

I have changed the appearance of this poem from the original version that appears in my collection which I first posted here on the blog in 2007. It is no reflection on the original poem (that has also appeared in other poetry publications) but I felt it was crying out for a makeover of sorts. Some readers, I know, prefer the original version which was always well received when I read it at several poetry readings around the UK. Listeners, of course, unlike readers, are oblivious to how a poem is laid out so hopefully people will like the later version as much as if not more than its predecessor. You are welcome to judge (and let me know) which version you prefer.



Any changes to original poems will appear in revised eds. that I plan to bring out in a few years, but in e-format.

You can see/hear me reading the (revised) poem in an early video on my You Tube channel:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gj2HSJCvvBo

If the link does not work, either go to mu You Tube channel and search under title:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaberOR 

for those of you who tell me you often cannot access You Tube for one reason or another, I have also posted the video here. (See below.)

Meanwhile, especially for Tony, Adam, Kylie and Roxanne from ‘Somewhere in the middle of nowhere’:

Original version (1991):

SHELL SEEKERS

No harder thing I do than loving you
at a distance as of sea and sand
at the going out of each tide,
at each coming up of the sun,
all the colours of morning strung
like prayer beads across the sky,
a benediction! You and I
as footprints on the shore;
Together. Parting. Wiped out.
Another tide, another morning,
another day - someone's searching
who'll know that we were here;
Beyond time and space,
false perimeters of place,
our love well-preserved
nor finer served than
by a shell's poetry, as
restless as the sea,
deceptive as each dawn

Like prayer beads, to
each our own

Revised version (2018):

SHELL SEEKERS

No harder thing I do
than loving you at a distance
as of sea and sand
at the going out of each tide,
each coming up of the sun;
all the colours of morning strung
like prayer beads
across the sky, a benediction!
You and I, footprints
on the shore; together, parting,
wiped out

Another tide,
another morning, another day
and others searching
who will know for sure
we were here

Beyond time and space,
and false perimeters of place,
our love no better served
than preserved in a shell's poetry,
as restless as the open sea,
all the more splendid for that
than any sunset or dawn,
for the dreaming or waking up
with a growing affinity
for all the seasons of life, love
and nature

Like prayer beads,
to each our own interpretation
and/or inspiration;
so, too, the ages-old poetry
of seashells

Copyright R. N. Taber 1999; 2018

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


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Tuesday 27 July 2010

Casualties of Contemporaneity

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

[Update (Sept 3, 2016): I fully support the Junior Doctors past and proposed strike action even though it will probably mean appointments for which I have already been waiting for a long time will be put back yet again among thousands of other people’s. It is all very well for Prime Minister, Theresa May  and Health Secretary, Jeremy Hunt to say we have more doctors than ever and the NHS is better funded than ever, but they are among the privileged classes who don’t have to wait months for an appointment or sit around in A & E for hours.  

Government ministers keep reminding us that the UK has an ageing population, but they clearly don’t have a clue as to how much stress that (and immigration) places on the NHS. As for the BMA (British Medical Association) apparently telling the Junior Doctors they should not strike, clearly it is in its best interest not to antagonise a Government more concerned with supporting the Establishment than the welfare of the ordinary man, woman and child in the street, for all Mrs May's fine words to the contrary. Well, no surprises there. Politicians are hot on rhetoric, but when it comes to relating to the world as it is for ordinary people, a significant number are cold fish.] - RNT

Now, all credit and thanks to hospital staff in the UK and around the world; the vast majority do a great job in what are often very stressful circumstances. (Too many patients and not enough staff to name but two.) Even so, I suspect there are few among us who haven’t had to endure a frustrating wait in Accident and Emergency Departments at some time or another.

Whatever, we would all do well to remember that our NHS is the envy of the world while those who abuse it should remember that it is not a free-for-all service, but paid for by those of us who pay into it all our working lives.

CASUALTIES OF CONTEMPORANEITY

No losing heart over fortune or fame
only that someone call my name;
might as well be the Invisible Man
for all anyone’s paying attention;
hours passing, hands on a clock keen
to mock our growing impatience;
(Time, alas, has little or no feeling
for outpatients)

From someone in the next chair,
an outpouring of despair;
on the other side, news of someone
who has just died;
a red-faced man making a big fuss
gets seen before the rest of us;
mutterings of acrimony overtaken
by a drunk causing havoc

Staff acting beyond call of duty
to end our panic;
a young woman in the front row,
waters breaking...
wheel-chaired away, partner flapping
and fretting,
can’t help wondering, girl or boy?
(Welcome distraction...)

Anxious to convey why we’re here, ;
in pain, tearful...
fearful of things getting worse
in spite of reassurance...
from that nice blond nurse, ready smile
and eyes a lively green
fooling no one. Some leaving without
being seen, dare I risk it?

Could murder a biscuit, a cup of tea too,
and need the loo;
ears prick up for a name, another,
pray be mine soon…
Just want to go home, but hurt all over,
must stay, wait my turn, can't face
all this angst again, could even be dead
by then...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Casualty' in The Third Eye: poems by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; revised edition in e-format in preparation.]

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Sunday 25 July 2010

Cracking The Code

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

What is life all about? Why are we here at all? Well, who really cares about why?

Me, I feel we should make the most of life as it comes, take the bad with the good and try to come through it all a better person.

If I had to point to just one reason for living, it would have to be love. I guess that's why I have written so many poems about love, loving and being loved.

CRACKING THE CODE

Come a time we die, who’ll know
or care (for long) that once we walked
this earth, whose mother gave birth
to this or that child-person as likely as not
spending a lifetime seeking answers
to questions where there are none, love
taunted by tales of make-believe,
peace where there’s but pain for knowing
how things might have been
but for those wasted chances, missed
opportunities, wrong calls
as a loaded dice falls on ego’s gaming board,
lost chords of pretty songs intended
to make rights out of petty wrongs (and worse)
but merely adding fuel to flames
erasing names from movie tapes of memory
wherein we can love, live forever?

Let it be said, once we're dead and gone,
here's living proof of people walking the Earth,
giving water-birth to brave worlds of words,
never quite grasped for principle or purpose
ghosts lending creativity to the mind
and tongue (hopefully, someone ‘staking
the trouble to write it down for others
to make sense, crack the code, even learn
from our mistakes, replace a lost chord
or two, redefine the fragility of happiness
as variations on a theme of loneliness

Be humanity selfish, selfless, false or true,
flowers of the forest made to cry …
blessed am I whose life brought me to you
and you to me though, yes, we die

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2010

[Note: This poem has been  slightly but significantly revised from the original as it 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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Monday 19 July 2010

Potential for Escape

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

There is a strong case for associating depression with the weather, especially here in the UK, not renowned for its sunshine. The sad truth is that any of us can fall victim to depression any time, anywhere. It is usually the result of various tensions that life has a nasty habit of laying like animal traps for us to fall into. We feel isolated, threatened, scared and - perhaps worst of all - helpless.

Breaking free is never easy and will take time. Whenever it (frequently) happens to me I struggle to take my cue from that old truism, ‘where there’s a will, there’s a way’. The first giant step, of course is recovering that will; the next, finding the way, then we need to stick at it, no matter what.

It’s never easy. There are no quick fixes. Anti-depressants, counselling/ therapy...these can help along with (even more important) the support and understanding (and patience) of family and friends. Sadly, too few people have much understanding of depression unless they have been depressed themselves or are close to someone else who is prone to depression. Far too many run a mile from mental health matters.

Society could and should do more to promote Mental Health Awareness. Yes, where there’s a will, there really IS a way….but it’s down to us.

Someone recently asked why I often write about depression in my poems as it is such a depressing subject! Well, apart from trying to raise Mental Health Awareness, writing positively about depression helps me beat the frequent bouts from which I continue to suffer.

Many years ago, I began the long, slow, painful climb out of a nervous breakdown.  I swore I would never hit rock bottom again. If  just one poem can help prevent just one person descending to that same pit's stone slab bottom, it will have been worth the writing.

POTENTIAL FOR ESCAPE

I lie in a pit staring up at the sky,
wondering if cloud faces passing by
can see my lips move (no sound)
might even let someone know where
to find me, so cold, frightened,
unable to move, every limb refusing
to answer frantic screams for help
from a mind whose live connections
all but severed by its distress

Clinging on to a failing willpower,
I feel my frail grasp slipping in this,
what must surely be my coffin?
Yet, it’s not my past I see unfolding
before my eyes, only blank sheets
of paper…slowly coming to life, words
I can’t quite make out but vaguely
recognize shapes comprising a prose
and poetry ascribed to nature

All my eyes cannot see, my heart
begins to acknowledge as the words
(now bombarding all my senses)
demand entry at the doors of a mind
shut by fear and excuses, forcing
it ajar, piling in like old friends arriving
at a reunion, figures in clouds
assuming human form, Earth Mother
resolving to be kind but firm

Hostage, seeking to break free (again)
from a dark prison called depression

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

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Saturday 17 July 2010

At the End of the Day..

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

This poem first appeared on the blog in September 2007 and has been requested again today by ‘Maureen’ for ‘my dear husband Jim who has kept me happy and snug in bed every night for the past 25 years.’

Happy silver wedding anniversary! I’m sure we all wish Maureen and Jim many more years together.

AT THE END OF THE DAY

At the end of the day,
darkness wraps us in black satin
and (if we’re lucky) takes us
to bed and tucks us in

At the end of the day,
darkness cloaks us in black satin
and (if we’re lucky) keeps
the cold at bay

At the end of the day,
darkness hoods us in black satin
and (if we’re lucky) a sandman
helps us see

At the end of the day,
darkness hides us in black satin
and (if we’re lucky) dawn
means us no harm

At the end of the day,
we can but trust in black satin
to keep our darker selves
under wraps

At the end of the day,
darkness buries us in black satin
and (if we’re lucky) leaves us
to rest in peace

[From: Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]

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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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Friday 9 July 2010

T-I-M-E, Watchtowers of Human History

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

I am frequently asked why I often write about death. Well, I try to do so positively since so many people are afraid of dying and I try to offer some reassurance, especially to those readers who, like me, find neither peace nor reassurance in religion. Thankfully, there are religious-minded people who remain open-minded and open-hearted, putting care and respect for others (regardless of their differences) before the dogma, ritual and politics of religion.

It has long been my personal view that world religions have forgotten their origins; their founders would have expected them not only to move with the times but also to always put compassion before politics. Take the compassion out of religion and what do you have left? The kind of arrogance and inhumanity expressed by far too many religious leaders who say one thing and do another. The worst of it is they say what they say and do what they do in the name of religion. Thank goodness many ordinary people see through the smokescreen and lend a sense of humanity to humankind as their religion’s origins intended.

As regular readers will know only too well, I take both inspiration and spirituality from nature. Besides, I am writing about the times in which I live and death is as much a part of that as life itself. Do I idealise death? I don’t think so. We should also remember that pain is something else altogether. It is heartbreaking to watch someone die in pain. Yet, we can but try and look beyond pain to an everlasting peace.

Did I say it was easy?

This poem is a villanelle.

T-I-M-E, WATCHTOWERS OF HUMAN HISTORY

Wherever dark death takes me,
pray, few regrets or tears;
let it be an everlasting poetry

Oh, how I'll miss sky and sea,
the south wind’s whispers,
wherever dark death takes me

May love stand by (steadfastly)
our finest memories;
let it be an everlasting poetry

How I'll miss each bird and tree,
all joy nature inspires,
wherever dark death takes me!


May favourite dreams descend  
upon a bed of flowers;
let it be an everlasting poetry

Our way, in peace, lit eternally
by candles in watchtowers;
wherever dark death takes me,
let it be an everlasting poetry

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2010

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

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Wednesday 7 July 2010

You-Me-Us, Ring of Bells


Every day is an anniversary for those who have lost loved ones in times of war or peace. 

Let us also remember (again, not just today) those who are fighting and/ or campaigning to help make our world a safer, kinder place.

Ironically, many of our political and religious leaders (not to mention the arms dealers)  continue to make world peace a vain hope, the discrepancy between what they say and what they do growing wider each day, creating a bottomless pit for we ordinary men, women and children in the streets of just about any place in the world to drop into even as we go about our everyday lives. Ah, but we need to do just that, whatever else is going on in the world, or terrorism and its threat - in all its various shapes and clever socio-cultural-political-religious disguises - will surely win.

Nothing can beat being with a loved one, and losing them is painful beyond imagination. Yet, love never really dies. Regular readers of the blog will know that I am a passionate believer in a posthumous consciousness wherein love remains first among equals all our lives; in our death, who knows ... ? 

Whatever, love does not only embrace its lovers, but sends out ripples among all those  with whom we have contact in life - whether it be close or in passing - touching even complete strangers to us, with whom we may have engaged in brief conversation and (knowingly or unknowingly) made some reference to love that (to their conscious knowledge or not) may have some bearing on how they live their lives  thereafter ... such is its incredible momentum and continuum.

YOU-ME-US, RING OF BELLS

There is a wood
where we played as children
and bluebells grow

When you came home
after seeing the rape of Zimbabwe
we picked bluebells

When you came home
from the killing fields of Iraq
we picked bluebells

When you came home
from the poppy fields of Afghanistan
we picked bluebells

When you came home
telling of monks beaten in Tibet
we picked bluebells

When you came home
from the line of fire on the Gaza Strip
it was in a coffin

There is a wood
where time always keeps us safe
and bluebells grow

Copyright R N Taber 2010

[Note: An earlier version of this poems appears under the title 'Where No Bells Toll' in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

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Sunday 4 July 2010

Beating Up The Planet

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

I suspect historians may well look back at the early 21st century and portray us as a bunch of sadomasochists!

Who could blame them, eh?

At least we have now our first Green Party MP here in the UK so maybe there's hope for us all yet and people will stop thinking that voting Green is a wasted vote. Let's face it. The G8/20 leaders aren't going to do much for us...for all their huffing and puffing.

BEATING UP THE PLANET

Running a gamut of earthquakes,
beating the flames

Sheltering in Iraq from bullets
beating down

Watching children of a lesser god
beating up butterflies

Letting our leaders get away with
beating drums

Standing for democracy’s bouncers
beating up flowers

Paying a price for politic players
beating the odds

Treating poverty’s weeping wounds,
(beating its hunger?)

Singing praises to a Greater Power,
(beating terror?)

Preparing to swim with polar bears,
beating ourselves up

[From: Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]

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Saturday 3 July 2010

Postcards From the Edge OR Notice of Intent

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

This poem provoked a flood of emails after it first appeared on the blog and in my collection during 2007. Most readers expressed pleasure if not relief that I was airing a condition with which many of us are forced to deal, frequently on a regular basis.

Many of my poems touch on the trauma of depression albeit ending on a positive note. Why is that? Well, for a start, too many people continue to underestimate depression, believing it synonymous with being very fed-up. It is an attitude that needs to change. Depression is tough enough without family, friends and work colleagues implying that all we have to do is pull our damn socks up!

There was a time when attitudes towards my sexuality provoked bouts of severe depression, especially as I have been prone to depression since early childhood (not recognized in children and young people then as it is now.) There are multiple causes of depression. We are all vulnerable to it, especially in the kind of world in which we live today although I dare say every century has had its various stresses and strains under which some people have buckled for one reason or another (there is rarely a single cause.)

My dear late mother used to say that when things are looking bad, the trick is to focus on all the good things in life and people. A simple idea, yes, even a trite thing to say. Ah, but does it work? Oh, yes!!! Maybe not right away but, like most things in life, we have to work at it.

Be understanding, patient and supportive towards with depressed people. yeah? Don't rush to write us off (as many people do) as whingeing wasters. Spread the word that there is no stigma in being depressed, and hopefully people might rush to understand (instead of rushing off in the opposite direction) the man, woman or child who so needs that understanding, patience and support.

POSTCARDS FROM THE EDGE or NOTICE OF INTENT

Driven to the naked edge of a snake pit, peering in,
all but poised to leap, defy demons on the brain
constantly jeering because I’m gay, weary of family
and friends urging no surrender to a growing desire
for my own gender, thus acknowledging this, a sexual
identity integral to every other part of me, although
those parts the same, no less true for being honest,
drawn to home truths haunting me since that dawn
I confronted myself for who I am, even as I continued
to perpetuate a sham of being straight (taught a sin,
at the very least a crime - to be gay)

With each new day, subtle shifts of opinion, even in
a fickle media, then legislation intended to give gay
men and women a kinder freedom

I'd stood alone and scared, desperate to end these lies,
half lies, a creeping among shadows like a thief,
seeking a love I dare not own in the face of society's
resolve to expose me for even less than a nobody
crucify me on that old stand-by Cross of Convention
but time, now to let history see I am my own person,
refusing point blank to be made subservient to stereotype.
while not my intention to offend those who mean well,
stood by with tears in their eyes watching the local bigots
breaking our backs with rods for straws, little thought
to making repairs because mud sticks

No more snake pits, self-blame, being made to feel
like a candidate for some Walk of Shame, time to get real,
put closet ways behind me

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2007]

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Friday 2 July 2010

Autobiography of a Light Bulb

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

People often tell me they have a feeling for poetry and would love to write a poem but never seem to find inspiration. Well, look around you. As I have often said, you can write a poem on just about anything,  I have written poems about tables, chairs, even puddles...

A reader has challenged me on this. Only a few days ago, he contacted me to suggest I could not write a poem about a light bulb.

Never let it be said I’d duck such a challenge.

Too many of us, I suspect, remain in the dark about so many things, including ourselves, but it is never too late to switch on, and take a good look; thereby lies the path to discernment and understanding...of ourselves, others too.We may be a diverse human race, but no one person in or facet of it has a monopoly on the human spirit; it is common to us all if less common is how, when or whether we ever choose to acknowledge and address it.


[Image taken from the Internet]

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A LIGHT BULB

I have coloured the cheeks of a child
at a birthday party

I have seen quarrels turn into beatings
and draw blood

I have watched over students yawning
for trying to concentrate

I have watched over meetings ringing
with raised voices

I have followed the progress of lovers
with delight

I am privy to secrets a journalist would
die for

I have been amused by such melodrama
as politicians love to stage

I have been moved by a significant few
brokering for peace

I become incensed by folks playing safe
for a quiet life

I despair of clerics reworking scriptures
to exonerate themselves

I empathise with poets transcending light
to justify darkness

Yet, party as I am to the whole sorry mess,
at least I can switch off

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010


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Monday 14 June 2010

England, My England, Three Cheers for St George

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

A reader has emailed to say he was surprised to discover I had another blog that I write especially with other gay men and women in mind. He was even more surprised to discover that he 'quite enjoyed reading it. and will do so again.' For anyone else who may be interested, follow the link:

http://aspectsofagaymanslifeinverse.blogspot.com/

I am proud of being an Englishman and sick of being told I shouldn’t be by the so-called ‘politically correct’ brigade. During the World Cup some households have been flying the flag of St George ... but some people have complained, suggesting that it will offend people from ethnic minorities ... as if they don't have teams participating as well as England. Given that St George is also known and respected by Muslims only serves to underline the ignorance of some people.

The poem does not appear in any of my collections so far. It has already provoked some protest emails, one from a Muslim man who implied I am racist and complained that English nationalism makes people like him feel excluded. Well, I don’t think that is anyone’s intention and it’s certainly not mine. As for my being racist, regular readers will know better. I have Muslim friends and others whose culture of origin is homophobic but who have no problem with either my sense of national pride (they cherish their own national/cultural identity) or sexuality.

Regarding social exclusion, I'f say gay people have known our share. Yes, things are better now than they used to be ... for some of us. Even so, I, for my part, resent the kind of socio-cultural-religious homophobia I frequently encounter from people who choose to live in the UK because it offers them a better deal than their own country yet persist in complaining about our ‘liberal’ way of life; these may well be in a minority, but it is a significant and (very) vocal minority. Sorry, but if they don’t like how we do things in the UK (or the West generally) no one will stop them returning to their own country.

ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND, THREE CHEERS FOR ST GEORGE

England, my England, where are you now?
Once, I ran in green fields, played conkers
in the school playground with friendly peers
who hadn’t even learned to spell, let alone
discover the meaning of prejudice, bigotry,
racism and homophobia

England, my England, where are you now?
Once I’d shop for sweets in a corner shop
that’s an ugly, costly apartment block now
among other carbuncles that have sneaked
into High Streets and side roads like thieves
in a corporate darkness

England, my England, where are you now?
Once you offered safety in numbers that now
would gobble me up like a swarm of locusts,
forcing an entry to trains, planes and buses,
making it their business to expose my bones
to political scrutiny

England, my England, where are you now
that let ambition get the better of humanity
and now must pay the price for aspiring
to a supremacy sure to be brought down
for its sheer audacity, while (still) declaring
an empathy with globalisation?

England, my England, where are you now
that sucks up to hawks where once it flew
with eagles, leaves crumbs out for doves
where it feasts on cake and caviar, deceiving
itself and all of us who eagerly devour
the latest opinion polls?

England, my England, where are you now?
Falling apart, a unity bought with the blood,
sweat and tears of centuries, even politics
caving in to those who shout the loudest where
this or that smooth tongued religion assumes
the moral high ground

England, my England, my love, pride and joy;
let the locusts feed on me, my spirit dare take
its cue from a bold re-working of our history
into a 21st century that may yet see its crumbs
shared out evenly, a divided humanity declared
its own worst enemy

Where now, once my England, in a world
that’s lost its way?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

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Sunday 13 June 2010

The Poet's Song

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

Update (May 2016): Find below, the link to an interview I gave Benjamin Richter, an international student of Multimedia Journalism at the University of Kent in Canterbury; it was an interesting if a little daunting experience and he has agreed that I can share it with you as a number of readers have expressed an interest in how and why I approach poetry the way I do. Meeting Benjamin was a particularly enjoyable experience as I, too, was a student there some 40+ years ago. The Department of Journalism is based at its Medway campus and Benjamin is currently living in my home town of Gillingham where I was born and lived until I was 14 years-old:

https://r224e31251.racontr.com/index.html
[NB You may need to copy this link into your browser for it to work.]

The poem below is especially for ‘Steve N’ who first read it in an anthology, The Poetry Now Book of Kennings, Poetry Now, 2001. (Poetry Now is an imprint of Forward Press.) The alternative title was added later.

Glad you enjoyed it, Steve. I also appreciated Steve saying that ‘as someone with many gay friends’ he particularly appreciates my including poems on a gay theme in general collections, alongside poems on various other themes, rather than ‘marginalising’ them in separate gay collections. Other straight readers have also been kind enough to say they enjoy many of my poems, ‘even the gay stuff’. One man wrote in recently to say how the inclusion of a gay section in a collection borrowed randomly by his wife from their local library came as ‘something of a surprise, to put it mildly’ but they enjoyed reading the poems. It appears that he and his wife subsequently had a ‘lively’ discussion about gay issues…which has to be one of the best compliments I have ever received.

Feedback is always welcome, especially along these lines. I suspect a fair percentage of gay readers would agree with another who emailed me to say that ‘gay material deserves its own collection to reflect gay culture.’ Fair enough but, to my mind, ‘gay culture’ implies a degree of separatism. I’m an integrationist.

Whatever, I see myself as no more or less than someone who happens to be gay and subscribes to no particular culture, religion, philosophy or politics. Mind you, I don’t sit on fences either. Well, not to the extent that I am glued to them; I have always been prepared to jump down on one side or the other as and when it seems appropriate. I will always express a point of view while, at the same time, listening for and trying out new voices.

THE POET’S SONG

I am a Painter of Dreams,
my brush, a pen – words
all the paint available, tackling
the unassailable to bring within reach
of unquiet heart, restless soul,
images of life and love,
vision of a goal beyond perimeters
of time, space - humanity’s crude
conception of grace

I am a Painter of Dreams,
bringing you mine, intruding
on yours, winging heaven’s
elusive towers that flicker in a mist
of aspiration, inviting inspiration,
daring us to home in, defy
the rude mentality of a classroom
morality - humanity’s crude
conception of spirituality

See-Hear-Taste-Touch-Smell,
I am a Painter of Dreams, who
means well but often offends
who dare suggest I speak for all
that seek gold where the rainbow ends
for, like Pandora’s Box, our secrets
once let fly - each to their own;
Painter, dreamer, shades of light
or ships in a cruel night

Senses, falling apart at the seams
for a Painter of Dreams

[From: First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002] 

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