Mind-Body-Spirit, Mentor to the Arts

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

[ Update: Oct 4th 2017]: We fail to do the arts justice if we persist in seeing each genre as a separate entity. Yes, they are, but they also overlap. A poet, for example, writes with a musician’s ear for rhythm and an artists’ eye for imagery as well as, not infrequently, an actor’s feel for role-playing and a comedian’s penchant for wry humour.

Readers should not be surprised, therefore, that I also write fiction:

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

Now, this poem is a kenning; it last appeared on the blog in 2010 and was included in Forward Press Regionals 2010: South and S.W. of England; it  does not appear in any of my collections. and I am unlikely to produce a hoped-for 8th volume owing to various health concerns. (No worries there folks, am still looking on the bright side of life!)

MIND-BODY-SPIRIT, MENTOR TO THE ARTS

I haunt live theatre,

prefer to leave as soon as the show is over,

curtain barely down,

rather than play the showman for critics

anxious to praise or bury me

as the case maybe in this glossy mag

or that local rag, anything

to be seen earning a living, even

by feeding a gossip column

I haunt live farce

and, no, I’m not that feisty voice on radio

spilling the beans…

about this politician’s gaff or some cleric

caught out in an act of hypocrisy

sure to rock the hierarchy on its haunches,

its spin doctors in a flap for sure,

doing rounds of the rich calling in favours

on grounds it’s for the poor

I haunt music venues,

willing every tenor, alto, bass, and dancer

to make good its integrity

rather than play lapdog to the impresario

who set it all up;

you’ll find me between the notes of a song,

stanzas of a poem, dialogue in a play,

lines of sculpture in marble, bronze or clay,

ground of any painting on display

I am Inspiration, inciting mind-body-spirit

to make an art form of creative therapy

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

Logging On To Life

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

Readers ‘Soraya and Magnus’ have asked me to repeat today’s poem as it is their wedding anniversary today and because 'among all the poems in your collection, this is the one we love most.'  It first appeared in a Forward Press (now Forward Poetry) anthology, My Words Are My Voice in 2009 and subsequently on the blog as well as in my collection the following year.

Here’s wishing Soraya and Magnus a very Happy Anniversary, and many thanks for getting in touch. Apart from the fact that I love hearing from readers, this ageing poet is always grateful for any encouragement that comes his way.  [Well, aren’t we all?]

Now, some cruel twist of fate may cause us to lose some of our senses, even most, but never all. For there is one, not mentioned in the poem by name, but will be inferred by the discerning reader, that will always see us through; it is the human spirit whose resilience, sensibility and passion should never be underestimated.  Oh, and yes, it can and often does make a difference.

LOGGING ON TO LIFE

We look, yes, but how to make sense

of a world turning, no matter what or who,

and how to make a difference?

We hear, yes, but how to make sense

of gobbledegook, no matter what or who,

and how to make a difference?

We smell, yes, but how to make sense

of much doctored scents turning the air blue,

and how to make a difference?

We taste, yes, but how to make sense

of the additives and preservatives hullabaloo,

and how to make a difference?

We touch, yes, but how to make sense

of sticky stuff on a knife bent on killing you,

and how to make a difference?

We can but do our best to make sense

of a world turning, no matter what or who,

and try to make a difference

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

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

Profile of a Hotshot

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

For a minority of young people, being in a gang is exciting, even glamorous; a life of crime, even violence, brings them local street cred. For some, too, it provides a sense of belonging that, for various reasons, may be lacking at home; invariably, they discover soon enough how seriously flawed this simplistic perspective can be, paying for their mistakes with prison or worse...

There is no excuse for gang crime. A prevailing irony and tragedy lies in the fact that, given an opportunity, most gang members have a positive contribution to make in the very society that condemns them.

There are two sides to every divide and both need to find a way to be reconciled. Society needs to ask itself where it is failing some young people to drive them into a gang culture; what does a gang offer them that it cannot, and why can’t it?

For their part, gang members need to ask themselves what they really want from life and make a bigger effort to find it; they certainly won’t find it by using weapons, shooting drugs or compensating for their own fears by terrorising others. The chances are the false security of being part of a gang, and the price they must pay for exercising their contempt for society's better values, will come back to haunt them in its prisons, those universities of crime that major in the art of self-delusion.

Meanwhile, the majority of decent young people remain under threat of being stereotyped by a mindless minority.

  

PROFILE OF A HOTSHOT

We called ourselves the Hotshots,

my gang and me

Upholding the right to use a gun,

in our constitution

We’d pick fights on street corners

and raid stores

If some little old lady or a war vet

in the way…too bad

We were the Hotshots, graduated

from school to streets

No one could touch us because we

had youth on our side

Looks, girls, designer gear and guns

made us invincible

We even hit prime time News once

(fame at last)

Then a hotshot turned good citizen

and grassed us up

Disbanded now, gone to this prison

or that graveyard

Me, once Mr Fox, now chickenfeed

among old lags

We were the Hotshots, thought guns

were cool

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

Lost For Words

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

[Update (Oct 2016): Regular readers will know that writing (fiction as well as poetry, but especially the latter,  began as more of a creative therapy than an art form for me. Having been subject to bouts of depression since childhood, writing (and reading) have provided an escape from the harsher aspects of reality while, at the same time, helping to keep its demons at bay. These days, it also distracts me from mobility problems due to a bad fall in 2014 and living with prostate cancer (since 2011) not to mention the usual problems that growing old is inclined to spring on us at short notice. 

Yes, life could be better and I did not anticipate growing old without a partner (I am 70+ now)  but I have some good friends, my writing, my blogs, you,  my readers, and plenty to keep me looking on the bright side of life...]

Now, readers who have been following my fiction blog keep asking if Dog Roses and/or Like There’s No Tomorrow are available in print form or as e-books; the answer is, no.  I had been hoping to upload both as e-books eventually, but ...

Although my fiction blog has not taken off as well as the poetry blogs, it is very gratifying that they are being read at all - especially by so many of you - as neither literary agents nor publishers showed any interest in my  gay-interest fiction; eventually, I gave up on them but continued to enjoy writing both gay and general novels you will find in the blog. I would not have missed that experience for the world. 

Looking for inspiration? Just take a look around you; in nature and human nature, the world is a writer's oyster.

  

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/2011/07/dog-roses-chapter-one.html (A gay rights-of-passage novel)

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/2011/10/like-theres-no-tomorrow-synopsis_3445.html (Not a gay novel, but about a woman who hasn’t given up finding out what happened to  her daughter who disappeared some 20+ years ago)

U.K. readers also want to know  why they cannot order Catching Up With Murder, my black comedy-crime novel (with more than a hint of gay interest, but not a gay novel as such) from (most) bookstores; this is because the publishers (Raider International) do not work with the UK Book Suppliers from whom book stores obtain copies.]

For anyone interested, info about my fiction is available at:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2016/05/news-updates-fiction.html

Meanwhile...

If you enjoy writing in any genre and despair of having writer’s block, you are not alone. I, for one, know the feeling only too well! All I can say is stay positive and stick at it; published or not, creative therapy (in any form) is the best if not only answer to any flagging mind-body-spirit.

LOST FOR WORDS

Watching clouds,

not a face to be seen,

nor rain sounds

like a tambourine

or falling leaves,

more than hinting at grief

for fair Persephone

gone to ground,

though the wind above

lends an ear too,

no stranger to the cries

for a lost love

to old gods above,

but no one left to hear

except the remains

of a humanity caught

with its pants down

The reality, nothing

any different, everything

much the same

Swan on the lake,

pile of whitest down

(no regal robes

or kingdom’s crown);

lark, a mere bird,

drops in long grass

(no ripples across

a green sea or tinkling

of breaking glass);

cars on the highway,

once Caterpillar

at a fair…undercover,

simile and metaphor,

not a good word even

for a heaven where

gain v loss break even

Well of imagination

misted over like breath

on a mirror

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008; 2010; 2016

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appeared on the blog, but was inadvertently deleted; also in  The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.]

Ode To A Mermaid

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

As regular readers know, I ‘do whimsical’ sometimes. I began writing this poem on the cliffs at Scarborough in 2007, and then forgot about it, only to rediscover it in an old notebook a year or so later. AS a child, I loved The Little Mermaid, a story by the Danish author Hans Christian Andersen. I suspect I have never quite grown up as fairy tales and their allegorical significance continue to haunt my personal space... in the nicest possible way.

Did I hear a mermaid singing? Oh, probably not, but...

ODE TO A MERMAID

I once hit a beach at the cliff edge of night,

not a single star left shining,

my soul, a Black Hole, no glimmer of light,

(even the moon was in hiding)

I cried out in terror. (Did no one hear me?)

The whole world lay sleeping;

heavy eyes stinging with spray from the sea,

I heard a mermaid singing

Despairingly, I scoured that awful darkness

till I made out a shadowy figure

dancing on the water like a pagan goddess

grieving our past, present, future…

Listening to the song she sung, of a history

in which I, too, played a part,

it struck a low, half-forgotten chord in me

not yet (quite) played out

Louder, a hymn to the world’s damaged souls

rang in my ears, on my tongue,

calling on its strengths, inspiring new goals,

(of these, too, the mermaid sung)

She left suddenly, as if frightened by the dawn,

its first weepy light already clearing,

in whose sight I’ll walk tall, never (quite) alone

for the song of a mermaid singing

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

Photo: The Little Mermaid on a rock overlooking Copenhagen harbour as inspired by the famous fairytale by Hans Christian Andersen.

The Gatekeeper's Song

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

While we are all sitting on fences, tearing them down or maybe even trying to mend some, I wonder what The Gatekeeper thinks about it all...?

THE GATEKEEPER’S SONG

They turned their backs on me

or was it I who ran away…?

Memory, it so likes to play tricks

on us, rather than let us see

what really takes place in corners

of the heart we rarely seek out,

for fearing what we may find

in holiday snapshots and behind

words in letters read in anger,

birthday cards left unsent, never

recognising the danger of years

passing so quickly till we’ve only

such poor excuses and regret

as conscience cares to permit shine

in darkest corners of the mind

where, yes, we’d so return a while,

have love take us that last mile

where stubborn feet still refuse to go

though heart and soul never left,

and would set us free, let us see all

the heart deserves to know

No, not free from nature's finer ties

(never that) but, rather, set out

in tablets of stone, supposedly less

likely to break than any we shape

in a clay that may please human eyes

for moment in time, but hardens

(not as we imagined) to a perspective

on dark corners where sometimes

pain seeks solace, yet finding none

in unused icons of human hearts

left but to gather dust like old photos

Better, surely, to air home truths

(even after years of running away)

if only to deny the world its pleasure

in exposing us along tired lines

of letting live but to die another day,

no matter where any blame let lie

nor we (or they) be straight or gay?

Time to open the gate before it’s too late

to live to love another day…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010, 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010; slightly but significantly revised, 2019.]

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]