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.

Saturday 10 September 2011

Seagulls Over Brighton Pier

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

Given that it has a gay-interest story line, I am thrilled that feedback suggests many gay-friendly straight readers, including some parents, are also enjoying it.

Dog Roses comprises 25 chapters + Epilogue so I hope you will enjoy it through to the end; when a terrible tragedy strikes, Rob, its narrator, for all his flaws,  eventually finds new strengths among family, friends and colleagues, a wiser and better person:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/dog-roses-chapter-one_14.html

Meanwhile...

Today’s poem has not appeared on the blog since 2009 and is another favourite of mine. Regular readers will know that I have been visiting Brighton (East Sussex, UK) for many years, since I was about eight or nine years-old. (Born in 1945, I will be 66 later this year.) Its ghosts are never far away; a dear late partner, mother, cousin and old friends are always happy to keep me company here, there and just about everywhere. In this particular instance, it is the only partner fate has seen fit to allow me, if only for a short while; on Earth, that is, since our love has lasted for the greater part of my life and will endure beyond it.

So where do you meet with your favourite ghosts? [Never shut them out.]

Oh, but I’m being fanciful, did you say? Of course I’m being fanciful. I ask you. What use is a poet without imagination, and what use imagination if it cannot work its magic on anyone? When people tell me they have no imagination, I tell them to get in touch with their feelings (the power source for imagination) and go with the flow...

SEAGULLS OVER BRIGHTON PIER

I met a ghost once on Brighton pier,
greeting me warmly like an old friend,
lightly dismissing my fear;
although its features were blurred,
I recognized a cheeky catch in the voice
and my doubts disappeared

A passer-by wore a queer expression,
shook his head at us, no empathy there
with the poetry of illusion;
an old woman walking with a child
looked nervous and quickened her step;
the child saw us and smiled

Halcyon days rolled determinedly by
like a sure tide taking on Brighton beach
in time’s tearful eye;
I barely felt an embrace, only desire,
and your kisses left my mouth feeling dry,
my whole body on fire

I strained to hear such words of love
making a bonfire of all self-pity and grief,
smoky clouds above
absorbing us into a gull’s cry,
now circling, now swooping, lending us
its wings to fly…

With good grace, let’s soar and share
a lifetime of love as feisty as Brighton pier
in summer, even winter;
no more will halcyon days pass me by
since I know now for sure you’ll stay near
and seagulls don’t lie

[From: On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]




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Tuesday 6 September 2011

Dead Poets Walking

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

There are poems spoken aloud everywhere we look; on the wind, in the trees, among leaves of grass, but especially (for me at any rate) from the sea. The sea has, after all, inspired many writers, especially poets, and even though they may be long dead, whatever inspired them is still available to anyone else who cares to listen...

Today's poem was first published in Poetry Monthly International, February 2009 and subsequently in Ygdrasil, a brilliant on-line poetry journal prior to my latest collection the following year; the latter has since closed down but remains accessible and I recommend a visit to poetry lovers everywhere:

http://www.synapse.net/kgerken/

This poem is a villanelle.

DEAD POETS WALKING

Poets call out hopefully
(we turn a deaf ear)
taking a walk by the sea

Images of suffering we see
and cannot bear;
poets call out hopefully

Demons keeping company,
(anthologies of fear)
taking a walk by the sea

From the world, no apology
for a single tear;
poets call out hopefully

Though gods seek patiently,
none find us here,
taking a walk by the sea

Foaming mouths gobble us
as night draws near;
poets call out hopefully,
taking a walk by the sea

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2017

[Note: The above poem has been significantly revised since appearing in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

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Tuesday 30 August 2011

The Squirrel

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

I don’t have a garden now, but look out on one and love to watch the antics of squirrels and other wildlife. I often wonder what they make of us...???



THE SQUIRREL

The sun, it shone like a torch among shadows
as we walked misty paths, a friend and I,
observed by a grey squirrel scratching its nose
with its paws, curious perhaps about humans
(why male and female on hind legs, baring claws?)

We parried words in that fast dimming twilight,
guided by the anger in each other’s eyes,
observed by the grey squirrel scratching its nose
with its paws, curious perhaps about humans
(why, even come eventide, making so much noise?)

Sun and shadows, they surrendered to a frosty night,
and stars looked down on us with much the same
curiosity as the squirrel, finished scratching its nose
with its paws, given up caring about humans
(now warring, now hugging or taking other liberties)

Now, whenever I see a squirrel scratching its nose,
I wonder…whatever happened to us?

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



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Friday 19 August 2011

Lonely Road

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

A few readers have asked why my visitor count appears to have gone down for my gay-interest blog and up for the general blog. The reason is I have removed the previous counter and inserted the widget for blog page viewing statistics; these only date from May 2010 and will give me a clearer idea of how well I am doing (or not, as the case may be) on a regular basis.

Meanwhile...

I saw my consultant the other day about my prostate cancer. She was very understanding and we have agreed a compromise. I will continue with hormone therapy for another nine months, and then stop for a while. If my PSA level does not shoot up, I will continue the hormone therapy, but if it does I will need to have radiotherapy. Even so, should the latter scenario arise, we can take into account my weak bladder next time so maybe it won’t be so stressful! Fingers crossed that the hormone therapy will keep the cancer at bay.
Meanwhile...

I am delighted that some readers who enjoy my YouTube channel have emailed o say how much they enjoyed my latest attempts at voice-over poems. My close friend Graham and I plan to use the same technique from time to time: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pT-qqOje4vY

[NB If the link doesn’t work, go to my YouTube channel, click on ‘see all’ and look for ‘Engaging with History’ (You may have to register with YouTube): http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber


Meanwhile...

The road through life can be a lonely one. Yet, if so, it’s only what we choose to make of it.

We all have choices. Yes, we may hit bad times through no fault of our own. Even so, whether or not and how far we recover from these is down to us. We can play the blame game as much as we like but, yes, we all have choices.

LONELY ROAD

Cats’ eyes…
penetrating the darkness;
Darkness…
penetrating the soul;
Soul…
penetrating layers of time;
Time…
penetrating all identity;
Identity…
penetrating all pretence;
Pretence…
penetrating our dreams;
Dreams…
penetrating home truths

Home truths, like cat's eyes
on mind-body-spirit ...

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

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Tuesday 16 August 2011

Help! Anyone There? OR Silence, No Ally in Adversity

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

Unemployment takes a heavy toll on all of us; neither does it discriminate, but can strike anyone at any time, no matter our age, ethnicity, creed, sex or sexuality it can make even the most resilient person feel depressed. Depression, in turn, invariably makes us feel alone and misunderstood. No one seems to appreciate the gamut of anger, frustration, guilt, and despair that we run what can seem like every minute of every day. People tell us to cheer up, change the record or whatever. We try, but we can’t. They tell us that tomorrow will be a better day, but it isn’t. Nothing seems to change except for the worse. More and more, we feel alone in the middle of nowhere.

Yes, I have been unemployed in my time, but am now retired so no longer living under that particular Sword of Damocles.

For anyone who (like me) suffers from depression anyway, being unemployed makes the fight against it so much worse.  That is why I write; not to prove anything, to myself or to anyone else, but the very act of invoking imagination to put pen to paper helps keep me on an even keel. (Well, most of the time.)

If anyone is interested in my fiction, they can see what I have come up with on my fiction blog:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/

Any form of creativity beats antidepressants every time, although I confess I still take one daily; art, music, gardening, sport...each to his or her own. Anything has to beat being glued to the TV for more hours a day than can be healthy even if the temptation to do just that can be overwhelming at times.

Meanwhile...

An earlier version of this poem has already appeared on the blogs and is repeated today especially for ‘Axel’, ‘Jonas’, ‘Marc’, ‘Alice’ and ‘Hanna’ who have been in touch fairly recently to express their dismay at being unable to find a job appropriate to their needs and qualifications in their respective countries.

As far as any qualifications are concerned, I would suggest putting them on a back burner and taking whatever you can if only to bring some money in and gain valuable work experience; it doesn’t matter if the work is unrelated to what you want to do eventually as it will demonstrate to employers that you not only take the work ethic seriously but are adaptable, have initiative, and can keep working hours.

Now, we live in times of fiscal uncertainty world-wide. Government cut-backs invariably mean many people are losing their jobs. I consider myself fortunate to be retired, but there was a time I was unemployed in my mid-30s and wondered if I would ever find a way back into mainstream life.

Today’s poem was written in 1997 and first appeared in Visions of the Mind, Spotlight Poets (Forward Press) 1998 under the title Depressed of Erewhon and subsequently in my first major collection; it relates to a period in the early 1980s when I had a serious nervous breakdown and was unemployed for nearly three years. It was a bad time. Yet, I got through it. It was tough. and took a lot of will-power, but somehow I managed it with the support of some good friends; there is no shame in asking for help, but when you are depressed and have low self-esteem, it can take a while (and good friends) to make you realise that.

The reason I wrote the poem was because I had been talking to someone who had been unemployed for a long time, and could see no light at the end of the tunnel. Our conversation took me back to a BAD place. [I am delighted to say that he, too, came through it and has not only been employed for a good ten years now but also saved his marriage of 35+ years.] The poem, though, is about depression, not unemployment. Yes, being in the rat race can make any of us depressed while being out of it can be so much worse. We all need to put safeguards in place, and that includes having someone in whom we can confide even our worst emotions' for me, the latter once included wanting to die.

Rising above depression is an uphill battle, but we can win it if we can only keep a hold on the will to try and the confidence, however fragile, that we will get through it and things really will get better. It is so important to talk to those close to us, let them know the depth of our feelings so they can try and understand and, more importantly, support and encourage us. No one is a mind reader. If we keep a ‘brave face’ on things and bottle it all up, how are they supposed to know how much support we really need? Are they supposed to just put up with our mood swings and not protest? Depression can so easily bring those around us down too, not just ourselves. They need to know we need them in our lives every bit as much as we need to know they need us in theirs.

There’s nothing brave about pretending everything is okay when we're falling apart; it’s just plain stupid. So rally the troops, yeah? And make damn sure you win the war.

Did I say it was easy?

HELP, ANYONE THERE? or SILENCE, NO  ALLY IN ADVERSITY

Needing to talk to someone
(unplugged the phone)

Needing someone to share
(won’t answer the door)

Can get through the days,
but no way out of this maze
of turnings, yearnings,
candle burnings to a devil
that drags me out of bed
and plays Pied Piper in my head
until I join the rat-race

Needing time and space
(none at the office)

Needing a hand, an ear…
(so look, but where?)

Can’t go on like this,
a credit to zombies;
getting by on auto-pilot
even when my partner
turns the light out;
dreams, nightmares, day and night
all rolling into one

Needing badly) to get real
(so take another pill?)

Come on,  try, try, try…
(just wanna die)

Please, Help me, somebody!

Copyright R. N. Taber 1998; 2016


[Note: An earlier version of this poem appeared under the title Depressed of Erewhon  in Love and Human Remains, Assembly Books, 2000 by R. N. (Erewhon, of course, is an anagram of nowhere.) rev. title 2/2018]







































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Saturday 6 August 2011

Answering Leviticus

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

Yesterday was D-Day (Decision Day) for me. My bowels would not co-operate in preparation for a CT scan late morning and subsequent radiotherapy; my bladder isn’t exactly behaving itself either. [I am supposed to clear the bowels and hold my water after drinking three cups of water for a good half an hour prior to a scan; it is the same for radiotherapy.]

I have therefore decided to withdraw from the radiotherapy programme scheduled to start mid-August and take my chances with hormone therapy. [If you keyword 'prostate cancer' in the blog's search field you will find (positive thinking) poems I have written on the subject.

[Update (April 2016): Today’s poem first appeared on the blogs in April 2010. The villanelle was originally repeated especially for ‘Harry’, Kurt’,’ Jean-Paul’ and ‘Anne-Marie’ who had been in touch (separately) to express their anguish at being from Christian families who ‘cannot cope’ with their being gay and/or HIV+. All say their religion is important to them and ask what has their sexuality and/or being HIV+ to do with Faith? Kurt has recently been in touch to say that he is very happy living with his partner, and their respective families have come round to the idea that they are gay. Others readers around the world have experienced similar family estrangement. We can but hope that love and common sense will prevail. Love should be unconditional and the idea that anyone chooses to be gay is pure fantasy' it has to be in the genes or how else so many of us worldwide from all manner of social, cultural and religious backgrounds?]

Now, regular readers will know that I am not a religious person, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect various religious beliefs. Moreover, having been raised in a Christian home, and regularly attended Sunday school as a child, I know my Bible. It is personal experience of the sheer hypocrisy of some religious-minded people (of all faiths) that led me to reject religion and put my trust in nature long before I acknowledged even to myself that I am gay. Yet, each to his or her own, and I would defend anyone’s right to subscribe to any religion against any narrow-minded, ignorant bigot who says gay people forfeit that right because of their sexuality.

I have read this poem on the 4th plinth in Trafalgar Square in 2008 as my contribution to sculptor Antony Gormley's One and Other 'live' sculpture project that ran 24/7 over 2,400 days in the summer of 2009. (Some readers may be interested, but be warned the whole clip lasts an hour.):

https://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223131109/http://www.oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T    [NB: Sept 19, 2019 - The British Library confirmed today that he video is no longer available as it was incompatible with a new IT system, However, it still exists and BL hope to reinstate it and make it available to the public again at some future date.] RNT

Feedback suggests some people have difficulty accessing You Tube so I have also posted that video here: it lasts about two minutes:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrTjc2373IU

[For my other videos - all shot by Graham: https://www.youtube.com/user/rogerNtaber/videos ]


Never let anyone tell you religion and being gay or transsexual are mutually exclusive.

The poem is a villanelle.

Leviticus 18:22
'You shall not lie with a male as one lies with a female; it is an abomination.'

ANSWERING LEVITICUS

Old Testament embodies dread
of a God slow to love, quick to rage;
listen instead to what Jesus said

Life, hanging by a fragile thread
like a half-finished poem on a page;
Old Testament embodies dread

Let blood be on the sinner’s head,
freeing the lion of love from its cage?
Listen instead to what Jesus said

Religious bigots would see us dead
(directing Leviticus to centre-stage);
Old Testament embodies dread

Deplore how same sex lovers tread
on humankind’s God-approved rage?
Listen instead to what Jesus said

Let no child hide under the bed,
nature allow all its poems a full page;
Old Testament embodies dread;
listen instead to what Jesus said

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

[From: On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]


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Tuesday 19 July 2011

Braveheart

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blogs in 2011

Some parents are bullies, even those who genuinely think they have their child’s best interests at heart. Young people should be allowed to follow their own paths in life, not those mapped out for them by parents who see a chance of their own frustrated aspirations being realised in their children. 

‘Bullies’ is no exaggeration. Until children reach an age when they are credited with a mind of their own by certain adults, they are pawns in what is sometimes a very nasty game, unable to establish their own rules of play. (It is not only LGBT boys and girls, men and women who need to break free of certain stereotypes nurtured during formative years.)

Thankfully, many of these young people rebel and assert themselves for the better in later years although it can be tough , and not all parents 'get it'. I’ve heard many a parent complaining about an ‘ungrateful’ child. (Perhaps they should have asked us what we want from life?)

My father was a psychological bully. I was less embarrassed about coming out as gay in my teens as  scared the atmosphere at home whenever he was around would get a lot worse. Consequently, I hide  in the proverbial closet, lonely and scared for much of the time.

I don't believe you should have children so they can be ‘grateful’ to you, but for the pleasure of nurturing them and seeing them grow into their own person, not a carbon copy of a disillusioned or misguided parent.

We don’t ask to be born on the back of our parents' sexual satisfaction and shared ego trip. So why should we be grateful and feel guilty when we resist the kind of emotional blackmail from parents who cry crocodile tears if we don’t fall in with their plans for us?

Good parents don’t have to ask or connive; we willingly give what we can because we love them. Sadly, a significant number only want children because their religion does not take over-population into account and/or  by way of  reserving an ‘insurance’ policy to cushion their old age.

Good parents everywhere - and there are many - deserve a BIG HUG, and more.

BRAVEHEART 

I'd cower in corners of the mind
like a child besieged
by gremlins in an encroaching dark;
captive of human nature,
dragging on chains of well-meant
parental expectations,
sum of their worst felt failures,
haunting limitations

Confronting limitations, I'd call on
the strength of Samson,
if only to risk locks cut to the quick
by a well-meaning ambition
that’s not mine so (can no one see?)
unfit for purpose, better suited
to someone of a different mindset,
anyone else but me

Finally, breaking free! May those
thinking they 'know'
and only ever meant what's 'best'
for me, pause long enough
to reason why (and how) I fought
to be the person I am now,
for needing to make my own (adult)
choices (no one else's)

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2011

[Note: The genesis of this poem appears under the same title  in Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, (January) 2001]

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