Postscript from Yesterday (and a National Trust Outing)

 

From Roger’s friend, Graham

 

Good morning,

I intended to include an extra poem yesterday for this, Roger’s LGBT+ focused blog. It ties in with the art theme. Sorry, it slipped my mind so herewith, below. (You may be aware that there’s a general interest blog in parallel and I’ve been duplicating postings. Although I hope to include additional, more bespoke content for this blog if time permits.)

This blog address uses the unspaced words ‘aspects-of-a-gay-mans-life-in-verse’. And I know Rog used to share candid thoughts about day-to-day life. On health and mobility difficulties and other various opinions, frustrations, hopes and fears, etc. So I’ll try to continue along that thread. (I’m not a poet but I have an appreciation for poetry, so hopefully that will suffice.)

Looking outside, a pair of wood pigeons sway in a nearby treetop. The wind breathes life into a row of conifers like a puppeteer. Yellow lichen dusts a rooftop like flecks of peeling gold leaf. Beyond, a brackish river of intermingling muddy blues and greys. Along the arc of the riverside, distant warehouses strewn like discarded toys. An armada of clouds sail gracefully east. I wish I could hitch a ride; stow myself away. A sense of incompleteness runs through my quietude like a flaw in the sapphire sky; a striation of cloud stretched out to the horizon by winds of time. I make coffee, gather papers, read notes, go to the bathroom... An automaton almost; performing routines without knowing why. Empty, refill, repeat… It must be time to feed the birds; bring myself to life once more…

For this next gay-interest poem I should explain that in the UK there’s a wonderful charity called The National Trust (https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/). They preserve stately homes, places of historic or cultural significance, and much more. In fact I filmed some of Roger’s videos at one of the country estates which they maintain, see: ‘Stourhead, a Hymn to Nature & Live Art (Two poems)’ (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qQlJAu8Rwuc&t=17s). Or ‘Ode to Apollo’  (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TMIb7ysvJwU&t=65s). There’s other vids too. Apologies for the low picture quality – it was old technology!

Bye for now, Gx

 

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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 oil runs dry, spoils of eternity”

In my own time I descended,
feeling befriended

 

Copyright R. N Taber 2004, 2006. From the poetry collection ‘The Third Eye’.

Painted Dreams

 

From Roger’s friend, Graham.

 

Greetings from a cloudy Essex riverside, and welcome.

Life can be a bittersweet symphony, as the song by British indie band, Verve, suggests. A shifting interplay of light and shade; smiles, tears, triumph and tragedy. How the individual makes sense of it is, like art, a studied interpretation.

Whether poet, artist, or none of the above, the human sees beyond the innate existence or istigkeit of their subject to reveal deeper truths. Capturing aspects of its meaning, its purpose, or even its cultural symbolism. Though a painting or poem merely occupy a veneer, their expositions delve deep. They’re so much more than just visual facsimiles or mechanical recordings.

Although constrained in his early years by familial and societal expectations, Roger, I think, blossomed in later life. He discovered his métier and befriended his muses. He embraced his passion for poetry, daring to rise above naysayers and the sniffy literati. (Just as any self-respecting Impressionist would disregard the strictures of Académie.) In the period that I knew him, he lived a bold, liberated and authentic life. ‘I’m past caring what people think about me’ he might say. Or sometimes (after a vino or two) he was rather more forthright: ‘Ah boll*cks to ‘em!’ he’d proclaim with a wry bardic grin.

I know Roger loved the paintings of British artist William Turner (or J. M. W. Turner). I sense that influence in his impressionistic wordscapes. His mind’s eye conjuring glittering pools of reflection, rolling pastures of rampant joy, and brooding skies of depression. Edges diffused, flowing and pulsing, in a vivid palette of words. A tree centre stage, feverishly worked into a hazy summer meadow. Figurative renderings; intertwining in storms of passion, making love, coalescing into a single entity. Fleeting beauty, captured in all its fragile and poignant intensity. Grotesque demons of blind hatred and heartless sanctimony exposed in their naked form; their monstrosity and absurdity revealed. Intense outpourings of a soul in ecstasy or agony; becalmed or in the tumult of a raging existential tempest. Unvarnished truths… swirling interplays… bold strokes. Lines of time tracing the vigour of youth to the frailty of old age. A life within and without; captured in all its delicate and gaudy hues.

Though Roger’s passions are now spent, his palette dry and his mind’s eye sleeping, his impressions endure. Open to interpretation and fresh perspectives. But most of all – to be enjoyed in that wondrous communion between artwork and observer.

And like his wordscapes, Rog blazed brightly in life too. Illuminating darkness and filling days with colour. Always there for me when I needed sage counsel, shelter, or reassurance. Likewise, I did my best to help him in his times of need. More than that though, he was great fun to be around. We enjoyed many uproarious days out*; consuming far too much ale and jokingly posturing around town as a pair of swaggering Bohemians. I recall our hilarious drunken antics involving spectacles falling into toilet pans, ales inadvertently slopped over crotch areas, and trousers accidentally slipping to half-mast on tube platforms. (Possibly not the sort of exposure an artist craves?) Plus a whole litany of other indecorous displays. It’s a wonder we weren’t arrested! Ah, dear ‘ole Rogie - feet of clay, but his head in the stars. It was a joy and a privilege…

I feel that Roger left this world slightly more picturesque than he found it. His legacy; a gallery of living, breathing landscapes of the imagination. I’ll leave you with one of my favourite poems. (Please forgive this self-indulgence, but I’m hopeful you’ll enjoy it.) It’s raw creative dynamism still paints my daydreams.

Cheers, Gx

* Reference to the period prior to Roger’s nasty fall and subsequent mobility impairment.

 

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THE POET’S SONG

I am a Painter of Dreams,
my brush, a pen – words
all the paint available, tackling
the unassailable to bring within reach
of unquiet heart, restless soul,
images of life and love,
vision of a goal beyond perimeters
of time, space - humanity’s crude
conception of grace

I am a Painter of Dreams,
bringing you mine, intruding
on yours, winging heaven’s
elusive towers that flicker in a mist
of aspiration, inviting inspiration,
daring us to home in, defy
the rude mentality of a classroom
morality - humanity’s crude
conception of spirituality

See-Hear-Taste-Touch-Smell,
I am a Painter of Dreams, who
means well but often offends
who dare suggest I speak for all
that seek gold where the rainbow ends
for, like Pandora’s Box, our secrets
once let fly - each to their own;
Painter, dreamer, shades of light
or ships in a cruel night

Senses, falling apart at the seams
for a Painter of Dreams

 

Copyright R. N. Taber. From the collection: First Person Plural, 2002.