Shades of Comic Genius

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

[Update Nov 2, 2018: A reader wrote in to say I 'clearly have no idea about the physical issues that come with growing old.' Well, I will be 73 soon, have been living with prostate cancer for nearly eight years and have arthritis in both my neck and a leg injured in a bad fall in 2014 when I fractured my ankle and spent months learning to walk again. Yes, old age can be a nightmare, but - whatever our age and whatever we are up against - it's all about the human spirit...isn't it?] RNT

Growing old can bring all manner of health and other problems. Yet, most of us feel little different
within ourselves than we did as we passed through various stages of youth and middle age although (hopefully) more than a shade wiser.

Every now and then, it feels GOOD to defy the outward signs of age and let the inner self let its hair down…

Never let anyone tell you that old age is nothing but a killing field.

SHADES OF COMIC GENIUS
(For old[er] people everywhere)

We stripped naked under a leafy sky,
saw our bodies turn to gold,
for a while forgot about growing old

Rediscovering youth’s feisty passion,
we surfed its glorious tide,
put aches, pains and home truths aside

A balmy breeze gave us its blessing
and songbirds sang an amen
while halcyon days revisited us again

Though years pass and take their toll,
the spirit of adventure remains
to seize the day, throw off its chains

If love is the greatest adventure of all,
sex is but half the story,
a shared empathy, its power and glory

We dressed quickly, nature applauding
bodies frayed at the seams
acknowledging its comedy of dreams

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

A Strictly Private Viewing

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

Today’s poem has not appeared on the blog since 2009. It first appeared in a Forward Press anthology, Poetry Rivals, 2009: Lyrical Winds and subsequently in my collection.

Now, dreams are often seen as an intrusion into our personal space, but personal space comprises conscious and unconscious thought. I see dreams as affording us a strictly private viewing of it, taking in all those parts that comprise the whole; reality, illusion, ego, home truths, denial, wishful thinking...etc. etc.

How we interpret dreams and may or may not let them influence us for better or worse...well, that's called choice.

A STRICTLY PRIVATE VIEWING

Cartoon faces moving across my sky

like a home movie;

I close tired eyes to push them away

but they haunt my mind;

happy faces, sad faces, tearful faces,

lips mouthing my name;

familiar, faintly familiar, some skeletal

expressions breaking out

Past, present, wishful thinking signals

to the brain to shut down

but they have logged on, not ready yet

to turn me off;

lies, half lies, bad errors of judgement

like some grotesque mob

up for rough justice for want of answers

I don’t have, never did;

monstrous accusations and insinuations

fall like bird droppings

on a statue’s public profile, frozen in time,

trapped in its own failings

I hear a distant cry, an echo of centuries

in pain, anger and grief

for all private lives and a personal space

relegated to speculation

new faces, clear signals, warning off

Conspirators to Nightmare,

put expressions of defeat to rout, deleted

like redundant icons on a screen;

benign spirits enough to grace a totem pole

take control, cast out

demons let slip past a kinder humanity

by an unforgiving hierarchy

Eyes open, eyes shut, sky relaying
to pillow the faces of love;

we sleep, we awaken to direct and star

in our own reality peep-show
for as long as it takes to log off from it all,
wondering if we might yet get
to carry on in a loved one's dream-poems
in remembrance of times past

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

'[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'A Penny to See the Peep-Show' in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

Suburban Hero OR The Good Neighbour

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

Today's poem has not appeared on this blog before. I have nothing to add, but will let it speak for itself.

However, I would say to the reader who kindly says he enjoys many of my poems but thinks my collections would sell better and that I'd probably acquire a higher media profile within the arts media if I 'scrapped the gay poetry altogether...' Well, yes, you may well have a point. [Do I care?]

The reason I insist on publishing both general and gay-interest poems is because there is far more to anyone than how their gender or sexuality meets the eye, especially the judgemental eye. Yours truly,  for one, gets fed up with the level of such short sightedness in societies worldwide.

It is not only gay people who are victims of HIV-AIDS, of course; another reason for posting this poem on both poetry blogs. 

SUBURBAN HERO or THE GOOD NEIGHBOUR

He was just an ordinary man, living
an ordinary life on an ordinary street,
and whenever we chanced to meet
he would always make time for a chat,
ask me (for example) did I know that
Mrs T at number ten had been ill again
with lumbago, old J at number five
caught a bug in hospital and was damn
lucky to be alive?

He was such an ordinary man, living
such an ordinary life on such a street
as you might expect to find anywhere
if you care to look beyond dull fronts
of ordinary houses, could be forgiven
for thinking no worse fate (surely?)
than this spending one’s days in such
predictable ways, the stuff of suburban
myth for centuries

He was such an ordinary man, died
only a few years ago in a road accident;
no complicated will, only a pre-paid
funeral insurance, a few items to friends
and the house to an HIV-AIDS charity
that found everyone confiding how they
had suspected he was ‘one of those’
but …immaterial, and the whole street
turned out for the funeral

Such an ordinary man, nothing special,
simply a nice, neighbourly homosexual

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

An Affinity with the Life Force of Dead Leaves

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

A new poem today for autumn, and falling leaves everywhere (not confined to autumn) in a very blustery wind.

We all feel low sometimes. Only yesterday, I found myself relating to a dead leaf in the street, heading for a drain; a depressing experience until I reminded myself that it was not the end of the last leaf in the whole world; others would follow in an endless cycle of life and death where dying is not so much the beginning of the end but a way of leaving space for new beginnings.

An old man who lived on the street where I was born and lived until I was 14 years-old told me once that I should never fear death but think of it as a life-force. He was not a religious person so I thought his 80-something years must have taken their toll or perhaps it was just wishful thinking. (He died only weeks later.) It has taken me more than half a century to understand what he meant.

AN AFFINITY WITH THE LIFE FORCE OF DEAD LEAVES

I drifted lonely as a leaf

left to fare as it may in a wintry breeze,

perhaps (who knows?) missing

its parent tree and multiple siblings,

playing host to feathered friends

as long as their seasons last, world

a happier place for a kinder nature’s

wistful take on it

Who can ever say (for sure)

a leaf cannot think, feel, experience

the ebb and flow of life

in ways only Earth Mother knows

who gives, takes away,

and gives back again when the time

comes to renew her vows to humanity

at each spring blessing?

I watched a leaf sucked

into a drain, lost forever among sewage

beyond salvaging (who knows?)

as I feel myself sucked into a vortex

scaremongers call Old Age

where the hope is, we’ll be saved,  

lovingly pressed collectables between

pages of living memory

Did it feel rejected, my leaf,

for being left to rot in a dark sewer

where all the world’s garbage

flows into its seas, as likely to kill off 

countless life forms as the shrewd

property developer felling trees

or an old poet infecting imagination

with its worst fears?

Back home, a glossy magazine,

repudiating my distress as bold as brass

with the latest fashion pics,

celeb gossip, ideas to impress the boss,

tips on keeping old age at bay;

in the garden, leaves faring better, 

with the potential to give news editors

a good run for their money

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

A Poet's Shrewsbury

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

A poetry reading in 2007 took me to Shrewsbury where I engaged with a lovely audience in a local bookshop. I did not get around to including my poem in a collection until this year and have to say I feel more than a shade self-conscious about posting a poem of mine alongside mention of such a fine poet as Wilfred Owen.

Wilfred Owen (1883-1918)

Owen, a homosexual (the word ‘gay’ was not used in this context in those days) is probably one of the best known of the World War 1 poets. His name appears on the Great War Memorial tablet inside Shrewsbury Abbey.

Photo: Shrewsbury Abbey

‘Symmetry’ in the grounds of the abbey is sculpture, by Paul de Monchaux commissioned by the Wilfred Owen Association (Owen went to school in Shrewsbury) to commemorate the poet’s life and work; it was unveiled in June 1993. The line "I am the enemy you killed" engraved on one side is from Owen’s poem, ‘Strange Meeting’ The design is meant to convey the symmetries in Owen’s poem as well as the trenches of 1917 and the Sambre-Oise canal in 1918.

Photo: ‘Symmetry’

On 4th November 1918, the British 32nd Division crossed the Sambre-Oise canal at Ors, in the face of strong opposition. Wilfred Owen was killed on the towpath on this side of the canal about one kilometre to the north of the bridge.

Photo: Western Front Association plaque for Wilfred Owen by the Sambre Canal, Ors, France. 

Regarding my poem, I should mention that Laura's Tower is a folly built on the summit of Shrewsbury Castle motte around 1790 by Thomas Telford for Laura, the daughter of Sir William Pulteney, as a summerhouse. It is of an octagonal design in red sandstone with conical copper roof. The river Severn flows by

…Photo: Laura’s Tower

Mount House, birthplace of Charles Darwin

A POET'S SHREWSBURY

Follow the market trader’s cry

across old Shrewsbury town

where the fickle Severn flows by

Discern in history’s cloudy eye

scenes of Parliament v Crown;

follow the market trader’s cry

At Laura’s tower, dare lift high

the hem of Nature’s gown

where the fickle Severn flows by

Swans over the English Bridge fly

with dive-bombing precision,

follow the market trader’s cry

See sunset’s flames lick at the sky

as if the grand abbey burning down

where the fickle Severn flows by

Ponder a war poet casting the die,

Darwin giving heaven cause to frown;

follow the market trader’s cry

where the fickle Severn flows by

[Shrewsbury, August 2007]

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

A Passion for Trees

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

Today's poem has not appeared on the blog since 2008 and has been  especially requested by ‘Jack and Louise’ for ‘[our] son Michael and his partner Jonathan.’

So the  poem talks of gay love…so what? Love is love is love just as a poem is a poem is a poem and - most importantly of all - a person is a person is a person. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.

Oh, but the tales a tree can tell...if we but care to listen!

The famous opening lines of ‘Trees’ by American writer, Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918) s may well spring to mind:

‘I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree...’

Photo: An ash tree.

A PASSION FOR TREES

There’s a tree in a field

that sings me a love song

every time I’m sitting

where it rises from the ground;

listen, and you’ll hear

the lyric of a love song hanging

on a dream lost and found

By a tree in a field

we wrote our first love song,

bodies entwining

as we lay there on the ground,

sharing with the birds

such joy, such passion, hanging

on a dream lost and found

There’s a tree in a field

that watched us kiss and part,

not daring to believe

as we lay there on the ground

how gay love might

survive a world left but hanging

on dreams lost and found

To a tree in a field

we returned to write a love song,

bodies entwining

as we lay there on the ground,

sharing with the birds

such joy, such passion, a waking

dream lost and found

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

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

Dunster, Marking Time

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

I have written many ‘place’ poems; places I have visited and with which I have fallen in love. Always hopeless at taking photographs, I try to absorb my surroundings and later compose a poem to reflect them.

Now, I love Somerset so was delighted when reader ‘Kathy’ in New Zealand got in touch recently to say how thrilled she was to come across my poem Dunster, Marking Time on the blog as she was born there. It appears her family migrated to New Zealand in the 1970s. Since I have not posted the poem since 2008 it is good to know that some readers enjoy browsing the archives.

The poem first appeared on the BBC Somerset site which is worth exploring and will also take you to my poem on another picturesque village, Watchet, closely associated with Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s famous poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/somerset/content/articles/2008/06/04/dunster_poem_feature.shtml

For good measure, I am also posting Classic Somerset inspired by R. D. Blackmore’s classic novel Lorna Doone; the poem appears in my latest collection Tracking the Torchbearer.

As well as being a very beautiful part of the UK, Somerset is also steeped in history and some of you may care to look it up on Wikipedia:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Somerset

DUNSTER, MARKING TIME

Come clouds of steam or sea mist,

its castle ghosts watch over

Dunster village, shore and forest

Yarn market shell among the best,

(hear buyers and sellers barter)

come clouds of steam or sea mist

Where Benedictines have blessed

history’s customary makeover;

Dunster, village, shore and forest

At a water mill its days have kissed,

engage with past and future,

come clouds of steam or sea mist

Where packhorses once crossed

and nuns offered up a prayer;

Dunster village, shore and forest

Where Doomesday stories persist,

along the Avill river…

come clouds of steam or sea mist,

Dunster village, shore and forest

[Dunster, Somerset, May 2008]

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

 Photo: 17th century Yarn Market, Dunster

 CLASSIC SOMERSET

Doone valley, classic fiction

for holiday images

conjuring true inspiration

Come any with a predilection

for turning nature’s pages;

Doone valley, classic fiction

At Badgworthy Water, listen

out for Carver’s rages

conjuring true inspiration

At Earth Mother’s invitation,

share a Love of Ages;

Doone valley, classic fiction

Celebration of Lorna and John

(birds singing their praises)

conjuring true inspiration

Cream teas teasing imagination

to revisit R. D’s pages;

Doone valley, classic fiction

conjuring true inspiration

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

  Photo: This bridge marks the boundary between Somerset and Devon in Doone Valley.

 [Please Note: My poetry collections are only on sale in the UK but anyone can order (signed) copies from me at a generous blogger discount. For details, contact rogertab@aol.com with ‘Blog reader’ or Poetry collection’ in the subject field.]