Showing posts with label art. Show all posts
Showing posts with label art. Show all posts

Friday, 29 March 2024

Regret, Companion to the Fool


Roger, 1945-2023. A note from his friend Graham

 

Welcome from the ‘Essex Riviera’ at night. Thank you for reading.

Job, a minor contributing author to Bible canon, suggests that ‘wisdom comes with age’. Although I’m fairly sure that accumulating years merely confers experience and wrinkles. It’s rather retrospection that informs better choices.

Roger always promoted the idea of agreeing to differ. Even where diametrically opposing opinions clash. It’s the difference between a feisty debate or a blazing row. It is the discipline of healthy discourse, rather than viewing an opposing opinion through the distortion of ad hominem. In a wider sphere, it’s the difference between coexistence and war.

It is an uncomfortable truth that, as with most friendships, Roger and I had our occasional arguments. Even to the extent of hitching up petticoat tails and flouncing away in high dudgeon! Looking back, especially now that he’s passed away, I regret those occasions. They evoke a sense of self-recrimination, and rightfully become somehow absurd under the shadow of mortality. Most of our arguments occurred in the early days of our friendship. Predominantly over my awful timekeeping. I was in my early 30s and so blasé about punctuality. It annoyed him intensely - and rightly so. Mea culpa.

In so many ways, Roger made me a better person. He encouraged me to read great works of literature. He offered constructive criticism with my early attempts at poetry. A mentor really - as well as a best friend. We agreed on most things. But there were contentious issues at times.

The toppling of Edward Colston’s statue by student activists on 7 June 2020 in Bristol, being an example.* Yes, it’s true that destruction of public property is, on the face of it, criminality. And true, reinterpreting history for a political agenda is also problematic. (In this instance relating to Black Lives Matter.) However Roger’s disapproval of ‘vandalism’ by students seemed to me at odds with his core ethos on decrying hypocrisy. It looked like a sop to a politically conservative viewpoint (or perhaps it simply highlighted our generational divide). He regarded the removal of the bronze cast (by John Cassidy, 1895) as a version of mob-rule (ochlocracy). The destruction of ‘art’, Roger suggested, was a prelude to another Kristallnacht** and the horrors that followed in its wake. It remains a valid viewpoint.

But was it really ‘criminal damage’ or mindless destruction in this case? There’s something inescapably symbolic, and subjective, about placing a figure on a pedestal in a public space. It implies moral virtue. Specifically, Colston (1636–1721), a pious, ‘Christian’ man and MP, made various grandiose gestures to charities like Almshouses - to great public acclaim (virtue-signaling in modern terms). A self-publicising philanthropist. Although, his effigy emanates that unholy stench of hypocrisy. As an investor in the slave-trade, he weighed the lives of enslaved Africans as little more than chattel. Does this eugenicist worldview inspire civic pride among  Bristol’s multi-ethnic community…?

It seems befitting that Colston’s effigy was cast into the depths of Bristol Harbour. A watery grave shared by so many of those rebellious West Africans aboard trans-Atlantic slave vessels. Karma perhaps. Nowadays, let’s face it, Colston would be languishing in prison for people smuggling and modern-day slavery - rather than occupying the elevated position to which his blood-money afforded him. In my opinion, ridding the public space of him was an act of cleansing. And a collective gesture of moral aestheticism. It is surely valid to question the legitimacy of those figures who are held aloft as pillars of society? (As are the motives of those local civic leaders who strive to keep them there.)

With hindsight though, I realise both our opinions were valid. Both grounded in history and both informed by moral conviction. Opposing interpretations…

I think the point I’m trying to make is that obstinacy (or hubris) has a price to pay. It can be an obstacle to making amends with someone dear to our heart. And to some extent the conceit that accompanies a fervently held opinion deafens a person to other perspectives and blinds them to another’s legitimate counter-argument. It mutes expressions of regret and stifles the words ‘I’m sorry’. It is the genesis of regret. In my experience, a degree of humility is easier to live with than regret.

 

‘A man is not old until his regrets take the place of his dreams.’ Yiddish proverb

 

Notes:

* It was quite a heated disagreement. I think my indignance stems from visiting Cape Coast and Elmina slave castles in Ghana, 2006. Both housing churches to administer blessings and hear the prayers of men like Colston. And their depravities regarding enslaved female Africans resulted a fair-skinned, biracial local population that continues to this day.

** Nazi thugs destroying Jewish homes, hospitals schools and businesses in Germany, 1938.

 

* * *

 

REGRET

I move with favour or prejudice
among men, women, children;
To whomsoever calls me out, I will
always answer, no one denied
the music I bring, Blues I sing;
Rich, poor, famous, infamous, saints
and sinners… welcome to tap into
a wisdom some say down to Fate,
lessons learned too late

I touch without favour or prejudice
the loose thread missing a button
that old sock, empty vase in rooms
yawning with boredom for what’s
on TV and must have heard that CD
a thousand times (surely?) though
any sound better than none and
(finally) settling for a plaintive purr
by a lap tray set for one

I bury without favour or prejudice
forgotten dreams, misspent ideals,
wishful thinking on falling stars…
meant to light a kinder, better world;
alas, not meant to be though we
mull over old letters, photos, poems,
home videos… as dead as the cat
whose meows we miss and listen for
at every mealtime

I move without favour or prejudices
among life’s pleasures and losses

 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015. From the collection ‘Accomplices to Illusion’.

Wednesday, 4 December 2019

Art, a Measure of Home Truths

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

This poem is from my general poetry archives for October 2016. More than one reader has emailed to ask why these archival poems have not appeared on this blog. No reason at all, except that feedback from most of you made it clear that the majority were only interested in accessing one blog or the other so, on the day, I had to make a choice. Poetry, though, like any art form,is all things to all people; we ignore what we choose, enjoy all that with which we can readily identify...and call it art/s appreciation.

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

Friday, 15 November 2019

Addressing the Art of Being Human

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

This poem is from my general poetry blog archives for November 2012.

On September 15th 2005, a sculpture of artist Alison Lapper by Marc Quinn was unveiled in London's Trafalgar Square. The sculpture is a three-and-a-half metre-high representation of disabled artist Alison Lapper when she was eight months pregnant. ‘Alison Lapper Pregnant’ was chosen from a shortlist of six in March 2004 and remained on the plinth for 18 months.

“Marc Quinn has created an artwork that is a potent symbol and is a great addition to London,” said the Mayor of London, Ken Livingstone, who endorsed and unveiled the sculpture. “It is a work about courage, beauty and defiance, which both captures and represents all that is best about our great city. Alison Lapper pregnant is a modern heroine – strong, formidable and full of hope. It is a great work of art for London and for everyone.’

Many if not most people seem to have agreed with Livingstone and the sculpture took pride of place at the opening ceremony for the London 2012 Paralympics in September this year; like the Paralympics itself, it has no played no small part in changing attitudes towards disability for the better and totally undermining old stereotypes. We can but hope for the same from future Paralympics and a better press for disabled people worldwide.

'Alison Lapper Pregant' on the 4th plinth in Trafalgar Square, 2005

'Alison Lapper Pregnant' at the Paralympics opening ceremony, London 2012

This poem is a villanelle.

ADDRESSING THE ART OF BEING HUMAN

Triumph of spirituality,
come Earth Mother truly excelling,
transcending creativity

Magnificence of fertility;
against its critics, surely rebelling;
triumph of spirituality

An essential diversity
above any cultural-religious calling,
transcending creativity

An expression of equality,
(sexuality, disability, notwithstanding)
triumph of spirituality

An all-embracing dignity
with its human prejudices engaging,
transcending creativity

Ambassador for family,
no art of motherhood more telling;
triumph of spirituality,
transcending creativity

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Thursday, 7 November 2019

Graffiti Art: Engaging with Shortcomings and Potential

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

Today's post/poem is taken from my general poetry blog archives for April 2012; few readers accessed both blogs then so I hope those whose interest has been  confined their interest to this one will enjoy it. I will continue posting archived poms from one blog to the other awhile longer, after which some readers may like to dip into the archives themselves as listed on the right hand side of any blog page.

‘Leo’ who describes himself as 'an aspiring poet' has asked me to repeat this poem, last seen on the [General] blog in 2010, because it ‘keeps me focused on the fact that there are more important things in life than wealth and ambition.’

I am happy to oblige, Leo, but bear in mind that there is nothing wrong with having wealth or ambition; it’s how a wealthy and/or ambitious person handles either or both that counts.

It is how we live and how far we try to compensate for our flaws (we are all but human) that defines who we are, not what we have or don't have; regardless of race, religion, sex or sexuality; such is the art of being human,

This poem is a villanelle.

GRAFFITI ART: ENGAGING WITH SHORTCOMINGS AND POTENTIAL

I have worked with rhythm and rhyme
as poets for centuries have done,
building bridges on a river called Time

Where they fell at some god’s first crime
on killing fields of the sun,
I have worked with rhythm and rhyme

For all those cut down in their prime,
let’s redeem the bloody deed done,
building bridges on a river called Time

Like a lotus rising from the world’s slime,
symbol of a spirited imagination,
I have worked with rhythm and rhyme

Let past and future, great players of mime
embrace audience participation,
building bridges on a river called Time

No dark toll where goat bells gaily chime
(echoes of the Parnassus run);
I have worked with rhythm and rhyme,
building bridges on a river called Time

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010


[Note: First published under the title ‘ A Poet’s Take on Eternity’ in Far and Wide: Forward Press Regional Collection, 2010]

Saturday, 2 November 2019

Zen of the Seeing Eye

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

Today's post/poem is taken from my general poetry archives for April 2012. As regular readers know, I have health problems which I dare say go with the territory once a person turns 70+. Many thanks to those of you who have emailed to wish me well. So far, so good, as I am managing my pain levels and even getting out and about a bit with the aid of my trusty walking stick.

You will notice that I have dedicated the poem below to a gay-friendly artist friend, James Howard; I have known him since he was born, and now he and his wife will soon be parents. Wow, how time flies!

Admirers of James' art work will doubtless be interested to know that he has now created a kind of video diary on You Tube about confronting and overcoming everyday anxieties that can so often spiral into depression:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vOoZiZKZnPM&t=50s

or: http://www.luckyluckydice.com

Many readers who access my poems about mental health issues, and rising above them, may well find James' site worth a visit, as I did. (Let's face it, such is the degree of homophobia worldwide that anxiety is - or has been, at some time in our lives - almost second nature to many if not most of us.)

Now, I know this is a poetry blog, but...

Many thanks to those of you who have been in touch to say they are also enjoying my fiction blog:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com

I am especially delighted that feedback on Dog Roses and Like There’s No Tomorrow has been so encouraging since I could not persuade a literary agent that they had anything to offer the reading public. Consequently, neither are available in print form, but I hope to upload them as e-books at a later date.

My latest crime novel - Catching up with Murder (Raider Publishing International, 2011)- is not a gay novel like Dog Roses or a gay-crime novel like Blasphemy or Sacrilege, but has a gay element in a story-line that frequently descends into black comedy. All my novels - published and unpublished - are serialised on my fiction blog which includes a second Fred Winter novel - Predisposed to Murder: http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/

Meanwhile...

I used to travel the UK giving poetry readings during the course of which I was invited to some lovely places and met some lovely people. Wherever I went, people would be busy photographing various beauty spots and aspects of nature that particularly caught the naked eye.  I rarely took any photograph as I was always too busy soaking in the atmosphere of a place, feasting on a history that nature has carefully archived and begs to be browsed. My inner eye would seek and find the raw material for a poem that would let me convey my deeper impressions of a place to share with others.

Every artist sees with his or her inner eye, whether writer, painter, musician, sculptor, whatever; the audience - reader, listener, observer - is thereby invited to do the same. So enjoy your photograph albums, but put your inner eye to work as well as your camera wherever you go. That way, we keep the felt as well as visual experience of places we have visited in mind and spirit always.

ZEN OF THE SEEING EYE
(For James Howard)

My skin is white, my skin is black,
fairer shades of yellow, darker shades of brown,
like leaves in milky sunshine come a storm
rearing like raging horses in heaven’s angry sea
for its children under threat, like me,
taking my cue from nature, mentor and guide,
only temporarily kept from harm
in the eye of a storm, sanctuary a fragile
prism of silence

My skin is white, my skin is black,
fairer shades of yellow, darker shades of brown,
like colours in a pallet before art
stakes its claim and transcends virginity
into a subtle blend of modernity
and spirituality comprising multi-aspects
of temporality stirred to direct
its inner eye to look and see, seek and find
what moves the human mind

My skin is white, my skin is black,
fairer shades of yellow, darker shades of brown,
camouflage for ingenuity and invention
though conspiracy and deception sometimes
making inroads where defences weakened
by a brooding inability to make the world hear
what we have to say, restore its pride
instead of some knee-jerk running away to hide
here, there, everywhere

Be fair to me in what or whom you think you see,
creative with even the plainer shades of humanity

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






Friday, 21 December 2012

Supper With Leo

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

When he was twenty-four years old, Leonardo Da Vinci was arrested, along with several young companions, on a charge of sodomy. No witnesses appeared against them and the charges were dropped. Renaissance Florentines didn't make the distinctions we make about sexuality today. Apparently, it was not uncommon for young men to get into sexual relationships with each other.

Leonardo had no known relationships with women, never married, had no children, and raised many young protégés, including one nicknamed "Salai" which means "offspring of Satan. Salai was generally thought to be something of a rascal. Salai stayed with the painter for over twenty years and appears many times in Leonardo's sketchbooks.

It’s interesting (to say the least) just to speculate that one of the greatest painters of all time may well have been homosexual. At the same time, why should a person’s sexuality even matter?

Those Renaissance Florentines had the right idea and no mistake.

This poem is a villanelle.

SUPPER WITH LEO 

A great painting,
like supper with a friend,
says everything

Eating, drinking,
living, loving without end;
a great painting

Promising, denying,
sharing wine with a friend,
says everything

Giving, taking,
those trying hours we spend;
a great painting

Believing, disbelieving
what’s seen, heard to the end,
says everything

Passion, suffering,
though death, too, a friend;
A great painting
says everything

[From: A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]

Tuesday, 21 February 2012

Cops, Queers, and Caravaggio

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

I have been asked to repeat this poem (it last appeared on the blog in 2010) for ‘Seb and Karl’ who ...’met in similar circumstances some years ago.’

They have also asked if I would repeat the link to my poetry reading on the 4th plinth in Trafalgar Square in July 2009; my contribution to sculptor Antony Gormley’s One  & Other ‘living sculpture’ project during which I read some of my gay-interest poems among others:

http://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223121732/oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T  [NB: Sept 19, 2019 - The British Library confirmed today that he video is no longer available as it was incompatible with a new IT system, However, it still exists and BL hope to reinstate it and make it available to the public again at some future date.] RNT ]

Karl and Seb add that (unlike me and the cop in the poem) they have been partners for twenty years to this very day. Congratulations to you both and a BIG HUG from yours truly.

The degree of homo-eroticism in much of Caravaggio's work and the fact that never married has led critics to speculate for years that he was probably gay, but ... who cares? At the end of the day, what has a person's sexuality to do with his or her character, skill or talent?

COPS, QUEERS, AND CARAVAGGIO 

We met in an art gallery,
enjoyed each other’s company
all day;
at his flat, we chatted over
coffee and, finally, he asked me
to stay;
although both nervous,
we made love, the two of us
in heaven...
nor just having fun;
good to be close to someone
again;
his mouth, warm and sensual;
an embrace far more than sexual
wanting me…
as more than a friend
but no mere means to an end
physically

He brought me breakfast
in bed and I turned a shade red
at his uniform;
I hadn’t asked about
his career, content just to be there
with him…
so it came as a shock
to see him dressed as a P.C.
for the beat;
tried to tell myself
it didn’t matter, heart all a-flutter
and cold feet;
at the door, a shy goodbye,
copper’s shirt and tie a brick
wall…
that crumbled with an embrace
as we saw, face to face, nothing
mattered at all

Lovers till he moved away;
friends to this day

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2010

[Note: This poem has been (very) slightly revised since it appeared in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]

Friday, 13 January 2012

A National Trust Outing


Today’s poem last appeared on the blog in February 2010 and is not only a firm favourite of mine but, judging by feedback, has proven popular with many readers, straight as well as gay. It has always gone down well at poetry readings and I love reading it, especially to mixed gay/straight audiences.

New readers may be interested to know that I included it in a very informal poetry reading I gave on the 4th plinth in Trafalgar Square back in July 2009 as my contribution to sculptor Antony Gormley’s One and Other ‘live sculpture’ project to view the performance, click on the link, but be warned, the whole thing lasts an hour:

http://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223121732/oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T [  [For now, at least, this link needs the latest Adobe Flash Player  and works best in Firefox; the archives website cannot run Flash but changes scheduled for later this year may well mean the link will open without it. Ignore any error message and give it a minute or so to start up. The video lasts an hour. ] RT March 2018

Update (April 2016): I also read the poem on the very first video I recorded for my You Tube channel.You can catch the recording below, too, as some readers tell me they cannot always access You Tube for one reason or another; it is the second of two poems I read there. [Later, Graham (best friend and cameraman) and I discovered how to insert a voice file into the video while editing. In later videos, viewers are spared the sight of yours truly fluffing about and the poems relate more closely to the video. The channel was very experimental and we did not expect much interest in a poetry channel, but feedback suggests otherwise and we plan to add new video/poems as and when the opportunity arises.]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A1z_NiNpRQw

If neither link works, go to my channel and search under 'On Hampstead Heath'.

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtab

A NATIONAL TRUST OUTING

On my way downstairs, I paused
to look at a portrait on the wall
and it winked at me, opened
its mouth and said (laughingly),
“Yes, I too was gay in my day
although the word not invented
nor times quite ready to receive
the unseemly likes of a common
painter and his patron lover - so we
had to lie, indulge in subterfuge.
No one had the faintest idea,
certainly not the family (wife and
children included) or that ogre
Establishment whose inner circle
I was free enough to tread, so long
as I dared not bring it into disrepute
by word or deed. Oh, I loved them
well enough, indeed. But it’s not for
love of those I pose - radiating,
I suspect, an inner happiness?
Ah, yes, you understand. It is my
lover’s brush, exploring mind
and soul, touching what makes life
real (no trappings and trimmings
comprising Society’s notion - of
propriety or political expediency,
nor even an image of home fires
burning) – but Love, in all its
rampant glory, telling my story
here and now, for whomsoever might
care to consider, critically, a glow
in the cheek, lift of the eyebrow,
crook of the knee, hands pointedly
showing off slender fingers, touches
invariably missed in critique, put down
to art’s mystique, few appreciating
the intimacy between lover and lover,
bouncing off each other, long after
the oils runs dry, spoils of eternity.”

In my own time I descended, feeling 
befriended

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2006

[From: The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; a printing error in the first print run was subsequently corrected and the above version also included as an Appendix to A Feeling for the Quickness of Time, Assembly Books, 2005.]


Wednesday, 4 May 2011

A Timely Review

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

So much for the well-laid plans of mice and men! Much as I love writing up the blogs, I am taking a break for a few months while I get on with other things, not least because my treatment for prostate cancer makes me feel so tired that it takes me twice as long as usual to get anything done. However, I always planned to drop by from time to time, just not as often. However, I cannot and will not ignore readers who are having a bad time.

Today’s poem hasn’t appeared on the blog since last summer. It is repeated today especially for Nick ‘a 16 year-old living in Canterbury’ who feels 'very isolated ' [as] ‘Canterbury is just so gay-unfriendly.’ [Whatever happened to the gay bar that opened there recently, I wonder?]

It is 40+ years since I was a student at the University of Kent in Canterbury (graduated in 1973), but I still have friends there and will always keep a very special place in my heart for this beautiful old city. I still recall my student years more than a little wistfully. Oh, to put the clock back!

I have to say, it is unusual to find a student city or town that is not gay-friendly, but I know where this young man is coming from as I visit Canterbury fairly often . Moreover, I was born in Kent (Medway) and find the whole county little more gay-friendly now than I did when I was a schoolboy and young man all those years ago. There are parts of Kent that well deserve its name as ‘The Garden of England’ but beauty is only skin deep where some places as well as some people are concerned.

As I have said on the blog many times, young gay people would feel less alienated or threatened if more schools were to discuss gay issues openly and intelligently instead of sweeping them under the proverbial carpet. Until they do, gay boys and girls will go through twice the teenage anxt as others, and homophobia will continue to raise its ugly head more often than not.

Nick might consider contacting the LGBT Society at the University if he has not already done so. It doesn’t (or shouldn’t) matter that he isn’t a student there and it might help to discuss his sexuality with other gay people; ‘keyword ‘University Kent Canterbury LGBT’ for a contact email.

He might also care to explore a site created by two delightful guys working hard at improving the climate for gay people in the Canterbury area and across East Kent; it is well worth a visit anyway, and I'm sure other readers will enjoy exploring it too:

http://www.prideincanterbury.org.uk/

This poem is a villanelle. [To another reader who says he or she loves my villanelles but finds it 'very irritating' that I rarely end stanzas in my poems with a period (full stop). Sorry, about that, but it isn't grammatical laziness. I'm simply not a full stop kind of person, and feel they interrupt a poem's flow. My critics will, of course disagree. (Do I care?)]

A TIMELY REVIEW

Come, gay pilgrims to a 21st century
reassessing tablets of stone,
reviewing a saint’s take on Canterbury

To Augustine’s brief for Christianity,
negotiating layers of translation,
come gay pilgrims to a 21st century

Resisting intimidation by modernity,
the poetry of its past an inspiration
reviewing a saint’s take on Canterbury

Acknowledging a martyr-like quality
empathising with religion,
come gay pilgrims to a 21st century

Among ruins, an enduring spirituality
embracing gay men and women
reviewing a saint’s take on Canterbury

As cathedral gargoyles mimic a bigotry
its hymn to glory would disown,
come gay pilgrims to a 21st century
reviewing a saint's take on Canterbury

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

Tuesday, 21 December 2010

Impromptu Renaissance

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

Gays are losers,’ someone sneered at me only recently. Oh, yeah? So...was Handel a loser or Michelangelo or Shakespeare...to name but a few?

Did I mention Michelangelo? Yes, well, even the Vatican now openly acknowledges its debt to some of the greatest artists that ever lived, and were gay:


Sexuality has to be in the genes or else how can we account for gay people world-wide ... and what is more natural than coming into the world as nature intended? Nor is it only sexuality but also how we develop into mature adults in which, there too, nature is bound to lend a hand.

As every wise parent knows... yes, you want the best for your children. But more often than not, the best way to show your love and keep them close is to let them go their own way and always be there for them.

As for any homophobes among the heterosexual majority, to them I say... grow up and get real.

Now, history plays host to many great men who were homosexual or bisexual. Do we hear the homophobes attacking them? A great man or woman or just an ordinary person in the street, our sexuality is sexuality is unimportant, except to them. It is no one else’s damn business. Besides, it is character that counts and that is where the homophobe is invariably found sadly wanting.

Never, but never underestimate the power of love, and never believe that is any less true for gay men and women worldwide.

IMPROMPTU RENAISSANCE

I battled against the snow one night
and winter would have seen me dead;
no star in sight or midwinter moon
finding a way through to be my guide

My legs refused even one step more,
my body collapsing in an untidy heap
on a white fur rug, marble surrounds
left clear, no doors or even a window

A splendid ceiling boasted frescoes
staying true to the Florentine painter
assigned to transform a mortuary
into a summer retreat fit for a pope

The faces looking down at me began
shouting then singing, their body parts
dancing wildly, bringing art to life,
resuming its place in the subject field

I heard an organ (or was it the wind?)
playing the Dead March as the revellers
vanished behind a sequined curtain
so I saw no finale, could only imagine

Suddenly, faintly, I heard a love song
growing louder, stronger, a match even
for Handel and the dead, hauling me
to my feet, defying surrender to winter

I battled with wind and snow yet again
and winter would have seen me dead
but you despatched the Spirit of Love
to find a way through and be my guide

That night we sat by a glowing hearth,
eating chestnuts roasted on red hot coals
where the arts of gay Greats of History
made their finer pleasures known to us

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010