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.

Wednesday 25 May 2022

A History

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

Many if not most of us have them, moments in time that are surreal, take us out of ourselves and would have us look back at all personal space stripped bare of any well-chosen décor meant to give us a sense of belonging, and we do feel that… for the greater part of us that’s real. 

Only, now and then we treat ourselves to acting out some wannabe persona, lending it a reality, letting it in while, at the same time, acknowledging the need to return it where it (no ‘we’) could well have belonged, but for having to… get real?

A HISTORY

A small child,
playing in the street
outside the house
where I was born, not a care
of the world’s making,
but for its nagging mind-body-spirit
that on my own head be it

Teenage years,
home truths doing battle
with fake news,
faux stereotypes ganging up
on me, redefining
my identity, pressuring that part of me
engaging with my sexuality

A young adult
confused, all but lost
in mixed feelings,
seeking a place to belong.
left dangling 
by a favourite pop song over my head, 
bent on raising the half-dead

Older, wising up
to the ways of a world
that would have us
hang and let hang, devil take
the hindmost,
stiff upper lip, ready cue for surviving;
living and partly living

You-Me-Us, 
body of such thought
across eternity,
as left hanging by art forms
on the inner eye,
looking to make any sense or none at all
of its heart-and-soul

A small child,
playing in the street
outside the house
where he/ she was born, no cares
of the world’s making,
but for ghosts nagging a mind-body-spirit
that on its own head be it

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022


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Wednesday 5 August 2015

Dead Cool, Macho Man


Overheard on a bus:

TEENAGER 1: It’s all very well for people to say don’t carry a knife or a gun, but what do they know, yeah? It’s dead cool, right? Besides, you gotta protect yourself. F**k the do-gooders. What kind of world do they think we live in? You gotta get real, yeah?

TEENAGER 2: What if someone gets hurt, killed even?

TEENAGER 1: So it ain’t gonna be me, right?

TEENAGER 2: I dunno…

TEENAGER 1: (Rising to leave as bus stops) You dunno know f**k all.

An elderly lady sitting next to me shook her head, "He’s right about one thing. What do we know about the world they live in? And whose fault is that, I wonder...?"

I said nothing. What could I say?

There is nothing either cool or macho about carrying a knife or a gun even if (potentially) in self-defence, and who's going to care anyways if you end up dead?

This poem is a villanelle.

DEAD COOL, MACHO MAN

Finally, managed to get me a gun
and spreading the word,
didn’t ask who’ll carry my coffin

At first, life was a buzz, good fun,
but all that disappeared;

finally, managed to get me a gun,


Needed to prove I was someone,
get me some street cred;

didn’t ask who’ll carry my coffin

Shouting at just about everyone,
but no one ever heard;
finally, managed to get me a gun,

Joined a gang, mustn't let 'em down,
show I was shit scared;
didn’t ask who’ll carry my coffin

Got into a street fight, shot down
dripping with blood...
Finally, managed to get me a gun,
didn’t ask who’ll carry my coffin

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2015

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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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