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.

Tuesday 31 December 2013

New Year, New Hope, Old Story


Today’s poem first appeared in Poetry Monthly International (sadly, since discontinued) in 2008 prior to its inclusion in my collection. It seems an appropriate enough poem for today since this evening will be New Year’s Eve.

Let’s just hope the celebrations will not be premature and that the 2014 brings more than just hope for world peace and a genuine sense of reconciliation between its divided socio-cultural-religious groups; a recognition, too, of basic human rights for everyone regardless of colour, creed, sex or sexuality, especially in those areas of the world and its societies that encourage if not legislate a policy of persecution.

NEW YEAR, NEW HOPE, OLD STORY

Bursting into the New Year
with a sing-song and a prayer
for peace across the world

Toasting our tomorrows
by way of drowning sorrows
for not letting go of pain

Putting on a smile, laughing
at sick jokes, better than crying
for the price of our mistakes

Brave New Year resolutions
little more than poor solutions
to centuries-old problems

Humankind’s record so poor,
less likely to make peace than war
if good at saying prayers…

Higher and farther they fly,
fine words across a New Year sky,
only to repeating history...


[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

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Monday 30 December 2013

Lines on the Human Condition


Love, like life, has its darker side. Some people have fixed ideas about love and will oppose anyone - including family members - who choose a different variation on the same eternal theme. 

The ability to turn love’s darkness into light is a gift passed on by lovers everywhere throughout history. Sadly, humankind’s other gift - for inhumanity - will all too often try to turn things around yet again…and succeed. It is down to each and every one of us to do our best not to let that happen.

We cannot stand by and let them invade our privacy, those who are blinded to the happiness of others by some misguided and/ or ill-informed interpretation of what is right and wrong.  

Every humanitarian needs to speak up against socio-cultural-religious traditions being used as an excuse for bigotry and sectarian division/violence where it is but the dark side of human nature that is to blame.

As for love…Gay or straight, two people in love have the basic human right to be in love. No one has the right to deny us that. World leaders who abuse their position to support anti-gay legislation (that means you, too, Mr. Putin) and religious leaders who choose to interpret their religion to much the same effect are a disgrace to humanity.

Whatever our ethnicity,  race, religion, gender or sexuality, we are all human beings and deserve to be treated as such.

LINES ON THE HUMAN CONDITION

Mind-Body-Spirit,
writing treaties in various tongues
on a mother’s heart
as it sighs over satirical goings-on
in comic strip cartoons

Mind-Body-Spirit,
providing a eulogy for the failures
of multiculturalism,
observing how occupied territories
live on empty gestures

Mind-Body-Spirit,
inciting revolution among dreamers
who would face facts,
repair broken words to make good
well-heeled intentions

Mind-Body-Spiri,
watching out for black holes blown
by wannabe martyrs,
sending love letters home on scraps
of roadside shrapnel

Mind-Body-Spirit,
last heard arguing for Human Rights
with a world’s tin gods
that so loves to blame their diversity

for its worst nightmares

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008


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Sunday 29 December 2013

Seeing Red OR Human Nature, Parts found Wanting


Every year life dishes us our highs and lows, successes and failures, fun times and sad times. In no time (or so it often seems) another year will be stretching ahead from Day One. We can but promise ourselves and each other to do our best to make sure it is a better, kinder year...

As for making dreams come true (don’t we all have them?) it has been my experience, on the more promising occasions to which life has treated me now and then, that we may be pleasantly surprised how close we can get just by trying. 

The great thing about Sandmen is that they never discriminate; we can be rich or poor, gay or straight, super fit or severely disabled, from any country in the world...whatever...and they don't prejudge us for any of that,  just as it should be among human beings…

Me? Oh, I’m just one among millions of dreamers out there who hold the world as it could, would, and should be in the palms of our hands. [Slippery things, though, dreams, like good intentions...]

This poem is a villanelle.

SEEING RED or HUMAN NATURE, PARTS FOUND WANTING

A few dreams down, more ahead,
(but haven’t we all been here before?)
humanity (yet again) left seeing red

Integrity as unevenly spread
as ever across the world’s political floor;
a few dreams down, more ahead;

Mutual respect so thinly spread
among this world’s religions’ harder core;
humanity (yet again) left seeing red

Nations’ survivors bury their dead,
the injured left knocking at Heaven’s door;
a few dreams down, more ahead;

A better world, our forefathers said,
that’s what our blood and tears are shed for;
humanity (yet again) left seeing red

A kinder world would bow its head,
seeing fair Progress farmed out for a whore;
a few dreams down, more ahead;
humanity (yet again) left seeing red


Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

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Saturday 28 December 2013

A Perception of Ghosts


[Update, June 15th 2019: A reader says he is left 'very confused' by my use of the term 'posthumous conscious' so I will try and be clearer. Take my old English teacher , 'Jock' Rankin, where I went to school in 1956-64. He has had a profound influence on my life (and poetry) although I had no way of appreciating just how much so at the time.  He died some years ago, but a part of him lives on in me, just as it does his family, friends, and probably many other young people he taught. Knowingly or unknowingly, we influence others, either by word or deed, even both, thereby archiving a little bit of ourselves in them. 

I often refer to  'Jock' Rankin in my blogs; hopefully, he lives on here as well as in the minds of all those who knew him in one capacity or another, although they may not realize it at the time, or any time for that matter. So it goes on... each and every one of us sowing seeds in each other that will grow as part of the human continuum for as long as humanity survives, and given its basic instinct for survival, I suspect that is likely to exceed all expectation.]

Meanwhile...

Now, as I grow old(er) there are times when childhood  seems like yesterday and even leaves stirring in the wind carry its echoes to my ears; the stronger the wind, the stronger the echoes, now happy and excited, now weepy and anxious, as I cannot help but reflect how life is much the same...

A PERCEPTION OF GHOSTS 

North wind,
roughly raking the last glowing coals
of a wintry day

Birdsong,
faintly among the trees like an echo
through my years
like tuneless whistling noises 
made by a child failing
to impress peers that mock,
and run away, 
never to know the hurt to self-esteem
left to contend with cruelty 
in all shapes and forms
left roughly raking the last glowing coals
of a wintry day

Wind drops,
nature’s opera taking off on wings 
of light into a blueness
such as a child feels when playing 
with imaginary friends,
happy and sad at the same time 
for meeting reality halfway, 
creating a safe place, yet less safe 
for being wide open
to fantasies, deserted, by the same 
once on-screen trolls insinuate all defences 
to loneliness

South wind,
gently stirring the last glowing coals
of a sunny day

Birdsong,
as strong among the trees in the twilight
of my years as shrieks
of joy uttered by a child when birthdays
finally arrived, in such times
as family get-togethers were mixed
signals of such love
as the child craved, feasted on, 
yet always left hungry, 
never (quite) able to satisfy an awareness
of a growing maturity always found wanting
in its nurture

Human hearts,
engaging with changeable perceptions on time
in personal space


Copyright R. N. Taber 2013; 2021

[Note: This poem has been significantly revised since it first appeared on the blog in 2013.]









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Thursday 26 December 2013

Beyond Christmas OR Whatever Happened to Peace on Earth and Goodwill to All?

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

Come Boxing Day, we may well already be starting to look beyond Christmas. Oh, but if only the spirit of Christmas - and other religious festivals - might endure, messages of peace and love be heard around the world, especially in those parts where bitter conflict persists. Fat chance, little hope, beautiful dream ...? Why so, given that where there is the will there is (supposedly) a way...?  

As a child, I once asked a complete stranger standing next to me at a carol concert, what happened to 'peace on earth' and 'good will to men' after hearing 'I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day' at a carol concert. He did not hesitate, but replied in two words, politics and religion. I thought he was being sarcastic. Some 50+ years on, I look around and see only too plainly what he meant. On the arre occasions I have heard that particular carol  - based on a poem by Longfellow - sung again, i understand his despair and only wish I could enter into his ultimate optimism for the human race. Even so, hope springs eternal...and if we all play our part, who knows...?

Now, I have friends who are Christians and feel I am missing out because I don’t believe in God in any religious sense but take what I like to think of as a sense of spirituality from nature. 

Well, as I see it, no religion is all about its interpretation of God, but also about humanity. (Interpretations of God as a homophobe are as absurd as they are pathetic.) Take the humanity out of the religion and what's left is not worth having. (Fundamentalists haven't a clue!) Nor does religion have a monopoly on spirituality.

Now, whether we choose to believe in God or not, all world religions have much to say about humanity that is well worth listening to; some would do well to pay more attention themselves. It may well be that any given religion is a closed shop, members only, but interpretations of it remain open access to anyone at all times.

In those parts of the world where people are still persecuted for their sexuality and/or democratic principles, we can but wish them peace and love. As for their persecutors, especially those arrogant, evangelical types who are a plague on all our houses, (especially in parts of Africa) but other bigots and despots too, whatever socio-cultural-religious excuses they may care to make for their behavior, they would do well to remember that what goes around invariably comes around…

I have met many open-hearted people (from all religions) who have put to me that our only hope for a better, kinder, more peaceful world is to make ripples if not waves in our own home-school-work environment and trust they may yet spread. Food for thought, indeed...

BEYOND CHRISTMAS or WHATEVER HAPPENED TO PEACE ON EARTH AND GOODWILL TO ALL?

Christmas spirit can’t always connect
with peace in parts of a sorry world
divided by crises, all failing to reflect  
even hidden meanings in the word

Wherever colour, sex, sexuality or creed
tell dark tales, let light in, hear love call
by way of answering a basic human need,
body, mind, and spirit seeking to fulfil

Where mortality respects no boundaries,
conflict deaf to cries for a lasting peace,
love continues to tell its beautiful stories,
bring hope to each and every one of us

Christmas says much for love’s spirituality,
common even to a divided humanity 

Copyright R N. Taber, 2007; 2013

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in 1st eds. of Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007; revided ed. in e-format in preparation.]

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Monday 23 December 2013

A Winter Canvas


Winter can be as incredibly harsh as it can be incredibly beautiful. Such is life, and human nature. Art may well do its very best to interpret and record, but it can only ever be one interpretation of one particular moment in time…

 Claude Monet - Snow at Argenteuil (1875)


A WINTER CANVAS

Straggly trees against a snowy sky,
robin redbreast in low key,
snowflakes like angels drifting by,
no more idea of what they’re doing,
where they’re going (or why)
than those of us down here, eagerly
lapping up the weather forecast
though for no particular reason other
than everyone else will be doing
much the same thing so there’s sense
of sorts in a camaraderie, missing
in our everyday lives, though friends,
and family do their best to assuage
our loneliness and poor self-esteem
where we can’t help comparing
ourselves with neighbours who seem
to be doing very nicely, thank you,
while we’re but getting nowhere fast
like the poor weather forecaster
always trying to convince us better
days are just ahead.

Robins singing, angel voices asking
why we’re all running around
in God’s backyard like headless chickens,
world chasing its own tail after Peace
(its Holy Grail), politicians rallying
worn phrases tried and tested
(if only for election clout) while the rest
of us rest on laurels as sure as winter
while glossing over its threatening skies
with talk of spring, change, everything
turning out better (if not best) when all's
said, done, leaving the astute artist
to gloss over any doubts with canvases
celebrating the bright and beautiful,
inspiring generations, in turn, to look,
listen, maybe even learn a thing or two
about life, love, nature and how art
copies more, far more, than what it sees
if only because beauty is in the eye
of the beholder, discern subtler differences
for better, for worse

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2013

[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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Friday 13 December 2013

Streetwise or C-l-o-u-d-s, Mind Games


We don’t always know what we want, and when we do, we don’t always get it, but that should not stop us even just window shopping for inspiration…like millions before us throughout history anxiously seeking inspiration or perhaps just a comfort zone of sorts, sufficient at least to see us through another cloudy day.

“Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add colour to my sunset sky.”Rabindranath Tagore, Stray Birds

STREETWISE or C-L-O-U-D-S, MIND GAMES

Now and then life grabs us
by the scruff of the neck
and tosses us into The Street
where we lie on our backs
look a passing cloud in the eye,
demanding answers it

It soon becomes very clear
the cloud doesn’t care
what on earth we're doing there,
(nor it seems do passers-by)
so we have to face the possibility
it could well be our fault

Our flaws stand up poorly
to close examination,
lying on our backs in The Street;
time to get real, get up,
walk on, trust centuries of hope
to treat blisters on our feet

Wearily, treading the world
in anxious footprints left
by ghosts fired by desperation
to track the kinder side
of reality, live in love and peace,
secure a comfort zone

Last spotted throwing caution

to the winds, putting can
before can't and will before won't,
giving winds of change
a fighting chance to do their best
on the street where I live 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

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Monday 2 December 2013

Living with Hans Christian Andersen


Everyone loves a Christmas tree, but (let’s face it) Christmas does a fir tree no favours.

Now, both as a child and adult, I have loved the fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen...at any time of year. As Christmas draws near, I cannot help but recall The Fir Tree.  


The fir tree is in such a hurry to grow that it fails to enjoy the beauty around it. All it thinks about is how much it wants to become a tall fir tree and see the wide world and experience new things. It finds no joy in the moment, but is always longing for the future. Finally, the fir tree realizes it has wasted its life by living for the future instead of for the present.  As a story about failing to appreciate what we have going for us until it is too late, I dare say many if not most of us can relate to it in one way or another?

Hans Christian Andersen, 1805-1875

As well as loving Andersen’s fairy tales, I carried much of their sense of morality and spirituality with me into adult life, which is possibly why I still enjoy reading them from time to time. It can do no harm (can it?) to recall that naïve, free, faery, spirit upon whose back I would frequently ride off into magical other-worlds and find respite from childhood’s darker side. (However much we may like to think of childhood as all innocence and light, it is no more immune to the harsher realities of human nature and everyday existence than adulthood; the latter, even at its worst, at least offers experience and choices rarely if ever available to us as children.)

This poem is a villanelle.

LIVING WITH HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

A certain Danish weaver
became a tailor, turned to acting, 
found fame as a storyteller

His tales told world over,
(inspiring many an ugly duckling)
a certain Danish weaver

Denmark’s heart breaker,
(the little mermaid lost everything)
found fame as a storyteller

Shrewd political observer,
(even of an emperor’s new clothing)
a certain Danish weaver

Steadfast, like a tin soldier,
(firm favourite at bed-time reading)
found fame as a storyteller

Where childhood rides forever
on the back of its wishful thinking,
a certain Danish weaver
found fame as a storyteller

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013



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Thursday 28 November 2013

Looking out for Christmas, Anyone?


Yes, Christmas will be with us in less than a month. However, not everyone enjoys a happy Christmas. For homeless people and others down on their luck, it is a time much like any other time...unless we can somehow make it special for them too.

Years ago, I met a homeless gay man who had been physically ejected from his family home on Christmas Day after his father discovered he is gay. This Christmas, I know of a couple on the run from their families who disapprove of their relationship because they are on opposing sides of the same religion. [If God doesn't mind, why should anyone else?]

No matter what religious festival is being celebrated at whatever time of year, a little understanding goes a long way. It is, after all, part of the pact we make with love. And what worth any religion without love in it? I am told that the God in whom so many people believe is a God of Love. Take love out of the prayer and ritual and all I imagine He sees is someone enjoying an ego trip.

We can't always expect to understand those we love and may not always agree with them, but that doesn't (or shouldn't) mean we love them less. It has always been one of humankind's greater tragedies that too many of us let socio-cultural-religious traditions dictate how we live, even love.

At the heart of every religious celebration is (or should be) love in all its shapes and forms...or what is there left that any God would have anyone celebrate?  

LOOKING OUT FOR CHRISTMAS, ANYONE?

Come, hear the bells of Christmas
though lost, alone, in the snow,
recalling times past when we’d leave
a card for Santa, hot cocoa
and a mince pie, try to sleep while
listening out for reindeer hooves
pounding across the sky, a cheery cry
ringing loud and clear for children
everywhere to hear, know (for sure)
that we are loved, no matter who
we are or how our lives shaping up,
whether or no we’re finding signs
of Christmas or much the same cruelty
(or worse) than the day before

Peering ahead down an endless road,
lost souls, alone, no place to go
till time (at last) to reclaim gifts of love
and peace, count blessings, let bells
speak for us, echo high and low, anxious
to share out the joys of Christmas,
fearful for lost souls looking for refuge
from a bitter-sweet winter snow
where no pretty flowers able to grow
yet nurtured out of sight and light
by Earth Mother, chief carer for a world
beyond even mind-body-spirit,
where all the odds stacked high against
mutual understanding or trust

Copyright R. N. Taber 2003; 2013


[Note: This poem has been slightly revised since it first appeared in Christmas Remembered, Anchor Books [Forward Press] 2003 and subsequently in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004]

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Wednesday 27 November 2013

The Other Side of Christmas


Religious festivals are, among other things, about thinking of others and not taking all we have in life for granted since, there but for good fortune, go you and I...

For those men and women (some of them gay) fighting wherever there is conflict for a better, kinder, world,  may the future hold some real progress in that direction. As for the politicians who send them there, let’s hope they won’t lose sight of those finer aims either, in spite of being preoccupied, as they invariably are, with their own personal standing on the world stage. Nor should we forget loved ones left behind while those in the thick of war risk their lives on a daily basis.

Many fight another war, this time on the Home Front; against poverty, prejudice, loneliness, depression, rejection, unemployment…

I recall, some years ago now, sympathising with a elderly neighbour who had fallen on hard times after a company in which he had been a major shareholder collapsed. " A bad business," he agreed, "but it's as the wife says, so long as we have family and [or]friends we care about and who care about us, who needs shares in anything else?"  At the time, it struck me as a rather trite comment, a way of saving face perhaps. In my 70's now, I often contemplate the wisdom of those words, and cherish the sense of well-being with which they never fail to fill me.

Unhappy people have told me how they hate being told to count their blessings because they are too few. Maybe they - and more, if not all of us - need to look (and count) again...?

THE OTHER SIDE OF CHRISTMAS

No Christmas tree in the window,
no cards or festive decoration,
no real interest in some Baby Jesus,
cause of starry-eyed celebration

As for listening out for reindeer,
deaf ears will catch no sound
or bells ringing out glad tidings
of great joy to (all?) mankind

No joy in snowflakes whirling past
like dervishes on a battlefield
assured of spoils in this, my city,
by climate change across the world

As for taking comfort and delight
in any religious celebration,
fat chance, when all its factions
primed for eternal division…

Nothing special for Christmas lunch
(but better than going hungry)
yet I dare say we’ll survive another
parody of common humanity

Some folks struggle, same folks cope
for shares in Love, Guardian of Hope 


Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

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Thursday 21 November 2013

Marking Up the Calendar


All human relationships - including friendships - have their ups and down. If they matter to us, we must work at them. Should they flag and all but fail, we must do our best to revive them. Nor can we let foolish pride get in the way.

If we want to build bridges with someone badly enough, what does it matter who makes the first move?

Sadly, sometimes we have to face the fact that a relationship was never as worthwhile as we thought in the first place.

Let’s be honest though. It is too easy to find excuses for doing nothing. Doing something, on the other hand and…well, who knows?

MARKING UP THE CALENDAR

One day to remember,
one day to forget;
one day together - another,
cruelly torn apart

One day for friendship,
one day for rage;
one day for love - another,
blotting its page

One day to be, oh, so sure,
one day to doubt;
one day so in love, - another
in a rush to get out

One day, love and peace,
promising to endure;
one day it’s spring - another
already mid-winter

One day, life’s lessons
to learn and share,
we students of life - another
finding us still there

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2007; 2013

[Note: An earlier version of this poem - under the title 'One Day' - first appeared in Awakening of the Soul, Poetry Now (Forward Press) 2003 & subsequently in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

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Tuesday 19 November 2013

Chariots of Fire


I am reminded of a conversation I had many years ago when I was an egocentric teenager. I asked a teacher (as one does) what life is all about. Yes, well…silly question, I know, but I thought it sounded clever. More to the point, I thought it made me appear very clever.  I received what I thought was, in turn, a very silly answer, something about its being a bedtime story for grown-ups.

Now, though, I’m not so sure it was such a silly answer, and suspect it was too profound for my little poem to do it justice.

I recall telling my mother about that conversation. She just said, “He’s a very nice man if a little eccentric/ Mind you, there is always more to eccentric people than meets the eye just as there's nearly always something in what they have to say worth giving some thought to. Now, go and do your homework…’ Another very nice person, my mother . She, too, always had something to say worth giving some thought to. 

CHARIOTS OF FIRE

Sometimes, I regret my lost youth
but for its teaching me
my place in the world, neither high
nor low for racing chariots
of fire across a playground of dreams, 
skimming time and space,
grandest of all arenas least known
to Man

It’s enough, in the end, to land safe
and sound among moon shadows
bringing we charioteers such presence
of mind-body-spirit known only
to children hungering for fairy tales, 
now lost, now finding their way
in some otherworld to take up the reins
and race each other to cheers
and jeers, highs and lows, archived
to living memory 

Can it be, I wonder, that life is, after all,
a (potentially) feel-good bedtime story?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009


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Friday 15 November 2013

Tattoo Art, a Singular Unselfconsciousness


I well recall how, in my teens, I confided to my mother that I was worried sick about an interview with a Careers Officer the next day because I couldn’t make up my mind what I wanted to be when I left school. She just shrugged and said, ‘Try being yourself and you won’t go far wrong.’ She was right, of course, but that was hard for me to admit at the time since I wasn’t being myself at all as being gay was still a criminal offence. I’ve tried to make up for it since.

Love it or hate it, most people are inclined to nurse a secret envy of tattoo art in so far as it conveys an unselfconsciousness that speaks for the self which, without meaning any offence, refuses to pussyfoot around or participate in the socio-cultural-religious sensibilities of others.

Every art form, of course, attempts the same.

TATTOO ART, A SINGULAR UNSELFCONSCIOUSNESS

I’m not the sort to strut
sidewalks alongside the latest
fashion clones

I prefer to speak plainly,  
no making a stab at diplomacy  
with awful clichés

I’ll not vote for the party
least likely to keep pre-election 
promises

I have never been in awe
of celebrities who love to preen
on camera

I like to call a spade a spade;
a ‘digging implement’ impresses
no one

I rejected religion years ago;
nature lends me a growing sense    
of spirituality

I love to share word patterns;  
as tattoos to the body, so art forms
to the mind
  

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

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Thursday 7 November 2013

Giving the Lie to Glory


[Update, June 17th 2019]: Some readers have said they would like to read some of my poems again but either can’t find them on the blogs or haven’t time to look. Until recently, I was able to link posts/poems past and present to Google + but Google recently deleted its personal G+ sites, retaining only business sites.  A reader, Max, has kindly emailed me to say he misses my Google + site, but “Whenever I find a poem I really like, I make a note of any search words or phrases in the labels column and use them to find more poems …” Well, thank you Max, and I'm sure some readers will find the tip useful and time-saving. For the record, search words and phrases include  climate change, communication, creative therapy, culture, death, depressions, friendship, ghosts, guilt, history, human nature, human spirit, imagination, innocence, inspiration, love, mind-body-spirit, memory, peace, mortality, nature, past-present-future, personal space, posthumous consciousness, peer pressure, prostate cancer, religion, relationships, sexuality, society, time, war and young people, zen... among others. [Another reader has asked why I often hyphenate several nouns to imply they are one; it's because I see them as inseparable one from the other, a continuum in which we human beings are pivotal, for better or worse...

Meanwhile…

I was in a bar once where an injured soldier was being asked about his experiences in Afghanistan. Someone mentioned the word, glory, which met with excited murmurs of approval and expressions of admiration. ‘Glory?’ the young soldier exclaimed in disbelief, ‘You must be kidding! Haven’t you people learned anything?’

Good question...

November 11th is Armistice Day closely followed by Remembrance Sunday. Since we are only just into October, some people have suggested I should wait until then before posting any poem in remembrance of those who have given their lives in two world wars and subsequent conflicts worldwide as well as those bereaved families left to get on with their lives as best they can; remembering, too, those who have suffered physical and psychological injury and their loved ones who are helping them to live as full as life as possible.

Ah, but every day is an anniversary for those who bear the emotional and/or physical scars of love and loss, in times of war and peace alike.  

Armistice Day or Veterans Day or Remembrance Day, whatever  we call it is an important anniversary; an opportunity for people to come together as a nation to commemorate those who have fought to try and make the world a kinder, safer place in which to live. Nor do I exclude our enemies, most of whom were (and are) ordinary men and women fed the propaganda of unenlightened politics by those they are persuaded to look upon as their 'betters'.

'What passing bells for those who die like cattle?' - Wilfred Owen (Anthem for a Doomed Youth)

This poem is a villanelle

GIVING THE LIE TO GLORY

Sure to give the lie to glory
(for all its medals won)
who live war’s horror story

No contemplating bravery
(the job has to be done)
sure to give the lie to glory

Struggling with the futility
of a friend’s mind blown,
who live war’s horror story

Flagging up a bull for history,
red rag to a politician
sure to give the lie to glory

Proud aloud, scared privately,
in for the duration
who live war’s horror story

Blind eye, tight lip, testimony
to the injured and fallen;
sure to give the lie to glory
who live war’s horror story

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011





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Saturday 2 November 2013

Poppies, for Remembrance


Today’s poem was written in 2004 and appeared in my 4th collection the following year; it has also appeared in an anthology, The Colour of War, Forward Press, 2011.

I have written almost as many poems about the tragedy of war as I have about the inspiring quality of love, much influenced by the powerful poems of World War I poets like Rupert Brooke, Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon and Vera Brittain, to name but a few.

The irony cannot be lost on anyone. Given that the horrors of war have been passed on so graphically from generation to generation since, it neither prevented World War II nor this sorry world of ours remaining a battleground for various socio-cultural-religious-political forces worldwide.

Here in the UK, as Armistice Day approaches, many of us buy a poppy as a symbol of remembrance; the money raised goes to the British Legion, a charity that, for many years, has provided financial, social and emotional support to members of the British armed forces, veterans, and their dependants.

National anniversaries of remembrance rightly salute the dead, but the dead would not want those they leave behind or injured friends and colleagues who survive to be forgotten either. Charities like the British Legion  and Help for Heroes have stepped in where successive Governments much prefer not to tread.

Countless poppies, countless tears; hopes, shared by millions for a peaceful world while haunted by the growing sense of a twenty-first century no less inclined than any other to the rhetoric of peace.


  

Photo: Cenotaph war memorial, London (UK)


Created by ceramic artist Paul Cummins with setting by stage designer Tom Piper; ceramic poppies commemorating the centenary of the outbreak of World War scheduled to progressively fill the dry moat around the Tower of London until Armistice Day, November 11th, 2013.


Photo: In the war memorial Neue Wache (Berlin) the moving sculpture, 'Mother and her dead son' by the Berlin artist Kathe Kollwitz says it all...

POPPIES, FOR REMEMBRANCE 

In two world wars, and conflicts since, they died
for love of country, freedom and their own;
shells, mortars, bullets and bombs they defied
so we may reap the rewards they have sown

Let’s remember those who never came back,
(sitting comfortably, watching TV);
Somme, Dunkirk, Korea, Falklands, Iraq...
(So much for the lessons of history!)

The wounded, too, deserve our thanks and pride,
some forgotten, left but to fade away
in pain, loneliness, no one at their side
as fought with them so bravely, won the day

World in remembrance of hope, prayers and tears
for peace in its time to yet end its worst fears

[From: A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]



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Tuesday 8 October 2013

The Clock Tower

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

I have just posted another video-poem on You Tube relating a recent visit to St Albans n Hertfordshire, UK.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PgiVwWtRgNg
If this link does not work, try my You Tube channel and search under title:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Built between 1403 and 1412, is the Clock Tower, the only medieval example in the country. From the beginning it had a mechanical clock, a great rarity at that time. As the Abbey also had one, this was probably the reason for having the same. Indeed, the Clock Tower itself seems to have been intended as a visible statement of St. Albans' civic ambitions against the power of the Abbot. It was both a look out as well as a curfew, ringing out the times when people had to be indoors "covering the fire".

From 1808-1814 during the Napoleonic war, it was used by the Admiralty as a semaphore station. This was operated by a shutter system and could help relay a message to or from Yarmouth in 5 minutes.

By the 1860's the Tower was in a bad way and was nearly demolished. The restoration in 1864 was supervised by Sir Gilbert Scott. In 2004, the roof was rebuilt with improved public safety and access.

Given how much of our lives are governed by the time of each passing day (and night) it seemed an appropriate addition to the blog.

THE CLOCK TOWER

The o’clock is ‘now’
that once was ‘then’
and now is but history

So stands an old clock tower,
monument to its (and our)
yesterdays, todays, tomorrows;
more power to the abbot,
ringing out curfew at a time
of birth, death, war,
and more… Enter, a bishop,
charged with paying
God and St Alban fair dues
to any with the time to stop, listen,
and choose

For the time is now
that once was then
and becomes ‘ours’

In time and space, listening out
for an o’clock sure
to keep us safe, bring peace,
point us through each day
with the mechanical indifference
of hands signing us up
to such existence as we know now
once was ‘then’ ever signalling
the ways of humanity, its history,
multiplicity, duplicity, and obsession
with eternity 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013





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Sunday 6 October 2013

Open Invitation


Readers may like to know that I have just posted a new video on You Tube. It is the first of several videos (and poems) mostly shot in the old market town of St Albans in Hertfordshire. There is another (of an old clock tower) and one of a three lovely willow trees converging on each other that will follow over the next week or so. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0e3HyezWsY

If the link does not work, try my You Tube channel and search under title:
http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Recent feedback suggests some of you cannot always access You Tube so you can also watch the video here. (See below)..

For those of you who have asked about my charity walk last weekend, my friend (and Y T cameraman) Graham and I walked a half marathon (13.1 miles) through the night and early hours to raise money for prostate cancer research. Between us, we raised over £700 so are well pleased. We also managed to complete the course in 5.5 hours, not bad given that I will be 68 in December. I may do it again next year so long as hormone therapy continues to prevent my prostate cancer becoming aggressive...mind, feet, and spirit willing! 

My friend Andrew and I went to a Lowry exhibition at the Tate Britain the other day. I know a lot of people don't care much for Lowry, but I share his interest in everyday life as it IS so can easily relate to his work; stark and dour, many of his paintings may be, but he saw an inspiring beauty in the haunting ugliness that so often characterizes everyday life and urban landscape. 

Now, about the video/poem…

The Roman City of Verulamium slowly declined and fell into decay after the departure of the Roman Army in AD 410. However, its ruined buildings provided building materials to build the new monastic and market settlement of St Albans which was growing on the hill above, close to the site of Saint Alban's execution. In the Norman Abbey tower, you can still see the Roman bricks removed from Verulamium.

Much of the post-Roman development of St Albans was in memorial to Saint Alban, the earliest known British Christian martyr, executed in AD 250 (the exact date is unknown, with scholars suggesting dates of 209, 254 and 304). The town itself was known for some time by the Saxon name 'Verlamchester'. A shrine was built on the site of his death following Emperor Constantine's adoption of Christianity as the religion of the Roman Empire. In the 5th century a Benedictine monastic church was constructed.

St Alban’s cathedral (formerly St Alban’s Abbey) – officially the Cathedral and Abbey Church of St Alban – is a Church of England cathedral church at St Albans, England.  At 84 metres ( 276 ft) its nave is the longest of any cathedral in England.  With much of its present architecture dating from Norman times, it became a cathedral in 1877 and is the second longest cathedral in the UK after Winchester. Local residents often call it ‘the abbey; although the present cathedral represents only the church of the old Benedictine abbey.

The abbey church, although legally a cathedral church, differs in certain particulars from most of the other cathedrals in England: it is also used as a parish church of which the dean is rector. He has the sane powers, responsibilities and duties as the rector of any other parish.

For more information, see: Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Albans_Cathedral

Yet again, I am indebted to my dear friend Graham Collett for the video and subsequent editing. Unfortunately, time and weather have prevented us from uploading any new material to my channel until now. We hope you will enjoy both video and poem.

Regular readers will know that I am not a religious person although I like to think I have a strong sense of spirituality albeit taken from nature rather than any religion.  An appreciation of beauty, though, is all-inclusive, and this pantheist poet feels no less entitled to be as appreciative as anyone else.

As for LGBT issues and religion...there would be no need for anyone to be made to suffer any sense of guilt or inner conflict were the leaders of all world religions to but practise what they preach about peace and love to all humankind instead of being so selective about how they choose to interpret their Holy Books.

Whatever their religion, all LGBT people need to bear in mind that the chances of God being a homophobe are zero since homophobia was invented by a humankind unfit for purpose in that respect; religion should be an open, not closed door to any who choose to go there. Nature has taught me that, and I choose Earth Mother.

OPEN INVITATION

Abbey, cathedral,
what’s in a name that’s given
temporal form, created
by human hand to preserve
the spirit of peace,
love, searches for raison d’etre
among all who pass by,
regardless of colour, creed, sex
or sexuality?

Monument to history,
recalling dark and finer deeds
of humankind,
so we may remember those
who lived and died
for love and peace, celebrating
one, St Alban, here,
inspiring we ordinary people
everywhere

To some, it is religion
that draws them to a holy place,
anxious to follow
in the footsteps of a Man of God
while others seek answers
to haunting questions
of daunting pillars, stained glass
windows, and altar crosses asking all
and nothing of us

God, raison d’être,
what’s in a name that’s given
temporal priority
in humankind’s eternal search
for origins of an identity
to which (or whom) it can relate
before ‘too late’ by this
or that reckoning of human mind,
body, and spirit?

Abbey, cathedral,
an open invitation to pilgrim,
tourist, passer-by,
each and every one of us,
to simply enjoy
its presence, inhibitions forsaken,
and (if only secretly)
hedge our bets on a safe passage
through eternity

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013



  







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