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.

Wednesday 27 March 2013

In Harm's Way

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

Some readers have commented on my profile photo that was taken by a friend, Christopher King who is also a professional photographer. He also took the b/w photo it replaces. I was delighted with both, especially as I am not very photogenic. You can find more about Chris at:


Meanwhile...

We all have a force for love on the inside looking out for us. Whether or not we pay it much attention, it records everything we do, good or bad, for better or worse. Moreover, it is a permanent archive, available for reference by anyone who may be interested in searching for more than just proof that we ever existed…among the lower as well as higher profiles in history’s much doctored pages.

This poem is a kenning.

IN HARMS WAY

I fly where eagles dare,
tread where hungry lions feed;
among all my enemies,
it’s of short sightedness I most
have cause to be afraid,
that legacy living histories
designed to weaken
if not the bring down the pillars
of its communities

I swim with dolphins
to lead humankind to safe shores,
away from sharks
sniffing for blood in deceptively
still waters,
befriending those beguiled
by a killing tide’s moon
or having taken on high noon
without back-up

I run with hares from foxes,
if less likely to mistake the fortitude
of tortoises for folly
than the less perceptive human being
is inclined to perceive poverty
for weakness or taking pleasure
in those simpler pursuits
cash can’t buy (nor ever will)
as throwing the race

I am that vulnerable mind-body-spirit
shaped by life, seduced by art

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

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Sunday 24 March 2013

Whatever Happened to (Good) Neighbours?

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

This poem has not appeared on the blog since 2008. I feel the sentiment if not the poem deserves an airing. I am so lucky, living alone as I do, to have a small, but reliable network of friends who would soon realise if anything was seriously wrong.

Now, we may like to think we are looking out for family, friends and neighbours, but it is so easy to be caught up in other events, issues, whatever...and forget to look. New technology and modern medicines mean that many areas of the world have an elderly population that is growing all the time. We need to look out for our older neighbours, and never assume someone else will. Yes, there is a risk we'll be sent away with a flea in the ear although most people would welcome  anyone taking the time to care. Besides, what's a flea in the ear compared to a guilty conscience...?

I have to say, I don't expect a 'good turnout' at my own funeral when the time comes, but the poem is not about me... 😀

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO (GOOD) NEIGHBOURS?

There are muddy hand prints on a gate
that groans as it swings in the wind;
footprints on a path lead to broken steps
rising to a weepy front door pleading
to be opened, local kids making mischief
by hitting its push button bell, run away
down back a maze of back alleyways sure
to ring with their hoots of laughter for years, 
and bring tears to old eyes

The old house is haunted, neighbours say
since the gruesome discovery made
of an old woman who lay dead in her bed
for more than a year, no one to shed
a tear or so much as notice her gone from
the daily round of laundry, shopping, 
weeding the garden, trimming the hedge
minding her own business like a ghost,
less inclined to socialise than most perhaps 
nor exactly ostracised for this, though hardly
a neighbourly thing to do

Oh, but the neighbours having a field day,
gossiping about the grimy windows,
not to mention the net curtains, and a garden
that's a disgrace to the whole community,
weeds grown tall and spreading, everybody
asking whatever's got into the old girl?
High time (surely?) somebody looked into
what's what there, but no one (heaven forbid)
wanting to appear a busybody

Problem solved when a relative chanced to call,
and a good turnout at the funeral

Copyright R N Taber 2007, rev.2019 

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'A Crying Shame' in Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

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Saturday 23 March 2013

Birdsong

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

One of my poems begins with the line, ‘I care not for the world as it is now…’.I never said or wrote a truer word. But living in the world is one thing, how we get on with our lives is something else.

We can but try and make our private world a better, kinder, happier place, while hoping some of it will rub off on at least some of those with far more say in world affairs than us so that the world, too, may become a better, kinder, happier place.

Yes, well, wishful thinking perhaps ...

BIRDSONG

Once a bird flew to my window sill
and sung its song for me,
spreading peace, love, and goodwill
as far as the inner eye can see;
over hills, forests, deserts, far away
to lands where little can grow,
and people going hungry every day
while others prefer not to know

As I listened to the bird on my sill,
its song touched my heart
with such peace, love and goodwill
(it saw through me from the start.)
What can we do for the world as it is?
(little enough, it’s true)
but if a bird can prick our consciences,
there has to be more we can do

I watched the bird fly up and away
on wings of that song I’ll hear
as I take in the world News every day
in the comfort of my armchair…
What can I do for the world as it is?
(little enough, it’s true)
but if a bird can prick its conscience,
there’s hope yet for me and you

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

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Monday 18 March 2013

Making sense of Numbers

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

Before I retired, I was a librarian working in public libraries here in the UK. It has been a source of great concern to me in recent years that a growing of children and young people asking for help in finding material for homework projects had such poor literacy and numeracy skills. For some adults too, of course, that may not have had the benefit of much formal education, these skills same remain underdeveloped.

It has always seemed to me that numeracy is somehow seen as the poor relation to literacy even though a grasp of number is every bit as important as a grasp of letters.

 â€˜Karl’ and ‘Brett’ once wrote in to tell me how getting help to improve their numeracy skills ‘by leaps and bounds’ had considerably boosted their self-confidence. Karl says ‘Numbers were like a foreign language. I could not make any sense of them.  I was made to feel I was in a minority and was too ashamed to ask for help. I got paranoid and it felt like there was some sort of conspiracy against people like me. I didn’t realise so many people have the same problem. Now I can even work out rail and bus timetables. Before finding a really good (home) teacher I was clueless about the 2400 hours clock.’

Believe me Karl, 2400 hours timetables confuse a LOT of people.

This poem is a villanelle.

MAKING SENSE OF NUMBERS

It can feel like a conspiracy,
(the world an enemy)
this nightmare, innumeracy

Out shopping, and invariably
spending too much money;
it can feel like a conspiracy

Debts spiraling relentlessly
(affront to integrity)
this nightmare, innumeracy

I look at my friends and envy
their budgeting effortlessly;
it can feel like a conspiracy

I once confessed ashamedly
to life turning sour on me,
this nightmare, innumeracy

I found support and sympathy
and help for others like me;
it can feel like a conspiracy,
this nightmare, innumeracy

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

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Thursday 14 March 2013

The Last Long Hauler Out Of E-Bay

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

Some people like to hedge their bets regarding what if anything they might face once they have ‘shuffled off this mortal coil’. (That’s straight out of Hamlet, of course. Good ole Shakespeare. Sounds so much better better than just being dead, doesn’t it?)

Me? Well, I was never much of a gambler so I guess I’ll just have to take my chances with nature…

THE LAST LONG HAULER OUT OF E-BAY

Bid for a ticket,
now halfway to (Heaven?)
angels rushing by - no
less anxious than I to see
the end of the line

Looking down, I see
people on hands and knees
in poverty and pain - far
more anxious than I to see
if God’s at home

Looking out, I feel
a devil’s breath on my face,
smell incense burning
like a pot-pourri of roses
and grow anxious

Bid for a ticket,
now halfway to (Heaven?);
angels rushing past - no
less anxious than I to make up
for lost time

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

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Wednesday 13 March 2013

Past-Present-Future, Rescue Strategy OR Living With Ghosts

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

Time itself heals nothing. Gradually, though, happy memories become even more precious, help sustain us in our loss, encourage and inspire us to get on with our lives.

There is no feeling more inspiring than love, in all its forms. Sadly, for every human spirit emanating love, there is a global consciousness that has missed out on some if not all of it.

PAST-PRESENT-FUTURE, RESCUE STRATEGY or LIVING WITH GHOSTS 

I glimpsed a ghost
in spring leaves,
a fragile thing, flickering
with loss and pain
till joy, its brighter light.
bursts through - winter, woods
 alive again

I glimpsed a ghost
in summer leaves
a bold thing, enjoying
no finer freedom
than hope, a brighter light
bursting through - greenwoods
strong again

I glimpsed a ghost
in autumn leaves,
such a pretty thing, high
on colourful passions
like home fires acting out
lmuch like the mummers of old 
in a play

I glimpsed a ghost
in winter snow,
a sad thing, its sorrow
shining through…
Yet love, a brighter light,
acting the Guardian, watching
over our graves

Copyright R N Taber 2007, 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Accomplices To Illusion, by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]

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Tuesday 12 March 2013

Fail-Safe For Mortality

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

What is life all about? How should I know? But a passion for nature reassures me it’s part of a bigger picture than even the inner eye can see…

Whatever our culture, religion, sex or sexuality, who can embrace nature and not sense its lending us a feeling for life that is part of its patchwork of history that includes all humankind? An undeserving inclusion, I often think, seeing how we are inclined to treat the natural world as if we own it, and are entitled to rape and pillage landscapes to which no written poem can do justice because they are poems in their own right,

FAIL-SAFE FOR MORTALITY

Where the sun clips the wing of a blackbird,
there I’m heading;
where a spring breeze sings in swan’s down,
there I’m coming from

Where summer rainbows kiss autumn leaves,
there I’m heading;
where April showers give birth to its daffodils,
there I’m coming from

Where autumn leaves make music to die for,
there I’m heading;
where laughter and love take their holidays,
there I’m coming from

Where the snowmen dance to a robin’s tune,
there I’m heading;
where old gods pass new myths off as history,
there I’m coming from

Where a spring breeze sings in swan’s down,
there I’m heading;
Where the sun clips the wing of a blackbird,
there I’m coming from


Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

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Monday 11 March 2013

Blur

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

While waiting for a cataract operation on my right eye, I began to consider a deeper significance of the blur in front of me everywhere I went. [I am pleased to report that the procedure went well on March 1st and I can already see better although my vision in that eye remains a little watery.)


Now, why write a poem instead of an essay or a novel? Why paint a picture rather than create a sculpture? Why compose a symphony and not a ballad?  Could it be that the inner eye strives to focus on what can never quite come into focus because it does not exist, but remains a haunting presence needing to find ways to make itself felt if not known…?


BLUR


Everything is a blur;

I can scarcely see the way ahead...
Yet, I have only to look up
to spot friendly faces in clouds,
hanging from Earth’s ancient rafters
like celebration bunting

Everything is a blur;

I can scarcely see the way ahead...
Yet, I have only to look down
to spot familiar tracks in wet grass
leading to places I love whose smell
fills me with spring

Everything is a blur;

I am left peering into a misty rain...
Yet, I have only to let birdsong
into mind-body-spirit to negotiate
safe passage with nature’s finer forces
to Mount Parnassus

Senses, conscience, reasoning…

Blur is everything

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013



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Wednesday 6 March 2013

A Mythology of Leaves

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

Regular readers will know I have a passion for nature; its trees, history, and mythology...

A MYTHOLOGY OF LEAVES

As the wind rustles leaves across earth and sky
and the moon feels its way among clouds,
hear voices of old gods telling loud and strong
of a time when they sat, oh, so proudly,
on the crest of Olympus considering the ways
of Earth’s children, found us wanting

It is Earth Mother who replies, loud and strong,
reminding them where they went wrong,
trying to manipulate humankind at their whim
like pieces on a chessboard instead
of allowing for its foibles and letting its peoples
win or lose their own battles

To the tawny owl, she calls, as it hunts its prey
and to the rabbit, trying to run away…
To the rough sleeper on the streets of a city
where few will act upon their pity
but watch and wait, playing the blame game
(old gods, in all but name)

As the wind rustles leaves across earth and sky
and the moon feels its way to dawn,
hear voices of old gods calling loud and strong
on a time long, long, gone…
while Earth Mother can but consider the ways
of a new generation, find us wanting

Come day, hear Earth Mother confide in Apollo
how humanity’s poetry rings, oh, so hollow


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





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Monday 4 March 2013

Where Did all the Baby Otters Go ?

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

We take nature too much for granted. If we are not careful, by the time we wake up to the beauty of a natural world on our doorsteps, its beauty may well be but a distant memory for any survivors of a dying planet.


Although hunted less than in the past because their fur isn’t the money maker it used to be, pollution and global warming remain huge threats to otters... as it does to all of us.


WHERE DID ALL THE BABY OTTERS GO?

Once, a stream that ran down a mountain,
through this gutted forest, that daisy field,
joined sewage spilling without correction
over banks where once baby otters played

Humankind, it challenged the mountain,
would feed also at Earth Mother's breast,
but the life-giving milk turned to poison
till only the mountain survived all the rest

The snows of the mountain slowly melted,
flooding forests, fields, humankind. beast;
Everyman, eventually, compelled to admit
its share of the blame, neither all nor least

Copyright R N Taber 2005, 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]








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