Engaging with the Kafkaesquesque OR The Landscape of Nightmare

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

Today's poem has been slightly revised (from 2017) for inclusion in the new collection of poems that I am struggling to put together as my personal circumstances - along with everyone else's - approach Kafkaesque proportions from time to time; although restriction on mobility and retail are starting to lift as the Covid-19 coronavirus appears to be lessening its impact, it is still there, still a threat, and many of us are concerned we may be coming out of lock-down too soon, especially as we look at what is happening around the world, including countries that appear to have been hit by a second wave after coming out of lock-down. Oh, well, fingers crossed ... and let's all be careful out there.

Readers sometimes email me to say they find browsing the blogs a problem as there are so many poems. A good way is to use the search field in the top right hand corner to search under subject;

e.g. history, nature, human spirit, positive thinking, mind-body-spirit  etc. 

Oh, and if you enjoy at least some of the poems please recommend the blog to others... although I really do appreciate that poetry is not everyone’s favourite art form. wry bardic wink

Meanwhile…

I had not been long out of hospital when I wrote the poem a few years ago and on a high dose of antibiotics to keep nasties like sepsis at bay. I'd had a bad night and woke up suspecting I would have a bad day so decided to try and write my way out of what was not a promising start. Well, it worked, for me at any rate, and (who knows?) it may work for you, too. Indeed, the power of positive thinking never fails to amaze me. (Believe me, I needed plenty of it in hospital... )

If dealing with illness - or any dark forces - is a challenge for the human body, it is no less of one for mind and spirit; indeed, I am not sure the three can be separated, and regular readers will have noticed that often refer to mind-body-spirit as one life force in the blogs; add the combined power of love and positive thinking, and it should come as no surprise that many if not most human beings are up for whatever challenges we face, whether they image the landscape of horror, danger, whatever ...

ENGAGING WITH THE KAFKAESQUE or THE LANDSCAPE OF NIGHTMARE

Dark, my world,

animated shapes conveying

little or nothing

to ease a so-restless mind,

unquiet spirit

No cheery sounds

of laughter over corny jokes

or cheery singing

out of tune at the washing-up

after dinner for two

Nothing and no one

to home in on for comfort;

shoulders to lean on

but shades of wishful thinking

on scrap paper

Kafkaesque, dragging

on senses that, oh, but faintly

offer resistance,

yet creating just space enough

for breaking dawn

Light, proving a match

for its nemesis, now a gathering

of sun nymphs

inspiring wings of a skylark

to force an entry

Song, waking the heart

to possibilities and potential

enough for mind, body,

and spirit to be curious, wake up

to the challenges

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in CCandD poetry magazine v291, Scars (US) 2019]

T-i-m-e, Life Forces

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

An old saying insists that, ‘It’s ‘a man’s world.’ Maybe that’s true, maybe not, for there is another that suggests, ‘Behind every great man is a great woman’. As for how we define 'great' I suspect it has to do with goodness; if goodness is as great as any of us can aspire to, not all greatness is synonymous with goodness.

Whatever, we live in a world for which I suspect we have mostly women - past, present, and future - to thank for its (and our) ever aspiring to a kinder world and common humanity, all the better for its feminine side looking beyond the Here-and-Now to host such peace and love as all the best dreams are made of, including one called Progress...

T-I-M-E, LIFE FORCES

Seasons come and go, Hope,

nurturing root-leaf-flower of its thought 

in a garden of peace and love

Earth Mother, complementing

time's healing touch in a thousand ways

while its seasons come and go

Nature, human nature, playing host

to all living things, its ghosts left sighing
over every missed heartbeat

Human arts and sciences lending 

a sense of shared responsibility in caring

for a each and every one of us  

Seasons come and go, World asking
of nature-cum-human nature its sacrifices

for a kinder, unprejudiced ethos

As life forms put through their paces,
nature and human nature invariably at odds,

find a woman called Hope regenerating
dream-gardens of peace and love

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013;2020 

[Note: A slightly different version of this poem first appeared on the blog in 2013.] RNT

Getting the Better of Fear OR Stranger than Fiction

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

[Update - April 26th 2020: Many of us suffer from depression at the best of times. The coronavirus pandemic means we are living in the worst of times many people will have had to confront in their lifetimes so far; the toll on mental health worldwide is incalculable. Where many of us will admit to being 'stressed out' those same people often prefer to avoid the term, 'mental illness'; they see its some kind of stigma. Whatever, our mental health is every bit as important as our physical health; both are necessary for our general well-being. 

Regular readers will know how much importance I place on positive thinking, the key to mental and physical health, now more than ever as we fight not only the pandemic itself, but our fears for its potential economic and social consequences worldwide. 

Enter, the human spirit, always on hand to lead us away from negative thinking by substituting a natural optimism ... if we let it. Life is tough for everyone at the moment, especially those struggling with the virus itself or who have already lost loved ones and friends to COVID-19, but also the world population in general; everyone fears the unknown and needs must find their own way of rising above that fear.  For me, it is creative therapy, and I recommend it;; this can be the arts, gardening, physical exercise ... anything we can enjoy, that will lift our spirits, offer the human spirit an opportunity to actively engage with us and  help us to help ourselves and encourage others to do the same.

The human condition is no pushover, not least in its capacity for love; let its nemeses throw what it will at us, we will overcome them if we but engage with its spirit full-on. As I've said on the blogs many times, I'm not a religious person, and it's my belief that religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality, but whatever ... if it works for you, GO for it.

..................................................................................

Now, regular readers will know I have suffered regular bouts of depression all my life. Creative writing is the lifeline that empowers me to drag myself out of it. Okay, so some of it that may not satisfy my critics, but it helps to keep me on an even(ish) keel and feedback suggests that it helps some readers to do the same.

Depression is a form of retreat from reality when we try (and inevitably fail miserably) to run away from aspects of life we prefer not to confront head-on for whatever reason; if we end up confronting anything it is our failure to run away which, of course, only exacerbates the depression.

Depressed people need patience, understanding and help. Sadly, all three are often found wanting in modern society. Indeed, I would go so far as to say there is little more of any now than when I had a severe nervous breakdown way back in the late 1970's.

It is important to remember that depression is an invisible illness; you cannot tell simply from looking at a person that he or she is depressed. If someone you know, though, starts behaving uncharacteristically in any way, please give them the benefit of the doubt and be there for them. Depressed people are often in denial (as I was myself all those years ago) so be supportive even where someone may well reject the idea they are in need of any support. 

I suffered from depression even as a child; being an avid reader saved me from the worst of it. I never thought of reading as creative therapy, but of course it was, just as writing would become in later years.  No one considered that children might get depressed in those days, but thankfully, attitudes have changed, and about time too.

Invariably, it takes time and care for mind, body and spirit to get back into sync, but where there's a will, there really is a way ....

GETTING THE BETTER OF FEAR or STRANGER THAN FICTION

I ran like a frightened rabbit,

a once-friendly darkness all but

choking my lungs;

every exit blocked, no escape,

sentenced to death in the pages

of a novel

Panic-stricken now, desperate

to feast my eyes on one glimpse

of freedom;

finally, surrendering to despair,

I paused, all but ready to see how

my story ends

Suddenly, the faintest memory

of some long-ago spring charged

my ailing heart;

calling upon a half buried will,

I somehow managed to chase it

down the last tunnel

In fresh air and warm sunshine

I found the peace that closes eyes

and lets dreams pass

where, oh, but we would follow,

give reality the slip and be a hero

in someone else’s novel

Yet, the story is mine alone to tell,

second chance at living, promising

a kinder ending;

as for those readers burrowing

dusty bookshelves, may they too

re-invent themselves

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

[Note: This poem first appeared on the blog in 2013 under the title, 'Run, Rabbit,Run'.]

All Dressed Up and Nowhere to Go

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

Who has never been there, all dressed up and nowhere to go, making-believe we’ll have just as  good time staying in on our own, and who’s lonely anyway…?

Too right, it’s not a good place to be. (Most if not all of  us have been or will go there at some time or another in this life.)

So...?  Be positive. Find yourself a kinder place to be, and don't waste time thinking about it. Better, surely, to enter into the process of building self-confidence than pressing self-destruct?  If human relationships are a minefield, the trick is learning to avoid the mines not the relationships. (Did I say it would be easy?)

By the way ...

If there is anyone more boring than a whinger, it has to be a troll; to those well-meaning readers who suggest I promote my poetry on social media, I can only say I left it in the first place because of trolls and have no intention of returning. [I ignore trolls, of course, and some still email me from time to time, but they unimaginative to the point of being boring, and life is too precious to waste being bored.]

https://rogertab.blogspot.com  (General)

https://aspectsofagaymanslifeinverse.blogspot.com/ Gay-interest)

https://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/2016/05/news-updates-fiction.html (Fiction)

ALL DRESSED UP AND NOWHERE TO GO 

Tables in a room, Happy Hour,

forced laughter booming like canon

across no man’s land;

lots of food and drink so let’s not think

about tomorrow, mind

the remains of a Here and Now  

flying past in the wind

Singing along to the radio man

(sure to cheer us up if anyone can?)

while old gods tease us

about the rights and wrongs of strings

we pull on those of us 

left banging on doors, crying to be

let in for pity’s sake

Dreams, footprints left by chairs

across a floor, toys seen better days,

their owners never (quite)

grown out of old inhibitions or found

better ways to spend an evening

than with life fictions sure to cut us

to the quick

There's a whole world out there 

waiting to be discovered, people too,

who need someone to share lives

that haven't measured up to expectation,

thereby stifling earlier aspirations;
Yes, time to get real, and no, it's never

too late ...

Copyright R. N. Taber 1997; rev. 2020

[Note: An earlier version of this poem under the same title 'first appeared in poetry magazines (Community of Poets, 5, 1995 and Reach, 5, 1997) before I included it in  Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2001.] 

Celebrations ringing True, ringing False

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

Sometime next year, hopefully in the spring, a selection of my general and  gay-interest poems will be published by Austin Macauley (London and New York); it is the first time a mixed selection of new and revised poems will be so widely available in bookstores around the world, and I am hoping it will fare well enough to allow for a follow-up volume. Here is no money in poetry, of course, but your support can only help give it a stronger voice in the modern world. I am 72 now, and have been living with prostate cancer for nearly eight years so may well be living on borrowed time. One day, the Grim Reaper will come calling, and I dare say my blogs will eventually descend into some digital Black Hole …

Ah, but still looking on the bright side of life here, and not ready for the G R just yet.

Meanwhile …

Every year for some years now, I have sent gay and gay-friendly straight friends a poem instead of a card as I am not really a Christmassy person and do not subscribe to any religion. Well, Christmas is almost upon us and I would like to take this opportunity to thank you, my readers – whatever colour, creed or sexuality, wherever you are and whether you dip into just one, both. or even all three of my blogs - for letting me into your lives.

CELEBRATIONS RINGING TRUE, RINGING FALSE

Christmas, ringing out loud and clear,

carol singers at the front door

mistletoe and ivy in the living room,

customised fir trees everywhere

dressed up with fairy lights signalling

festive cheer

Christmas, ringing out loud and clear,

children, live portraits of delight

embracing the stuff of winter dreams,

home comforts and joy everywhere,

all dressed up in laughter if only to hide

splitting seams

Christmas, ringing out loud and clear,

mums and dads denying the cost,

refusing to put a price on getting away

from a world in pain everywhere

all dressed up in promises of another day,

another year

Christmas, ringing out loud and clear,

celebrating the birth of a boy

believed by Christians to be the Christ

reaching out to a world in despair

in peace and love superseding any dogma

anywhere

Christmas, ringing out loud and clear,

disturbing the rough sleeper

fearful of waking to cold, snow, hunger,

home comforts but chinks

in curtains wrapping up my brother’s keeper

in make-believe

Copyright R. N. Taber 2018

A Life in the Day of a Couch Potato

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A reader, Helen, has kindly written in to say she and her family enjoy my poetry and she thinks my blogs I deserve more followers. Well, thanks a lot, Helen, encouragement is always welcome. Poetry, though, is not everyone’s cup of tea and I am just happy that the blogs are still going strong after six years via my Google Plus site that links to new and historical posts/poems. I have set the statistics so Google does not count my own views; this gives me a clearer picture of readership. 

Now, today’s little poem was written way back in 1979. Sadly, it strikes me as being even more relevant now than it was then. A neighbour had been complaining to me about retirement, saying how he missed ‘the buzz of real life’ because all there was for the likes of retired people was a second hand existence by courtesy of television and cinema. I suggested keeping up with friends, getting out and about and doing things, going places…pleasures for which we often have little or no time when working full-time and/or bringing up a family…? (Mind you, we need to make time.) He simply shrugged and went indoors to watch an afternoon soap opera.

No, I’m not knocking TV, or the fact that we live in a Digital Age, but now I am retired myself, I enjoy keeping up with friends, getting out and about and doing things, going places…the simple pleasures for which it was often hard making time for when working.

Following a bad fall in summer 2014, I was housebound for months and spent a good year or so learning to walk again. I live alone so TV was a great comfort and companionship (of sorts) in between writing up the blogs, three sessions of (ten) physiotherapy exercises a day and chatting to friends who were kind enough to drop by and help out on a regular basis all the while I could barely walk. I missed getting out and about and do so now as much as I can; even though walking is still quite painful, I have a sturdy oak walking stick, and it is always worth making the effort.

So when I talk to young people rushing home to spend hours on social media, I can’t help feeling they are missing out…

No, I am not knocking on-line social networking, but there can be no substitute for real-life, face to face companionship and banter among friends, not to mention getting out and about in the sunshine…can there? Now I am older (71) and less mobile, it is harder to get out and about and meet people, but (still) always worth making the effort.

Social media. the world wide web, TV...all have a place in our lives, of course they do, but no one's real life balance should be tipped in their favour...surely?

Yes, cyber fun can be good fun, but there's no fun quite like sharing fun in the real-life company of friends, forming and developing interpersonal skills that can teach us as much about ourselves as other people, and will see us though the best part of a lifetime. Oh, and it really isn't a case of you can't teach an old dog new (digital) tricks; this old dog knows a few, and all the better for having learned a good few of the non-digital variety...

A LIFE IN THE DAY OF A COUCH POTATO

Little birds singing on the garden wall

I’ll not write you up;

you’re, too sentimental

for the Age, they say

As one to another you brightly call

I’ll shut the window;

a new soap opera's about

to start on TV  

Bright sunlight distorting everything

Screen-lined faces

like grotesque cartoons

in a Hall of Mirrors

Let's close the curtains, better already

Comfortable now...
with armchair perspectives
on the world

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2017

[Note: This poem has been revised since it first appeared under the title 'To a Sunny Day' in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001.]

Victims

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Domestic abuse can happen anywhere in the world at any time. More often than not family members and/or friends and/or neighbours and/or teachers and/or work colleagues may have suspicions. It is not a subject on which anyone should remain silent for fear of being wrong. Better to be proven wrong than let a wrong continue and say nothing, surely…? 

Domestic abuse is not uncommon in any society; men, women, children, it can happen to anyone. Yet, the same people that will protest about environmental and Human Rights abuses will often remain silent about domestic abuse.  Where is the logic in that and what excuses can there be? Yes, well, plenty of excuses; even love - to its everlasting shame - is one of the masks perpetrators of domestic abuse often wear.

VICTIMS

Brightness falling from the sky

like summer rain, makes flowers grow,

the world shine like rainbow trout

on a school kid's line at a local stream

who should be in the football team,

but his dad's beat him black and blue

where ma's laid out on the kitchen floor,

can't take any more

Brightness falling from the sky

like acid rain, making the trees cry

as leaves die like fishes in the sea,

collector specimens neatly laid out

under glass for generations to see
how dead things appear to suggest

a history of human deprivation for want
of a better education

Shadows, like corpses on the grass;

skylark, a near forgotten sound at a spot

where revelations in the clay suggest

a once-busy stream in a world earmarked

for the winning team, the rest of us

neatly laid out under corporate glass,

(preserved for a new century, a new class)

victims of abuse

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2016

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from an earlier version that appears in 1st eds. of Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

Waves, Metaphor for Life

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Some readers also dip into my fiction blog, and those of you who enjoyed the first part of my fantasy novel, Mamelon, will be pleased to know that I am (just about) on track for completing the second (final) part by the end of this year.  Sorry for the delay, but I am still experiencing difficulty walking (even with a walking stick) after my accident last year. However, I am learning to manage the pain and get out and about. Better news, though, is that hormone therapy continues to keep my prostate cancer at bay. Gotta look on the bright side of life, YES.

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/mamelon-chapter-1.html

Now, regular readers will know I love the sea. For me, it is one of nature’s finest metaphors for life; love, war, peace, spirituality, inspiration, fulfilment, regret…a potpourri of its more splendid aspects while, at the same time, acknowledging the starkness of its reality and the comfort of home grown illusion.

 Photo; from the Internet

 W-A-V-E-S, METAPHORS FOR LIFE

Waves, splashing

against me like a meeting

of old friends…

now showering me with kisses,

now running away…

just as you did towards
the end of our living together,

considered sinners

We'd no more giving

for each other, only the pain
of recalling (in tears)

how once we were - one life,
one love, twin waves

embracing the same shore,

flotsam spread across pebbles

like prayer beads

At every heartbeat,
fragile fingers trembling
at each fastening

and unfastening - of desires
rising, tumbling...

like waves lingering
but briefly at deserted shores,

crumbling sea walls

Left listening out for your calls,
but only seagulls...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2015

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from an earlier version that appears under the title Waves in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.]

Christmas Revisited

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

Now, every year, for many years, I have written a Poem for Christmas that I send to friends instead of a Christmas card.  They are rarely if even conventional Christmas poems, not least because I am not religious person, just like to keep in touch with people and cards are so commercial at a time when this should be the least of our concerns, and many people can’t really afford them anyway. I used to send cards just to keep in touch and let people know I was thinking of them, but nowadays we have e-mail…

Why do I write a Poem for Christmas at all? Well, regular readers will know that, although I am not religious, I like to think I have a strong sense of spirituality. Only, I find it in nature rather than any religion, especially as religions are so divisive. (We should respect different points of view, not attack them.) Born on the winter solstice, I dare say there is an element of pagan in me too.

For many people, their religion is a club, ‘Members Only’; it takes the spirit of religion to reach out to non-members too. Don't get me wrong. I respect religious points of view, simply cannot enter into them.

So here is my Poem for Christmas, 2014. Whoever and wherever you are, and whatever your Belief or non-Belief, it comes to you in the spirit of Love and Peace.

CHRISTMAS REVISITED

Clouds, like baggage

on a tramp’s back trudging the sky;

doom-gloom of winter

threatening to extinguish flames

at a roaring hearth,

humanity's way of creating shades 

of kindness

Ghosts, wistfully engaging

in a pillow fight in remembrance

of a Santa Claus

that betrayed every trust created

to reassure us

with mockery of the cruellest blasts

of winter

Snow, like white feathers

heaping accusations on doorsteps

and at windows

where humankind flirts with blame

long enough be acquitted

by cosy fantasies fuelling conscience

in home fires

Tramp in the sky falters

under a load growing heavier, Apollo

pondering whether or not

to join the pillow fighters, kill off

the best snowmen,

leave Christmas to the complacency

of religion  

Frost on the glass

creating a kaleidoscope of life’s pain

and pleasures, urging us

to dwell on the latter, believe

in happiness in spite

of a sorry world’s worst misgivings

about Christmas

Doom-gloom of winter

ever threatened by the fiercer flames

of a roaring hearth,

humanity's way of creating shades

of kindness to pass on

to the next generation in the spirit

of Christmas

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Looking out for Christmas, Anyone?

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

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]

Real-Life Heroes and Popcorn Soldiers

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I know I have said this before but it never ceases to amaze me how, when terrible clips of deaths and injuries suffered during the war in Afghanistan are shown on TV News, some people - especially children and young people - instead of being appalled, become excited, as if they were watching a war movie!

Oh, but it’s a sad reflection on our times if we cannot get across to everyone how to discriminate between fact and fiction.

REAL-LIFE HEROES AND POPCORN SOLDIERS

Dust, sand and blood

on his boots;

dust, sand and blood

on his uniform;

blood, sweat and tears

on his face;

blood, sweat and tears

in his eyes;

only a quiet heart kept

clean if not safe;

as for more of the same,

bags of them

No dust, sand or blood

on designer shoes;

no dust, sand or blood

on custom tee shirts;

no blood, sweat or tears

in high places;

no blood, sweat or tears

in eyes glued to TV,

only the armchair soldier

biting popcorn bullets;

as for more of the same,

bags of them

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2010

O, Cervantes

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Since the 1970s, pressure of work on the average person has at least doubled; fewer staff and the common misconception by (too many) managers that just about anyone can be replaced by a computer has been a major contributory factor. Only ten years earlier, my teachers at school had been telling us how wonderful the 1980s would be once machines were doing the lion’s share of the work we were paid full-time wages for part-time hours. [Whatever happened to the Golden Age of Leisure we were promised?]

Oh, but show me a windmill!

O, CERVANTES

One commuter rises

at seven, has to run for the train

at eight after ritual peck

on doorstep, and warning the kids

not to be late for school

Arrives for work wearily,

re-sorts any post meticulously,

checks with a secretary

about what’s worth knowing

on the grapevine

Another day done,

breaks for tea well-deserved,

our hero heads home,

packed like a helpless veal calf

on the continental run

Turns a brassy yale

at about half-six most days,

picking at supper

by seven ten, sends screaming kids

to do their homework

Starts to tell the wife

about his own work, and then...

(Damn, the mobile again!)

A smoke, glass of red, some soap TV,

(pity about the ulcer, scary.)

No outstanding bills, and never

a thing about windmills

Copyright R. N. Taber 1999; 2013

[Note: An earlier but only slightly different version of today’s poem was written in 1972; it appeared in Poetry Monthly (1999) that has since closed down and in All in One Day, Poetry Now (Forward Press) 2001 prior to my first major collection,  Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001;]

Fairy Tales Are An Endangered Species

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

Many thanks to those readers who have been in touch to say they are enjoying some of the storylines serialised on my fiction blog. I hope to upload them as e-books later this year or early next:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com

I have even had positive feedback from several straight readers who are enjoying the gay storylines. Wow, that’s nice!

Meanwhile...

Whatever happened to the fairy tale?  On the one hand, an endangered species, while on the other hand ...

Could it be that the metaphor of fairy tale has finally shrugged off its magic cloak for an even darker reality? Oh, for a return to the world of fairy tale and happy-ever-after endings...! [Whatever happened to those?]

Fairy tales are very readable, easy to read and easy on the ear when someone is reading aloud to a child who may need encouragement to read and develop necessary language skills. In addition there is a certain morality about some tales, those of Hans Christian Andersen for example, that can be also read and appreciated as metaphor for the real world by the more discerning adult; The Little Match Girl, The Ugly Duckling ... et al.

FAIRY TALES ARE AN ENDANGERED SPECIES

Forests, a kaleidoscope

of colour, patterns ever changing

even as we look, like pages

in a child’s book bringing fairytales

to life for us

Six swans, six brothers,

winging spring skies, seeking an end

to enchantment but must wait

until their sister, like us, finds a way

to make the change

Knights in armour, wielding

swords that spark a summer sunshine;

rose petals dripping the blood

of rivals challenged and taken to task

for the sake of winning

Snow White in a glass coffin,

no hope of resurrection, the wicked

witch has won? Our turn to woo

the mirror now, autumn skies exposing

a festering of wounds

Dragons, breathing fire

that would kill off the trees to please

property developers who

have no time for fairy tales - or

the likes of us

Latter-day knights, wielding

words that spark a wintry sunshine,

robins dripping the blood

of rivals arguing over the last prize left

to us (a glacier coffin?)

Copyright R. N. Taber  2007

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised/updated from the original as it appears in  Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

Harvesting Imagination

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

Today’s poem is especially for ‘Hanna’ who asked if I have another poem about dementia as she looks after her brother who is in the early stages of Alzheimer’s; they both liked Misty Memories that I posted recently.

About 750,000 people here in the UK have dementia, and this number is expected to double in the next thirty years. I have seen the unbearably sad consequences for both sufferers and their carers. The British Government says it is committed to improving the care and experience of people with dementia and their carers by transforming dementia services to achieve better awareness, early diagnosis and high quality treatment at every stage and in every setting, with a greater focus on local delivery of quality outcomes and local accountability for achieving them. Let us hope so.

Some young people may say it does not affect them, but I know of at least two school children helping to look after a parent who has Alzheimer’s. Besides, we all have to grow old, and who knows…?

I once knew someone with Alzheimer’s who had been an English teacher and always loved poetry. Now and then in the later stages of the disease, she would come out with a very apt line or even a whole verse from a poem she’d once been able to recite by heart. So great an impression had some poems and events made on her that even the darker mists of memory failed to engulf them completely.

This poem is a villanelle, was inspired by people like my late friend and also the author Sir Terry Pratchett; indeed, all families/carers, some whom I have known personally, that have experienced or are experiencing the truly heartbreaking task of watching their loved ones' mental faculties slowly winding down. 

HARVESTING IMAGINATION

Wheels of the mind winding down;
though time play fast and loose with us,
we’ll reap a harvest of imagination

A smile but lost its way in a frown
seeks sanctuary in Cinderella memories,
wheels of the mind winding down

Though dignity wear a faded gown
as it stumbles through a Hall of Mirrors,
we’ll reap a harvest of imagination

A heart that wears love’s crown
keeps beauty in the folds of its favours,
wheels of the mind winding down

Love’s spirit unbowed, unbeaten,
turning the pages of life’s kinder stories,
we’ll reap a harvest of imagination

Among spoils of battles lost and won,
pathways to peace for all benign ghosts;
wheels of the mind winding down,
we’ll reap a harvest of imagination


Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: This poem first appeared in Ygdrasil, an online poetry journal, June 2010, and subsequently in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2010]

Dancer At The Edge Of Time

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

Readers often ask me why I revise poems at all, especially when they have appeared in their original form in various poetry magazines and/or anthologies. I suspect it is because I did not quite manage to say what wanted to say the first time around. Years on, from a distance, I can home in on the poem and knock it into the shape. I may or may not have intended.

Our thoughts, attitudes and emotions are a kaleidoscope of mind-games whose patterns change even while retaining the same custom made model of perception we like to call insight, first cousin to imagination.

Sometimes readers prefer the original version; sometimes, I do as well. Sometimes, too, I look back at a poem and the kaleidoscope turns of its own accord; my focus on certain patterns of perception shifts, insisting the poem shift appropriately. Any resulting revision may be slight or major, but always significant; it does not cancel out the original version of a poem if only because it is an extension of it. Critics will take issue with me, of course, but it is as it is...

The old adage is so true; actions really do speak louder than words and few louder or more effectively than the art of dance.

To what extent, I often wonder, are we our own choreographers...?

This poem is a kenning.

DANCER AT THE EDGE OF TIME

On a custom-built stage,

reaching out to the mind seeking

to reason excuses for its petty

potholes that pass for smouldering

coals of body language

(potential for pretty words)

consigning empty rhetoric

to the earth above graves that rage

at our being misunderstood

Now gentle, meek and mild,

now run wild, this dance of a lifetime

they pay a high price to see

who turn up for a private viewing

expecting to see subtler steps

for Right, Left, (what's wrong?)

be spotted learning something

of what passes for ‘live art’ driving

a hard bargain with us all

Gracefully, gesturing a plea

to be discerned if rarely acknowledged

by an inner eye usually inclined

to be lazy, but given a shake now and then,

by home truths we’d rather ignore;

Dancer takes a bow. Performance over,

task all but ended, art’s love affair

with life staking its existence (and ours)

on daunting, haunting applause

Practising slow, slow, quick, quick, slow

till dead on our feet, me and my shadow

  

Copyright R. N. Taber 2006; 2012

[Note:  an earlier version of this poem appeared in Celebrations; 15 years Of The People’s Poetry, Anchor Books (Forward Press) 2006 and subsequently in Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]

Hollywood Boulevard

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

Many of us dream of fame and fortune, especially when we are feeling low and life is not working out too well for us. Fortunately, most of us have both feet planted firmly in terra firma and begin to mull over the down side of fame and fortune; lack of privacy, petty jealousies and one-upmanship, not forgetting critics who haven’t a creative bone in their bodies yet feel qualified to judge the creative performances of others...

Better by far to settle for the best of things on our side of the proverbial fence. Even so, a little daydreaming does no harm...

Me? I just enjoy writing poetry, as much as a form of creative therapy as an art form. I have been prone to depression since childhood, and it is no coincidence that my first published poem appeared in my school magazine when I was only 11 years-old. Writing, painting, music, gardening...any form of creative therapy that a person enjoys and can keep his or her demons at bay has to be worth the effort...doesn't it?  As for fame and fortune... a welcome by-product, of course, but far less of a priority than any pleasure and personal satisfaction, especially when the shared by others, and making a difference. I don't expect anyone to like everything I write, but I so love it when readers get in touch to say that reading a poem of mine - in either of my poetry blogs, general or gay-interest - has helped motivate them to improving their quality of life.

HOLLYWOOD BOULEVARD

Walked with Fame one afternoon, watery sun
and a misty rain;
man, woman, couldn’t tell - Humphrey Bogart
or Lauren Bacall?
Better than any movie, the suspense
was really getting to me,
and where would I be by the end of the day?
(Good question...)

Strained to hear what my companion
had to say about it, though abysmally scripted;
caught words like fate, jealousy, love, hate,
sounding as trite as Mother’s plastic mac worn
to fend off a heavy summer storm;
only, no storm broke nor did any ghost
call me out, settling for thinly disguised threats
and nagging innuendo

Should I take the bait? Oh, I thought I might,
but - no!
Rather, I quickened my step, widening the gap
between us,
hardly able to see hand in front of face
for tears,
a now glaring sun hastening to dispel mist, rain,
and human anxieties

Copyright R. N. Taber2005; 2009



[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in 1st eds. of A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2005; 2nd ed. in preparation].