Ode to Apollo, Profile of a Life Force

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

I have just uploaded the second of three Stourhead videos/poems to You Tube, shot by my close friend Graham Collet and for which I wrote Ode To Apollo (see poem below). 

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Regular readers of my poetry will know that I have a strong affinity with Apollo, the sun god of Greek mythology, not least because he was reputed to be bisexual. The old gods are the stuff of mythology and legend now, but have we not replaced them with little tin gods of our own which, incidentally, have far less gravitas?

The Temple of Apollo at Stourhead stands high on a hill overlooking the gardens; it was built in 1765 by Henry Hoare as his finishing touch to the famous landscape garden. Renovation work was begun by the National Trust in 2009 before which the Trust spent months gathering historic paintings, family records, accounts, letters and visitors' diaries to find out how the monument would have originally appeared. 

The temple at Stourhead was designed by Henry Flitcroft and influenced by an engraving of a circular temple at Baalbec, an ancient Syrian city now part of the Lebanon, and the Temple of the Sun at Kew Gardens, which was destroyed in a gale during 1916. A favourite spot for romance, it was used as the location for a rain-drenched dramatic exchange between Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet in the 2005 remake of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice starring Keira Knightley and Matthew Macfadyen. Timber from the Stourhead estate was used to form the structure of the new dome which has been covered in sheets of lead to keep it watertight. The walls inside the temple have been re-plastered and gilded plasterwork based on a description in a letter written in 1801 by Reverend Warner, the Rector of Stourton.

Rev Warner's letter states: "The roof of the Temple spreads into a dome and has a double ceiling; in the lower is the aperture, and in the coving of the other, a splendid gilt representation of the Solar Rays, which, receiving the real light of this orb by an artful construction, throws into the Temple below a most splendid reflection when the sun is in its strength."

Well worth a visit on a sunny day.

ODE TO APOLLO, PROFILE OF A LIFE FORCE

Hear old gods mocking us

behind passing clouds

as a defeated foe well might

for observing its enemies

counting the ever rising costs
of victory

Only Apollo (still) brokers

an enduring peace

without taking sides or even

an ulterior motive

besides a voyeur’s delight

in human behaviour

Where the world rides out

its storms over land,

sea and air, find fair Apollo

behind the scenes

busy negotiating its survival,

albeit conditional

Where time wings past us

at a tangent,

see Apollo rein in his chariot

just long enough

to shine hope in our faces,

the rest up to us

For every bitter-sweet smile,

a bitter-sweet tear

at Apollo’s call to nature

and human nature

for nurture, reconciliation,

and regeneration

Meanwhile, all life presses on

with the act of Being;

the Here-and-Now engaging

with us for better,

for worse, ugly or beautiful,

old gods or new

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

 

P-E-A-C-E, Sounds of Silence

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The world is always turning, yet how little it has changed in real terms (i.e. those that really count) since its creation...

Recent reminders of war and fierce resistance to dictatorship in various parts of the world and hate crime on our very own doorsteps brought this poem to mind.

When will they ever learn? Oh, when will we (all) ever learn?

This poem is a villanelle.

  

P-E-A-C-E,  SOUNDS OF SILENCE 

Oh, for the sound of silence
as only heard in dreams
where no one wins or loses,
but common sense rules
on a reality check where grief

ceases firing its guns

in a deaf-blind rage against
a mind-body-spirit
down but never out if slower
to take heart

No escape from loneliness

on wings of a bird...

but in the sound of silence

before applause bursts

upon the grand Theatre of Life

for our playing a part

rather than sitting in the stalls

letting better actors

than ourselves be accomplices

to illusion

Where poverty, hunger,  pain,

crying out to be free,

find in loving one another

no small relief 

from the failings of any senses

put on hold for want

of meaning, purpose and faith

in ourselves, 

bring light to the darkness angels 

fear to tread

Oh, to let fall a safety curtain
on worldly sounds
distracting mind-body-spirit
from finding peace,
as a child chasing a butterfly
might well be
by the shouts of peers apparently
enjoying more rewards
than in a seemingly futile pursuit
of quiet wings

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Towards Enlightenment' in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.]

Testing Times OR A World of Differences

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Losing a loved one is hard enough, but losing someone in an accident or with such suddenness that we have no time even to say goodbye has to be about as hard as it gets…

This poem was written some time ago, but in the light of the recent air tragedy in Ukraine our hearts go out to the families and friends of the victims on board flight MH17, apparently shot down by a surface-to-air missile while crossing a war zone. Our hearts go out, too, to those killed during the recent Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

I am left wondering just what kind of sick world we are living in, and is there really the socio-cultural-religious-political will among its leaders to nurse it back to health?  I guess we can but play our part in our own little corner, and trust the ripples spread...

Different people from different cultures, religions and social backgrounds will always have their differences; we should always remember that our differences do not make us different, only human and, as such, part of a common humanity.

When, oh, when, will humankind discover that peace lies in accepting that our differences do not make us so different, only human?

TESTING TIMES or A WORLD OF DIFFERENCES

You left this world

without a word, no time

to say goodbye

You left my world

cold and dark, its comforts

bitter-sweet

You left this world

before your time, its tears

making headlines

You left my world

your body, mind and spirit

to keep it sane

You left this world

its anger and grief, playing

blame games

You left my world

on the wings of a heartbeat

forever ours

We gave this world

the benefit of our worst doubts

in return for…this?

Testing times, indeed

for lovers in a world subject

to the vagaries of time

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Rites of Passage or Overkill?

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Life, death, it’s an eternal balancing act...for nature as well as for humankind.

It's down to us to maintain a reasonable life balance, but the rise in obesity among children as well as adults in western societies suggests we should, well....think again.

Let's not underestimate the power of the natural world either in compensating - in part, at least - for its own darker forces, of which humankind happens to be the worst. We may like to think we do as reasonable a job of compensating for its as well as our own way of life, but could it not be that climate change and endangering (if not eliminating) various species is a memo from Earth Mother, to each and every one of us, to...think again?

I am reminded a something a teacher told the class on my very last day at school. "Education is a learning curve. Try to leap before you have learnt, and you'll soon find yourself in deep shit." Everyone laughed but, of course, it is no laughing matter.

RITES OF PASSAGE OR OVERKILL?

On the crest of waves like surfers poised to head
for home in a swirl of raging sea

Nature re-birthing us, milk at the breast, feeding
the best traditions of human spirit

Dark forces, expecting Everyman to take a fall
against all evidence to the contrary

Everyman going it alone on a lion’s back asking
humanity to find it in itself to follow

Survival, greeting applause (hearts and minds)
if only for a sublime moment in time

History, inclined to lose its footing and leave it up

to the arts to restore a balance off sorts

Humankind, surfing a primeval wisdom, drafting
and redrafting pacts with its nemeses

Copyright R. N. Taber 2003; 2017

[Note: An earlier version of this poem first appeared under the title 'Balancing Act' in an anthology, Watch the Dawn, Poetry Now (Forward Press) 2003 and subsequently in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.] 

Eyeless in Gaza (Revisited)

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Today’s poem as written five years ago; tragically, little or nothing has changed unless for the worse.

Surely, it is high time leaders on both sides looked to their consciences instead of their politics and worked together for a peaceful solution to this sick war?

Playing the blame game will only cost more lives. 

This poem is a villanelle.  

EYELESS IN GAZA (REVISITED) 

Blind carnage in Gaza

(world calling for a ceasefire)

a crime against nature

Child calls for its mother

(dead before she can get there)

blind carnage in Gaza

Each side blaming the other

(but who pays the dogs of war?)

a crime against nature

Dispute dragging on forever

Its roots in geography and culture;

blind carnage in Gaza

Ordinary people fear

the rest of the world doesn’t care;

a crime against nature

Diplomacy holds the answer

(were politics but see its way clear);

blind carnage in Gaza,

a crime against nature

[London, January 8^th 2009]

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

[From: On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010; rev. ed. in e-format in preparation.]

Sunset on a Country Churchyard

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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.]

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.]

Notes on the Sociology of Imagination

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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

Anatomy of Illusion

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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

Lines on the Extraordinary Nature of Ordinariness

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‘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]

Artist Unknown OR Smoke and Mirrors

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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.]

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