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].

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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 July 2020

Rites of Spring

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

This poem first appeared on the blog in 2016.

Since the onset of the Covid-19 coronavirus, many people around the world - both sexes, all ages, especially those living alone  - are now experiencing loneliness for the first time in the lives; the need to self-isolate, social distancing, the loss of loved ones to the virus … all are impacting on our lives to some degree or another. Some of us feel supported by friends, family and neighbours while others are made to feel they do not even have that reassurance and comfort to draw upon. Whatever, we are all having to get used to living in a changed world … and change, itself, can be a tough nut to crack, even for the most resilient among us.

Loneliness is not only a sad condition but can also make a person bitter if he or she is not careful to keep a balanced perspective. We poets write about it, but it’s every lonely person’s private hell and there’s nothing poetic about it all; the poetry comes with hindsight after finding that someone special, often when and where we least expect it.

Thankfully there are many ‘special’ people in this world; those who care enough to lend a helping hand (without being asked) or even just make contact by letter, email or much appreciated phone call where they sense it may well be needed. Far too many people either wait to be approached or take offence because someone hasn’t approached them; invariably, there are reasons behind human behaviour, about which many of us don’t think to ask or even consider before taking offence … and not the least of these reasons can be loneliness, a feeling that too few of us are willing to admit.

How long two lonely people having found each other will stay together may be anyone’s guess, but it’s a sure bet they will enjoy a taste of their own private heaven. Needless to say, the heart, too, has its seasons, of which the most joyful (at any age) has to be spring.

Ah, yes, I remember it well ...

RITES OF SPRING

It was a winter of the heart,
craving spring, hungry for summer,
wondering where they’ve gone,
those sounds of laughter haunting
the ear? Why a pillow by mine
and no one there? I’m walking down
a street and all I see is feet,
protesting about being on their own
too long, falling in with others,
insisting it is where they belong

Seasons passed, cycle of pain
turning me, clockwork clown, going
through the same old motions
of getting by (fixed smile, dry eye);
till one night during Happy Hour,
there you were. For a while we took
comfort in drowning together,
letting our glasses relate the way
life's meant to be, you and me
against the world till... (maybe?)

True to say, in each other’s arms
we agreed to stay a while, no weeds
deceiving passers-by but flowers
bright as daffodils after April showers,
tail of a comet on the Milky Way,
favourite songs played over and over
by a late DJ till everyone’s running
for cover but us, left savouring dreams
to share, richer for richer, no poorer
for chancing our luck then and there

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2020

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

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Sunday 2 April 2017

On the Mend


Regular readers will be aware that I suffered a severe nervous breakdown in 1979. As I began to recover, so I started writing again as much by way of creative therapy as any natural love for the art form. Following an indescribable struggle with mind, body and spirit, I finally regained a sense of ‘normality’ and was fortunate enough to dig myself out of that Black Hole, unemployment, and return to work a few years later. In 2005, I began publishing poems, self-publishing the only option open to me as no literary agents or publishers wanted my gay-interest material and I refused to leave it out.

This poem (a villanelle) has been significantly revised since I published in 2005, itself a (lesser) revision of a (handwritten) version written during the 1990’s. Not one of my better poems, perhaps, although its place in the history of my poetry of no small significance. 

For years now, I have been striving to (a) reach out to readers, (b) share an inner learning curve, and (c) reconcile form and content in my poetry in a way that does some justice to its art form; it has been a long journey, and not over yet. To critics who suggest I should not poet poems until I and they are ‘ready’ I can only say that, having sowed various seeds, I am never quite clear how they might grow until they flower; sometimes they remain but seeds or may sprout shoots that refuse to flower or may flower in ways that are true to a picture on the seed packet.

One way or another, we have to take responsibility for ourselves; playing the blame game never got anybody anywhere hast unless it’s a Black Hole like the one I crawled out of years ago into a self-awareness that insisted I stop playing Jack-in-a Box about being gay and learned to take responsibility for and a pride in a better, kinder self than any which life experience had all but succeeded in moulding me into hitherto.

I’m 71 now, and still learning…

ON THE MEND

We broke the pot,
(Earth Mother cried)
up to us to mend it…

Birthdays forgot,
(the old beggar died)
we broke the pot

Loyalty split,
(so our ‘Betters’ lied?)
up to us to mend it

Peace, it could not
get the better of pride;
we broke the pot

To each our lot;
though humanity divide,
up to us to mend it

Marking the spot
where hope all but died;
we broke the pot,
up to us to mend it…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2017

[Note: An earlier version of this poem first appeared under the title 'Picking Up the Pieces' in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

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