Roger Taber

Roger Taber Poems

I am she who feels her way
to dreams, sees to it that moon and stars
shine love’s guiding light
through layers of darkness to reveal
...

Dusk, a patchwork quilt spread
over trees and meadows;
Warren, set, foxhole, well hid
from prying eyes;
...

I am a dream kept alive
for centuries, through thick and thin,
peace and war,
harvest or famine, drought or flood,
...

Born to lead, fulfil, unite;
invariably, though, dividing,
losing sight of how many
chosen to fight on one side
...

They shot me down on foreign soil
and the first sound I heard was a child’s cry
at the moment of birth
and I wished the child and parents well,
...

There is a wood
where we played as children
and bluebells grow
...

Every poem begs a story from nature
of its power, glory, even shame,
whatever inspires, fuels high fires
of creativity; smouldering coals
...

Roger Taber Biography

A professional librarian (retired) for most of my working life, I was born on the winter solstice in t 1945 and graduated (as a mature student) from the University of Kent in Canterbury,1973. Since 2003, I have given poetry readings around the UK. In July 2009 I was selected to appear on the 4th plinth in Trafalgar Square as part of sculptor Antony Gormley's One & Other arts project; I read a selection of poems from my collections. [This can be accessed online at the oneandother.co.uk site; click on 'Plinthers' then go to Week 2 (Tuesday) & click on Roger_T]. The complete project will eventually be an online archive at the British Library.)

The Best Poem Of Roger Taber

The Archivist

I am she who feels her way
to dreams, sees to it that moon and stars
shine love’s guiding light
through layers of darkness to reveal
what’s real in the world,
conveyed in but a word here, gesture there,
making a poor show of drawing
on feelings all our senses attempting
to convey even to the pragmatist

I am she who lends a shoulder
to cry on, ear to confide in, takes caution
thrown to the wind and returns it
as a kindness, suggesting we reconsider
pitting human nature
against its other selves, risk losing face
in the eyes of the Old Man
looking down at us and wondering why
this obsession with mortality

I am she to whom they turn
where flames of passion threaten to devour
till all is over and done,
gone to ashes where we would have left
a blaze of memory to comfort
and leave us feeling secure, whatever
the Grim Reaper may have in mind;
no match, he, for me, who has a rare way
even with the stuff of nightmare

Come day, make time for a culture of nurture
I’ll archive each night, who am Earth Mother

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