Pictures in an Exhibition

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A reader from Switzerland has emailed me to ask - as people often do - why a poet writes fiction. Well, there is poetry of a kind in fiction too. I needed to try my hand at writing novels, partly because I knew I would enjoy it (as I did) and partly because i suspected it would bring me closer to an understanding of human nature...as it has; as, indeed, do all the arts, each in their own way. Take fiction; it is not all about plot, but creating characters, good and bad. The writer needs to explore the various interrelationships of mind, body and spirit. Hopefully, this has also made me a better poet... but that, of course, is up to you, my readers, to decide.

Most of my novels - published and unpublished - remain in serial form on my fiction blog. Each serial is preceded by a separate synopsis post. It wa my original intention that as each complete novel  would be published to Google Play in e-format and removed from the blog. but a number of readers have emailed to say they cannot access Google Play. For this reason, I will be publishing my gay-interest crime novel 'Blasphemy' to the blog again while continuing to make it available on Google Play. All my novels on the blog are listed at:

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

It seemed a good idea to publish today's poem here (see below) at the same time as answering a number of queries about publishing my novels (and poetry collections) as e-books to Google Play over the next few years, thereby, making those that have only ever been on sale in the UK available to readers worldwide. UK sales were not too discouraging; first (and only) print runs sold quite well. Even so, I am definitely more of a poet than a novelist, although I enjoy writing fiction, and sheer enjoyment has to be as good a motivation as any.  [Few publishers have shown much interest in my fiction and not all those serialised on the blog have been published in print form; copyright to each, though, remains exclusively mine.]

A librarian in public libraries most of my working life, it would both amuse and sadden me to see hot-blooded heterosexual readers hovering  near the counter until no one else was waiting before presenting any gay-interest items (a novel,  DVD, biography of a gay icon etc.) to be issued or discharged. Many libraries have now installed issue/discharge machines that will spare them any such embarrassment. Yet, why be embarrassed?  Imagination is an Open House. I can only put it down to human nature’s preoccupation with a ‘guilt by association’ ethos and habitual inclination to jump to conclusions.

I wrote this poem while thinking about writing my first novel, ‘Dog Roses; a Gay Man’s Rites of Passage.’ The book was never published except on the blog. No publishers were interested, but that did not matter. By the time I had finished writing it, I realised why I had so needed to write it in the first place. Putting aside aspirations of fame and fortune (just as well) I needed to stop thinking about exploring human nature through fiction as with poetry, and just get on with it, give it my best shot. I have no regrets; it provided no less as rewarding an experience as poetry but via different routes and from different angles. (As for so much as a hint of talent, well, that’s something else altogether…and up to you to form your own opinions.)

I used to regret not being able to paint, draw, compose or play music... until it came home to me how all the arts share a common source; the writer, composer, painter, whatever. needs must get as close to human nature as any gardener or farmer to the very soil we feed and which, in turn, feeds us. How far the analogy can be carried, of course, depend as much on the nature of the soil or genre as that of any of us reaping its rewards; reader, listener, observer, all have no less a part to play than whomsoever's hands planting whatsoever seeds.

This poem is a villanelle.

PICTURES IN AN EXHIBITION

Exploring the human condition,

its good, bad and ugly

life forces stranger than fiction

Any flaws demanding attention,

(for all a subtle simplicity)

exploring the human condition

Nature, its greater contribution

side-lined by humanity;

life forces stranger than fiction

Exposed, a common retribution

(reasoning a moral propriety)

exploring the human condition

Satirised, a political observation

of this life’s tragicomedy;

life forces stranger than fiction

Society, pictures in an exhibition

for whomsoever cares to see;

exploring the human condition,

life forces stranger than fiction

Copyright R. N. Taber 1997; 2016

Tides of the Heart

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Love can be as fickle as it is desirable, while sometime misinterpreted as fickle when simply unable to reach a decision for one reason or another.

Could it be that many of the world’s lovers (LGBT included) need to talk to each other more…? Even love can be guilty of taking too much for granted…

Whatever, can any of life’s challenges be tougher than faced by the long distance swimmer on tides of the human heart…?

TIDES OF THE HEART

Sat on a beach,

watching the waves

roll in, out,

and back again…

like love’s promises

to me

Just out of reach,

waiting for your love

to roll in, out,

and back again…

like the finest poetry

and prose

Winging, calling

to you among sea birds,

now high, now low,

nature’s wry comment

on humanity’s tides

of life

Alone on a beach,

its beachcombing hearts

on the look-out

for any such as ours,

among love’s flotsam

and jetsam

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2016

[Note: An earlier version of this poem first appeared under the title 'Secrets, Ebb and Flow' in an anthology, As Waves Pass By, Poetry Now (Forward Press) 2002, and subsequently in my own collection, First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

Art, a Measure of Home Truths

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An art teacher at my old school once told the class that we should not only learn how to look at art but how also to feel it. That was a good half century or so ago, but I am grateful for the tip to this day.

When we look at a painting, for example, it is obvious what we are looking at; less obvious is what lies behind the painting, how the painter saw his subject through inner eye and various absorbed impressions. The artist’s choice of colours and their shades, the force of certain brushstrokes, all are clues to what he or she is saying not only about his or her subject but  also about themselves.

The best art forms are not only delightful on the eye (or ear) but also draw us into them and thereby into ourselves. In this way, many art works survive centuries and a posthumous consciousness remains available to be tapped into by the discerning art lover who may not even be an expert, simply open to ‘live’ impressions. When we look at a work of art, we inevitably if subconsciously, look into ourselves ... and what do we see?

The Ancient Greeks, of course, produced one of the earliest well-developed examples of gay art. Going their own way from other ancient cultures, the Greeks considered free adult male sexual attraction to be both normal and natural. Gay people  like me were spared tortuous closet years imposed on us by public/cultural opinion; it is one of many modern tragedies that it remains the case for far too many of us worldwide.

ART, A MEASURE OF HOME TRUTHS

Studying me, it’s likely
that far more
than all you see will touch
mind, body and spirit,
sufficiently firing imagination
to give inspiration
a voice for home truths
ghosting paths of times past
and present…

Observing me closely, find
the inner eye
homing in on brush strokes,
the lighter here
and heavier there, colours
chosen for warmth
or cold, and touches of light;
dark, dreamy twilight,
moody gloom…

Seeing is not always (quite)
believing that creativity needs
an audience;
desires one, yes, if only to share
impressions of mind,
body and spirit laid bare
in such a way
as to make a presence felt
that would out

Art, a psycho-creative presence
redefining subject and audience

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016

Spirit Lake

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You can hear me read this poem over the You Tube video. However, several readers who cannot access You Tube on their own computers for some reason and have seen the video on someone else’s have asked me to reinstate it on the blog.  (See video below). Many thanks, by the way, for their kind comments regarding my blogs.

The original You Tube video is available at:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RUShMVosnFs

OR access my You Tube channel and search by title:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

The lake at Stourhead (NB ‘Spirit Lake’ is simply the title I have given to the poem that I read here and video footage) is artificially created. Following a path around the lake is meant to evoke a journey similar to that of Aeneas's descent in to the underworld; passages telling of Aeneas's journey are quoted in the temples surrounding the lake.

Read more about Stourhead on Wikipedia:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stourhead

The video is one of three shot by my close friend Graham Collett, and I wrote the poem especially for the occasion. We hope you will enjoy both.

This poem is a villanelle:

SPIRIT LAKE

World of peace and tranquility
(looking out for its own); 
Earth Mother’s greater legacy

Time playing games with history
(myth into maturity grown);
world of peace and tranquility

Dreamland lake in all its serenity
(solitude, yet not alone);
Earth Mother’s greater legacy

The very best of prose and poetry
(open minds freely shown); 
world of peace and tranquility

Watch ripples pausing at eternity
(life force unknown)
Earth Mother’s greater legacy

Each heart, wing, flower and tree
(life arts, ever windblown);
world of peace and tranquility,
Earth Mother’s greater legacy

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Getting Under the Skin

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We all need something or someone at some time in our lives, but asking for help is not always easy; sometimes, pride gets in the way or we may well be at such a low ebb that we cannot get the words out.

There is no shame in asking for help; the first step is acknowledging to ourselves that we need it while the next (sometimes the hardest) is finding someone we know well and can trust to listen without judging us or simply telling us what they would do in our situation. I, for on, always avoid giving advice but will always offer various options and alternatives tailored to my knowledge of the person. Where the listener can offer practical help that is always, of course, as good a place to start as any.

Failing at the second step is invariably down to the inability of many if not most people to use their knowledge of a person to be able to offer constructive advice. We are individuals, all different; telling someone what we would do in their situation is rarely much help.

The listener is the greater source of inspiration because any advice forthcoming will be based on what he or she has heard; heard us out, encouraging us now and then by all means, but not interrupting or prompting along lines we think the other person is trying to say,

Need is not always obvious; too often, it is left to fester simply because there are none so deaf as will not hear. Where the listeners of this world are a rare breed, the friend who listens is a friend indeed.

This poem is a kenning.

GETTING UNDER THE SKIN 

I haunt the human spirit

as an alley cat might its territory,

fight off every challenge

until grown weary with battles,

ready to admit defeat,

yet without (quite) conceding

surrender of the kind

that sheds dignity like a second skin

for caving in to despair

I worry the human mind

as a dog might a flock of sheep

that knows no better,

simply goes with basic instinct,

chancing life and limb

to the farmer that will shoot

on sight, worth the risk,

beats gnawing away at an old bone

just because it’s there

I taunt the human heart

where expectation often misled

by parental satisfaction,

peer-led competition, egged on

by target-centred education…

chalices passed from generation

to generation, mistakes

coursing its veins like a slow poison

too often left untreated

Call me poor, inarticulate Need;

on life’s leftovers, I feed …

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016

Mind-Body-Spirit, Garden of Remembrance

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Today, our thoughts fly to the victims of the recent devastating earthquake in Italy; the living and the dead.

Nature, as we have seen, is constantly reminding us that humankind, for all its progress through the ages, remains vulnerable. (As if we need reminding!) No less vulnerable, the human spirit, but also an indomitable life force.

Now, memories are no compensation for reality. Nothing and no one can compensate for the loss of a loved one; family member, lover or close friend. Even so, it has been my personal experience that memories can keep good times as fresh in our minds as when we first shared them, and in so doing any tears - in time -become more like spring rain than some relentless wintry storm.

Such is the power of love that that it will inspire the human spirit for generations to weather any storm, repair close-knit communities damaged by events beyond their control, and most importantly, concede love the victory over grief. Speaking up about it invariably helps, although words can never quite express what mind-body-spirit are telling us all the time.

This poem is a villanelle.

MIND-BODY-SPIRIT, GARDEN OF REMEMBRANCE,

In thoughts so near, so far away,

inspiration visits old Memory Lane,

love’s fairest flowers here to stay

Whether or not we choose to pray,

love will survive us time and again

in thoughts so near, so far away

Deep sleep, no guiding light of day

nor dark, only kisses like spring rain,

love’s fairest flowers here to stay

Come despair keeping life at bay,

cue for human love to take the strain

in thoughts so near, so far away

Where a body quits worldly affray,

good hearts repeating its finer refrain;

love’s fairest flowers here to stay

Though life bury us in colours grey,

trust human goodness ever to remain;

in thoughts so near, so far away,

love’s fairest flowers here to stay

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016

Ghosts, a Prepaid Ticket to Ride

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Readers often ask if I am on Facebook or Twitter. No, I am not, but if anyone is interested in a regular (or occasional) email exchange or is ever in London and would like to meet up for a chat over a drink, coffee, meal (or all three) feel free to get in touch: - rogertab@aol.com

Meanwhile...

Someone once accused me of lying and told me I would pay dearly for it when I die, as I would for any other sins. Well, I am not a religious person, but I was raised a Christian and am not unfamiliar with the Holy Bible. It has always struck me that Jesus of Nazareth spoke a lot of good sense. When a woman was about to be stoned, he is reported in the Gospels as saying, ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’

If sin embraces lies and other forms of deceit, wrongdoing, selfishness, bigotry and hypocrisy - to name just a few of the worse human traits - I dare say most if not all of us have sinned in one way or another. Some sins can be explained if not excused; others are inexplicable and inexcusable.

So what obscure life force is it within us that makes us sin, sometimes against our better judgement?  Whatever, we can rely on conscience to see we are not let off the hook.

I believe we make our own ‘heaven’ and our own ‘hell.’ To what extent depends on what we do - or don’t do - to deserve either or both. So when, as mythology would have it, the Ferryman comes to row us across the Styx, I see no reason why we should pay a penny more than we have spent a lifetime paying…one way or another.

Someone else once told me that Conscience is our salvation, not Belief, seeing to it that any bad in us pays;  it is the spirit of any good in us that the Ferryman lands on the shores of infinity. (Maybe that is why the poet in me sees and listens to ghosts, all of whom appear to mean well?)

As a child, I loved mythology. Once, I asked my mother how much the ferryman might charge for  rowing me across the Styx, and would he expect a tip? She laughed and commented that we had already paid with our lives, no need for either. 

Would it be a scary journey, I wanted to know? She hesitated only briefly, "Not if you've always been a good boy," she said. "And if not sometimes?" I asked. She shrugged, "Well, it always helps to be in credit, but no one is all bad, and I dare say God is no more above making allowances than the rest of us." 

"I'm not sure I believe in God," I confessed. She was visibly shocked, but as reassuring as ever. "Everyone is different.  Whatever happens when we die, that is taken into account as well. So don't you worry about dying, especially when there's a whole life out there just waiting to be lived. Now, how about an ice-cream...? End of a conversation I barely understood at the ripe old age of 10 years ...but well recall the best part of a lifetime later.

GHOSTS, A PREPAID TICKET TO RIDE

A time must come when we shall die,
and what last steps do we take?
Do we pray or simply weep a goodbye
to all we’ve loved for life’s sake?

Will death us, a kinder ‘God’ restore,
peace of mind, innocence of a child,
or see us writhe in pain at a closed door,
pay the price for being of this world?

What is repentance, what does it prove
but sheer desperation to be rescued
from an eternity denied the spirit of love,
free fall in a well of all lies reviewed?

If life, it play fair at death’s home shore,
why pay the ferryman a penny more?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2016

[Note: This poem has been revised (2016) since first appearing under the title 'Service Charge Included' in The Sound of Silence, TA-TI Edizone (Italy, 2005) and A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005; a revised version of my collection - in e-format - is in preparation.]