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.

Thursday 30 May 2013

Ghosts, No Random Memory


Who has never returned to the scene of a once-love, if only in their mind, and wondered how things might have been if only…?

GHOSTS, NO RANDOM MEMORY

Much rougher the sea
than last we ran here, laughing
on the cliffs,
a spring breeze in our hair;
less kind the sky
than last we kissed there,
bluebells surrounding
a passion brought to bear;
sweet memory, wings
of a friendly gull soaring our dreams,
love’s rhythm to fulfill;
such heat to embrace your body,
and bold! In the vaults
of eternity, our lives grown cold;
salty now, the hair blowing
across my face, thinned
like the heather at our special place

Though huddled in a raincoat,
I, oh, so easily recall the glad heart
that made me thrall…

Gulls squeal! No melody,
but a sure grace
whirling against storm clouds
like a pattern of lace
on an altar cloth, would have
smothered us both

Copyright R. N. Taber 1991; 2010

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from an earlier version as it appeared in several poetry magazines and an anthology 1996-2004, and subsequently  in 1st eds. of Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001; 2nd (revised) e-edition in preparation.]


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Tuesday 28 May 2013

Arthur Atkins (Painter-Poet) Liverpool, UK/ San Francisco (2)


Something different today.

In 2009, I posted a poem about William ‘Arthur’ Atkins, a painter-poet from Liverpool who migrated to California in the late 1890s only to die there while still a young man; his work remains a testament not only to the human spirit but that posthumous consciousness that  - knowingly or unknowingly, ouches us all from generation to generation.

(If the link does not work, copy and paste into the address field)


I have been fascinated by and interested in Arthur’s story for some years now since being introduced to it by a friend, Steven, who lives in California. Steven has some of Arthur’s paintings (he, too is a talented painter) and other related items. Very knowledgeable about the Atkins family history, he recently sent me these photos and a poem by Arthur that I thought viewers might enjoy. 

It would appear that, according to family lore, Arthur's love was Virginie de Fremery:


Arthur wrote this poem that was published in The Lark, February 1896:

TO VIRGINIA

SPRING and the daffodil again!
            I heard the lark at dawn,
A liquid cadence through the rain
            Across my lawn.

The wet, red roses all around
            Stir in the breeze.
The first white trillium breaks the ground
            Under the canyon trees.

I bring the wild white flower of Spring,
            Above all others thine--
At he whom with the gift I bring,
            Thy Valentine!

[Note:  For the sake of historical accuracy, it should be pointed out that the word ‘canyon’ in the poem is actually spelt ‘canon’ in the original with a tilde over the first ‘n’.]

NB If you  have any information about Arthur, my friend Steven in California has asked me to say that you are very welcome to get in touch. Contact: muzys@aol.com


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Monday 27 May 2013

Puddles


Rainy days are not uncommon here in the UK.

Ah, but there is inspiration (maybe even a poem) to be found even on rainy days. I was once quoted as saying there is a poem in everything around us whereupon I was challenged to write one about ... puddles!

As  I watch ripples in a puddle spread as far as its space allows, I can't help thinking how all we say and do are like ripples, spreading as far as global consciousness (or conscience) allows.

(Photo taken from the Internet)
PUDDLES

Reflections of an angry sky

skimming the surface like ripples
from raindrops ...

Sulky mouths, creased brows

skimming the surface like ripples
from raindrops ...

Fearful fingers clutching collars

skimming the surface like ripples
from raindrops ...

Umbrellas, scoring points

skimming the surface like ripples
from raindrops ...

Bowed heads like sad clouds

skimming the surface like ripples
from raindrops ...

Better times around the next corner

skimming the surface like ripples
from raindrops


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

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Sunday 26 May 2013

Trailing Roses


I have written several poems about roses; they were my late mother’s favourite flower, and are mine also.
  


TRAILING ROSES

Dawn, a golden haze
among trailing trellis roses;
trees, dripping rainbows
on grasshoppers signing in
another day

Rooftops, sheets of glass
where birds pause to preen
a feather or two before
taking off to help usher in
another day

Bubble wrap skies, cue
for sleepyheads to wonder
why on earth heaven
is raising the alarm for just
another day

Sun rising, world trailing
after trellis roses like a lover
left for dead…
yet to rediscover fool’s gold
another day

By noon, trellis roses
getting up the noses of those
who know no better
than to repeat their mistakes
another day

At dusk, nature playing
its daily nocturne to anyone
who cares to listen,
dares even show a sad world
another way

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

[From: Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012]



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Saturday 25 May 2013

Fundamentally Flawed

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

Fundamentalism, in any shape or form and in relation to any religion or cause…is a tragedy. The fundamentalist becomes as much a victim of his or her way of thinking as anyone that gets in its way.

Blood spilt and lives ruined can never be excused.

The main reason I cannot empathize with (any) religion is that is has, for centuries, been directly or indirectly responsible for shedding blood and dividing not only families but also whole communities; little if anything has changed as far as I can see, and the sheer intransigence of various socio-cultural-religious groups is largely responsible for the 21st century getting off to a poor start.

Thank goodness (and we all need to remember) the majority of ordinary, religious-minded people are no more fundamentalists than the majority of ordinary German people were Nazis during Word War 2, the events leading up to it or since.  

This poem is a villanelle.

FUNDAMENTALLY FLAWED

Love tempestuous,
root of evil
(death of Judas)

Wanton, impetuous,
dressed to kill,
love tempestuous

Deaf-blind justice
making its call
(death of Judas?)

Madly zealous
with a will…
love tempestuous

To truth, oblivious,
hope in free-fall
(death of Judas?)

Be fools or martyrs
at its call…
Love tempestuous,
death of Judas

Copyright R. N. Taber 2003; 2013

[Note: A slightly different version of today’s poem was first published in an anthology, Prisms of Light, Poetry Now (Forward Press) 2003, and subsequently in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.]


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Monday 20 May 2013

Twilight on a Lake OR Nature, an Everyman's Guide to Infinity

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


As I grow old, some memories dim while others take on a whole new perspective, probably because we don''t always realize at the time just how much certain occasions mean to us or those with whom we get to share them. 

I have made some changes to this villanelle that I wrote during a wonderful weekend in the Lake District some years ago.

 Twilight at Ashness Bridge (Lake District)

TWILIGHT ON A LAKE or NATURE, AN EVERYMAN'S GUIDE TO INFINITY

Though pain a part
in our lives surely take,
play on, glad heart

There is a beauty art
strives its copies to make
though pain a part

When life falls apart,
and fragile promises break,
play on, glad heart

Cherish from the start
each dip in passion’s lake
though pain a part

Where the stars chart
our every move, mistake,
play on, glad heart

May love’s winged dart
find its mark for our sake;
though pain a part,
play on, glad heart

Copyright R. N. Taber 2003; 2016

[Note An earlier version of this poem was first published in an anthology, 'Chasing Shadows', Poetry Now [Forward Press] 2003 and subsequently in 1st eds. of The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; revised ed. in e-format in preparation. The poem was slightly revised in 2013, and an alternative title, added 2016.]

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Sunday 19 May 2013

Sleeping Dogs

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

We don’t always appreciate the effect our words and/or actions might have on others, even loved ones. It is so easy to be well-meaning yet misunderstood. Yet, if a relationship is worth saving it is worth fighting for, and all parties should make time to talk things through…

I have been let down badly by friends and family in the past (haven’t we all?). Sometimes we have talked things through and grown closer. However, there have been times when much, as I would have liked to talk things through, some people only have ears for what they want to hear; any 'closeness'  was but a mirage. I dare say they feel the same about me. For all my faults, though, I am always ready to talk things through…with people prepared to consider points of view other than their own. It is rarely a question of who is right or wrong, but simply bearing in mind that, just as we may easily hurt ourselves so, too, it is easy to unintentionally inflict hurt.

The better you know someone, the least likely you are to want to hurt them, and vice versa. The closer you are, though, the easier it becomes to do just that. All relationships need to be worked at; some people are simply not prepared to put in the effort, or cannot see how or why they should, so never really get to know anyone that well. Sadly some people are so self-centred and/ or dogmatic in their approach to others, they find it hard if not impossible to relate to feelings and points of view they don't, won't or can't share.

In my experience, it is possible to pick up the pieces of a broken relationship (of whatever nature) once, even twice, but rare, indeed, is he or she who can find it within themselves to make the effort a third time; better then, perhaps, to let sleeping dogs lie than enter the fray yet again ...

Most friends and family members fall out from time to time, although if a relationship is worth having, it has to be worth saving; as always, it takes two to tango. In my experience, it is possible to pick up the pieces of a broken relationship (of whatever nature) once, even twice, but rare, indeed, is he or she who can find it within themselves to make the effort a third time; better then, perhaps, to let sleeping dogs lie than enter the fray yet again and put our own sense of  well-being, not to mention physical and/ or mental health, on the line.

SLEEPING DOGS

Love may well never die
nor friendship, but sometimes
both may well lie sleeping
within a heart grown, oh, so weary
behind eyes brought
to weeping for all those things
not as we would have them;
accepted, understood, forgiven even,
and never quite forgot,
but left asleep in the arms
of every dreamer
that ever loved or had a friend
where love and friendship
not returned in kind, or even in part
if we include untold damage
to the heart, ignorance of some crisis
of all-inclusive mind-body-spirit

Ah, but neither love nor friendship
can fire those open only to self-interest
with the inspiration required
to subdue the flames of desperation
just long enough to enable
a reaching-out beyond abstract expectation
all but set in stone
that every opportunity needs must wear
appropriate regalia, leaving us free
to spot 'spectators' (by any other name)
intent on having sport with us;
in time, may we come to appreciate
what (and who?) we're up against,
we family, friends and would-be lovers
left waiting at a gate we know
(only too well) may never reopen for us
unless by whim of a kinder fate

Awake, sleeping friendships and loves
stirring in quiet hearts every now and then,
chance overcoming
feelings of rejection by those
who should have known so much better
than to doubt us, recalling
wistful might-have-beens left to fade
into some once-upon-a- time
for mind-body-spirit to turn now and then
like the pages of a fairy story
by Hans Christian Andersen, relating
brave new worlds for children
to carry into adulthood and spread the news
how love will endure and hate expire
if we let it, albeit any tale takes one to tell.
another to share, and that same pair (at least)
to leave lie but sleeping in the heart

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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Saturday 18 May 2013

Turning Point OR Time to Move into the Fast Lane

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

Today’s poem is, yes, another villanelle; an earlier version appeared in an anthology, Soulful  Emotions, Poetry Now [Forward Press] 2003 and subsequently in my collection.

Looking out and not being a part of things can make a day pass very slowly.

Looks like it’s decision time…

This poem is a villanelle.

TURNING POINT or TIME TO MOVE INTO THE FAST LANE

Time, it goes slow,
ticking like clock faces 
at a lonely window

Seasons come and go;
world, its shadow chases;
time, it goes slow

Tears may well flow
for a love the mind places
at a lonely window

Oh, dare not follow
where the pulse races ... ?
Time, it goes slow

Heart gouged hollow
as the beast, Fear, surfaces
at a lonely window

Come, adrenaline. flow,
put life through its paces!
Time, it goes slow
at a lonely window

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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Friday 17 May 2013

Notes on the Art of Self-Deception

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

We have all met them, people who are too stubborn to admit they even might be wrong or mistaken; who won’t compromise because they see even meeting someone halfway as a sign of weakness.

Mind you, even stubbornness has its place in the human psyche; it can be a virtuy or a vice.. For example, it is helping me through my treatment for prostate cancer; a stubborn streak in me refuses to consider (most of the time) what could yet happen.

Oh, but life is too short to dwell for long on its what-ifs and maybes. Carpe Diem, I say!

This poem is a kenning, sometimes referred to as a 'Who am I?' poem.

NOTES ON THE ART OF SELF-DECEPTION

Few acknowledge
my presence from beginning to end
of their time,
insinuating my way with expertise
worthy of a spy
intent on political obstruction,
slithering in and out
among corridors of a nation’s
central powerhouse

To anyone aware
of my existence, it suits them best
to deny I have any influence
over their affairs, but will insist
they will proceed
with the fairness and diplomacy
(not political expediency)
choosing to ignore my capacity
for sabotage

Though the heart
stay true to all intents and purposes,
I will wreak havoc
among dark corridors of the mind,
slithering in and out
where conscience would tread,
ensuring a degree
of impotence for its slipping up
on a trail of lies

 I pass for a pale imitation of integrity
 in the footlights of human vanity

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

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Wednesday 15 May 2013

On the Incredible Self-Empowerment of Naming Things

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

Like many men, I was terrified of getting prostate cancer in my later years. Shortly after my 65th birthday, in the spring of 2011, I was, yes, diagnosed with prostate cancer and began hormone therapy.

Although I feel fine (most days) I have had some really weird dreams. The one on which this poem is based was so vivid that I got out of bed in the early hours and made a few notes before I could forget the whole thing. Sometimes I can get back into my dreams, but not on this occasion. As soon as my head hit the pillow again, I was fast asleep. If I had another dream, I don’t remember it.

I eventually woke up around 7:00 am in a cold sweat, vaguely disturbed yet also oddly elated. I felt as if I had ridden the gamut from youth to old age in a matter of seconds and been washed up on a sunny beach, my trusty white steed and me. (I love walking by the sea…)   

Above a louder and even more splendid than usual dawn chorus, I fancied someone was calling a name. In the cold light of day, I couldn’t hear what name, but somehow knew it wasn’t mine; not this time anyway. 

I sat up in bed and said aloud, ‘I have prostate cancer.’

Perhaps that is what the dream was all about, giving my ‘illness’ a name so I needn’t be afraid of it anymore?

Some hours later I caught a train and soon found myself walking by the sea in Brighton (East Sussex). I have done this so many times for so many years, yet those so familiar surroundings seemed like something out of a dream that day, and I felt so much the more reassured for it.

Naming our fears helps us confront them, all the better to get on with living without being distracted by a sense of constantly doing battle with an invisible enemy.

ON THE INCREDIBLE  SELF-EMPOWERMENT OF NAMING THINGS

I rode a pale horse to a castle of sand
gate left wide open,
drawbridge down, so carried on 
and banged at the door,
noise resounding like the weeping
of some tortured wretch

No one answered as I called a greeting
and the door groaned ajar;
not a friendly soul in sight, I entered
the Great Hall where a banquet
called for celebration of someone’s life
(alive or dead?)

Trestle tables were piled high with food
of every description,
yet no one ate from a single silver plate
or drank from silver goblets;
every throne-like chair remained emptier
than a beggar’s pockets

My horse bucked and reared as if sensing
a curse had been laid upon us;
I lost my grip and tumbled to a stone floor
as cold as an icy moat;
frantic, I heard the wretch let fly my name,
among waves of terror

I swam centuries before finally recovering
my surfboard, soon lay panting
at the gate of a sandcastle left wide open,
listening to that wretch weeping,
wondering who it it could be, how on earth 
they knew my name

Suddenly, I saw him and it was like looking
in a mirror, an expression of misery
I could not bear so leapt into the saddle, 
and rode out of the gate, its legend
(C-A-N-C-E-R) less scary for connecting me
with a positive mindset

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2013

[Note: Regular blog readers will know that I have revised this poem several times. So why post it before I am happy with it? I suspect it has to do with my being too close to the subject. Whatever, email feedback has both prompted and shaped any revisions, for which I am grateful, and can only hope this  latest will be the last. It only goes to show, I guess, that a poem is a 'live' art form in the sense that it is capable of metamorphosing as it passes from reader to reader and back to the poor poet who has to try and make sense of it all...]


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Tuesday 14 May 2013

Civilian Casualties Sidelined OR Whose War Is It...?

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

We read and hear much on this or that political platform about Global Warming and the global economic downturn etc.

Considering various conflicts across the world, whatever happened to the Global Conscience?

CIVILIAN CASUALTIES SIDELINED or WHOSE WAR IS IT...?

People left homeless,
losing limbs,
civilian death toll rising,
NATO focusing
on its troop numbers

Children left orphans,
losing limbs,
dying before their time,
NATO playing
the usual blame game

Families left weeping,
losing heart,
making ends meet
as best they can,
fighting a losing battle

Media left observing
lost limbs,
civilian death toll rising,
NATO focusing
on its troop numbers

World left wondering,
why?

[From: Tracking the Torchbearer by R. NH. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012]

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Sunday 12 May 2013

The Zen of Discernment

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

As we go through life, how much do we discern regarding the nature of our surroundings, and how much do we take for granted?

This poem is a villanelle.

THE ZEN OF DISCERNMENT

Like ghosts, our years pass us,
(the mixed blessings of memory)
as hauntingly beautiful as stars

No lesser regard for science
than Earth Mother’s finer poetry,
like ghosts, our years pass us,

Images of laughter and tears
finest art can only ever but copy,
as hauntingly beautiful as stars

No hopes wing more precious
than family and friends in harmony;
like ghosts our years pass us

Come birdsong to fine old trees,
so joy and pain creating our history,
as hauntingly beautiful as stars

As centuries turn nature’s leaves,
so each human heart creates eternity
like ghosts, our years pass us,
as hauntingly beautiful as stars

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

[From: Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012]




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Thursday 9 May 2013

Ghost Fingers

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

Regular readers will be aware of my passion for clouds, also more than a passing interest in the posthumous consciousness; this poem combines elements of both.


(Photo taken from the Internet)

GHOST FINGERS

Inspiring the young, comforting old,
fuelling tales at cosy fires,
melting a frost on cobbles of despair,
thawing the icy grip of fear;
a warning too or at least a hint
of what’s to be, rooted
in shifting sands of a memory playing
fast and loose with our desires,
heavenly spires secretly tumbling us

Partying the young, partnering old,
fireflies dashing at twilight,
breaking into its pregnant silences,
fracturing cruel thoughts;
an intruder too, wearing a mask
that’s oozing familiarity,
shifting sands of a memory playing
fast and loose with our desires,
heavenly spires overtly spinning us

Driving the young, steering the old,
taking rough with smooth,
making inroads to forbidden places,
bringing hope, love;
a stranger at the wheel, no map
to dictate our route across
shifting sands of memory playing
fast and loose with our desires,
heavenly spires playfully teasing us

Feeding imagination, art’s finer promise;
clouds, like ghost fingers, signing to us

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007

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



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Tuesday 7 May 2013

Paying a (Heavy) Price for Climate Change, 3000 AD

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

[Update June 2nd 2017]: Yesterday, president Trump withdrew the USA from the Paris agreement on climate change. Such a step has been met with dismay by most countries around the world. Wie the president professes to be putting America and Americans first, it remains to be seen if that will prove the case or whether excessive carbon emissions may yet be the death of us all.] RT

As regular readers will know, I am revising some  poems that appear in my collection. An earlier version of today's poem first appeared in an anthology, Free-Falling, Poetry Now [Forward Press] 2006 and subsequently in my collection the following year. While there is a strong argument for leaving well alone, as I look at poems from a distance of several years or more, I sometimes feel the need to 'get it right'. Some readers, of course, will always prefer the original.

Now, we hear and read about climate change all the time.Yet how seriously do we take it? How committed are we to future generations?  Nor is climate all that's changing. Some would argue that humankind itself is being gradually eroded by complacency if not by by its own inhumanity.

Fatalism is humankind's worst enemy; we cannot blame our shortcomings on fate, only ourselves.

As for the planet, I suspect nature has ideas of its own ...

Whatever, there is no room for complacency; the well-being of future generations is at stake. Governments of the world and certain politicians with an invested interest in fossil fuels need declare those interests, get their priorities right and log into some positive thinking ... NOW.
  
PAYING A (HEAVY) PRICE FOR CLIMATE CHANGE, 3000 AD

Preserved in ice, like some
prehistoric monster
poised to tread weeping clay,
dead water

Traces of green, shades of envy
to the probing eye
investigating its reappearance
and repercussions

Provoking alarm in Big Brother’s
desolate backyard
stretching endlessly, like
a yawning clay pit

Hysteria among humanoid
and robotic camps alike,
tugging at the archaeologist’s arm
to leave well alone

Preserved in ice, like some
prehistoric monster,
missed potential for all humanity;
Statue of Liberty

Copyright R. N. Taber 2006; 2013

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears 1st eds. of  Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007; 2nd (revised) e-edition in preparation.]

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Monday 6 May 2013

Old Haunts

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

I suspect we all get lonely sometimes. Ghosts and soap characters can be good company, but there is nothing like going out and meeting people to feel...alive! Essentially, it's a matter of self-confidence, believing in ourselves and others or how can we expect them believe in and have confidence in us?

Never let anyone tell you you're less of a person then they are, whatever inflexible socio-cultural-religious 'principles' they may throw at you.  We are all different and as I have said many times on both blogs, being different doesn't make us different, only human. 😉

OLD HAUNTS 

World, glimpsed
in its bed-sit windows
weaving fictions
around street corners

Cracks on a pane
chasing forgotten dreams
made whole again
(while the sun shines)

Lonely, a sad word,
like a weepy autumn mist
asking of the world
it answer to its ghosts

Hope, still  treading warily
through eternity

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2011

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

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Thursday 2 May 2013

Defining Moments .

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

How many time have you heard someone say about someone that he or she doesn’t stand a chance of succeeding at this or that because they are too small or too tall, too young or too old, not well enough known or connected or not good looking enough or don’t have enough experience or qualifications.etc…?

Ah, but never underestimate the powers of the human spirit or be too quick to dismiss the old adage, ‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way.’

Now, I am not a religious person, but was raised as a Christian and know my Bible. I have since learned that all the Holy Books have much in common; God is a hero, humanity heroic, and everyday life recognised for what it is, the greatest story ever told.

DEFINING MOMENTS

I watched a small red boat
riding waves on a big blue sea;
suddenly, it occurred to me
that small can be big, depending
on whatever our perception,
a popular misconception being
that little is helpless against
a far mightier charge, as small
is to large. Who cannot recall
tales of David  against Goliath
and Samson beating Delilah
at her own game, taken for fools
on a roll call of heroes

Who knows? Sailors on a small
red boat may yet prove themselves
equally worthy. Let’s not forget
that who laughs last laughs longest
nor is best always found among
strongest, for where wisdom lies
and purpose, sheer will defies
any need to avoid where lions feed
as Daniel in the den discovered
and young Isaac to the block tied,
wise men, too, and shepherds
mo less blind to the art of metaphor
than Paul on the Damascus road

A small red boat in a storm
may well defy all odds against
fending off its cries and fury,
come into its own, return home
(as I stay muzzled at the helm
of a grander vessel by far, deemed
fated to follow orders and trust
in my betters to always know best?)
For good or ill, let’s take a turn 
at the Wheel and chance surviving
the re-telling of a tale already
re-worked by idiots, all but lost
and signifying next to nothing

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2011; 2018

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

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Wednesday 1 May 2013

The Zen of Personal Space

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

Sometimes we get lost in a scary, all but surreal landscape of conflicting emotions through which we cannot see our way clear to any safe haven. 

At such times, we need to call upon the inner self to step back from it all, create our own space, set mind, body and spirit free of temporal concerns just long enough to at least draw us a map that will guide us back into the real world..

We all need to take care that certain socio-cultural-religious obligations don't make such demands on us that mind-body-spirit is left screaming, "Please. just let me BE!" while other things (and people) that matter to us simply pass us by...

THE ZEN OF PERSONAL SPACE 

Looking for a shortcut to nowhere,
found a pretty little road
that turned out to be nothing more
than a dead end at a ring of dark water,
no way round

Tossing stones in a ring of dark water,
nothing much else to do
but watch ever-widening circles
pass out of sight like poetic  shadows
in a weepy, leafy, light

Among poetic shadows in a leafy light,
a face darting in and out
like the Cheshire Cat in a classic take
on escapism from the chaos of our reality
into sheer pandemonium

No escape, only ever-widening circles
across a ring of dark water,
subject to the swing of a human arm,
measure of a human eye, raging of a beast
left impotent by despair

Surely, plaintive cries growing weaker
like ripples on a ring of dark water
chasing The Cat into the same nowhere
that’s begging a shortcut, brief respite 
for mind-body-spirit

Past-present-future engaging the senses
to suss the integrity of  imagination,
let ripples in a leafy light lent us by whim
or other of nature 's moods suggest a way yet 
to cross a ring of dark water


Copyright R. N. Taber 2013 [Rev. + Alt title 2/19]

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