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.

Tuesday 15 July 2014

Sunset on a Country Churchyard


Today’s poem is a recent revision of an early piece, written in 1972, first published in Reach (issue 6) poetry magazine in 1997 and subsequently in my first collection.

Whenever I read early poems, I am often prompted to make revisions; sometimes major, sometimes minor, but always significant. Oh, but if only we could look back on our lives and do the same…

SUNSET ON A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

A subtle blush
haunts the sky like a shy ghost
stroking the fair-haggard visage
of a long day’s dying

Owl, flying the killing fields;
confetti, where hearses
passed for wedding cars, answer
to a mother's prayers;
a clapping like bats' wings
for fraternity's sake
in the womb-tomb of our history
at this, my wake;
fireflies, frantically obscuring 
photographs of us, like the tears 
dancing on every eye 

A full moon's up,
Rabbit starts, darts for cover;
Owl knows better (even than us)
how soon it's all over

Copyright R. N. Taber 1997; 2001; 2014

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Book, 2001.]







Labels: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Monday 14 July 2014

Letting Go, a Song of Twilight

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

Regular readers will know that Hampstead Heath is not far from where I live. Read about it at:

http://www.hampsteadheath.net/index.html

- and find some poems under the 'Culture' heading

& .hear one of my Heath poems - the very first one - (On Hampstead Heath) on my YouTube channel:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A1z_NiNpRQw&t=114s

Now, I have often said on my blogs that letting go of the past and moving on does not necessarily mean leaving anyone or anything behind.

In my experience, the moment of letting go and placing it in the time capsule we call Memory is invariably as intense as it is exquisite; intense, because it is so personal and so exquisite for being so highly charged with the bitter-sweet smells and tastes of recollection, the inner eye selecting the best of the best while tactfully (or conveniently) skipping the worst.

This poem is a villanelle.

LETTING GO, A SONG OF TWILIGHT

On Parliament Hill, I let go of a kite
and watched it drift over London
till just a speck of summer twilight

I felt humbled by the glorious sight
as if I were sailing heavens;
on Parliament Hill I let go of a kite

Fair, copycat bird in graceful flight
filled me with awe and inspiration
till just a speck of summer twilight

The faintest star, harbinger of night,
tracking me down Memory Lane,
on Parliament Hill, I let go of a kite

Empathising with passing daylight,
gripped by a sense of hanging on
till just a speck of summer twilight

Putting wrongs aside (if not right),
time enough for celebration...
On Parliament Hill, I let go of a kite
till just a speck of summer twilight

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2014

[Note: A slightly different version of this poem appears under the title 'Letting Go' in 1st eds. of On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]

Labels: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Sunday 13 July 2014

Notes on the Sociology of Imagination


As we grow up, we like to think we embrace the world and its greater wisdom. Yet, we grow old and look at a divided humanity across the world, wondering…whatever happened to wisdom?

Thank goodness for imagination: inspiration, escapism, and the sense of a better, kinder world never entirely out of reach.

NOTES ON THE SOCIOLOGY OF IMAGINATION

Child,
chasing a white rabbit,
relishing the thrill
of discovering places
nobody knows
so nobody goes, and secrets
mean safety

Youth, 
scornful of white rabbits,
relishing the thrill
of reworking everyday
text-speak
if only to nurture new ideas,
keep them safe

Mature,
mindful of a feisty rabbit
relishing the thrill
of discovering places
nobody knows
so nobody goes, and secrets
mean power

Old,
conjuring up reflections,
of Once-upon-a-time,
struggling to make sense
of Here-and-Now,
wondering whatever happened
to its dreams...

Rabbit droppings, proof of life
in a Hall of Mirrors

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014





Labels: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Saturday 12 July 2014

Anatomy of Illusion


It often seems to me that everyday life is all about reading between lines, exposing rhetoric, making choices based on hunches…and hoping for the best.

ANATOMY OF ILLUSION

World keeps turning;
life choices
like everyday heroes
exposing tricks of light
for shadows

World keeps turning;
its worst divisions
hosting jaded heroes
performing tricks of light
among shadows

World keeps turning
open minds,
its comic strip heroes
chasing Job’s comforters
into shadows

World keeps turning;
room at the top
for air brushed heroes
blaming the worst selfies
on shadows

World keeps turning;
Earth Mother
inciting its heroes
to challenge illusions cast
by shadows

Shadows, infiltrating
a world turning
on everyday heroes
tripping the light fantastic
into chaos


Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Labels: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Friday 11 July 2014

Lines on the Extraordinary Nature of Ordinariness


‘I’d love to write poetry, but…how do I find something to write about?’ people often ask.

Well, try looking all around and letting your senses loose on sight and/or hearing and/or smell and/or touch and/or taste...

[e.g. See also: 'Puddles' ]

The chances are the inner self will respond, and that response is called inspiration.

As for a choice of genre into which to channel inspiration, whether it is writing, music, art...just go for what appeals to you most and never be afraid of someone trying to put you down for a poor result (there will always be someone) because there is no such thing as a poor result where someone has put their inner self on the line by creating something. Success is relative, and a bonus; it is finding inspiration and learning to use it as a creative tool that counts. 

My personal experience, as someone who has suffered serious bouts of depression since early childhood, is that making this particular journey is also very therapeutic.

LINES ON THE EXTRAORDINARY NATURE OF ORDINARINESS

Clouds, magic carpet rides
away from it all…

Birdsong, calling to mind
bathtime rituals
for potential divas to woo
an audience, willing captives
of imagination  

Grass, littered with daisies,
sunspots of memory…

Trees, leafy arms signing,
telling us off for things
we’ve done, forgotten, never
meant to happen

A broken fence, urging us to
repair old friendships…

An empty chair, in memory
of someone who’ll never
sit there any more, words in
the air left unsaid

Crisp, clean pillowcases, all
to ourselves…

Watching a damp patch on
the ceiling spread,
fill the eye like a weepy sky
passing judgement

Ordinariness, the extraordinary
nature of poetry...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2014

[Note: This poem has been revised (2014) since its first appearance in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]


Labels: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Sunday 6 July 2014

Artist Unknown OR Smoke and Mirrors


As a child, I was fascinated by a tramp who always sat on the same bench blowing various shaped smoke rings. People would often pause to watch, and then go on their way without even a kind word for the poor man although a flat cap at his feet would fill with a significant number of coins (various denominations, even the occasional note) as the day progressed.  

One day, I asked him why he just sat there blowing smoke rings. "Because I can," he said. But why, a 9 year-old Roger T wanted to know, did people give him money?  "Because they can," he said. Besides, he added with a wry smile, "They either like or don't like what they see, but it makes them feel better, for reasons best kept to themselves, to pay me anyway. I'm a good deed, lad, and nothing beats it when it comes to compensating for ...whatever."

His words meant nothing to me ... then.

 ARTIST UNKNOWN or SMOKE AND MIRRORS


Every day for years…
a tramp sat on a wooden bench
on the edge of town, no party to its life,
of smoke and mirrors

Passers-by were privy
to glimpses of have-a-go heroes
for peace and love, war and hate, chasing
smoke and mirrors

Audiences would gather,
see-feel wrong moves and right,
failures and successes, catching them out
in smoke and mirrors 

Smiles and laughter
(public fronts for private truths)
last seen grabbing at defence mechanisms,
all smoke and mirrors 

Every day for years…
Tramp on Bench, a live sculpture
shaping tell-tale coughs and dragging feet
in Smoke and Mirrors

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

[Note: This poem has since been significantly revised since first appearing in the January-June ed.'of CC & D magazine published by Scars (US) 2014. See http://scars.tv/ccd.htm for the CC &d D web page; the poem's original title was 'The Artist' and I am encouraged that feedback suggests some readers have enjoyed both versions.]

Labels: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Saturday 5 July 2014

Configuring Personal Space

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

A human being is a human being is a human being, whatever his or her race, creed, sex or sexuality. 

Love is a live poem. 

Just as a poem is a poem is a poem whatever its structure or theme, so, too, love is love is love … in whatever shape or form.

Those who rage against the world's lovers on grounds of  race, creed, sex or sexuality, rage against humanity.

I look at various socio-cultural-religious factions dead set on imposing their ideas and ideals on anyone who does not share theirs … and …thank goodness for the enduring power of love, rising above all else. 

‘Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs; Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears.’ - William Shakespeare (Romeo and Juliet)

CONFIGURING PERSONAL SPACE

Today is all we have;
yesterday left long, long, ago
where tomorrow plays host
to a sandman waiting to say,
‘Hello’

Tonight is all we have;
tomorrow left long, long, ago,
and yesterday never was
until love came by and said,
‘Hello’

This life is all we have;
its ghosts left long, long, ago
on fleeting wings of time
inspiring  a sandman’s cheery
‘Hello’

This love is all we have
to be sure, ourselves, to know
in that personal space
forever sounding out its first
‘Hello’

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Labels: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,