Poets are
often accused of romanticising death although their critics often mistake a take on death for one on pain; there is noting in the least romantic about pain and suffering. Me, I don’t romanticise death, but neither
will I ignore it. Death is much a part of life as life itself; it should not be
a taboo subject or confused with pain.
Surely,
the more we get used to the idea of mortality, the better prepared (if only
relatively speaking) we are to deal with it?
Death,
like life, is a mystery about which those of us who do not subscribe to any
religious Faith can only speculate.
Judging
by feedback, there are an awful lot of people like me out there who feel much
the same way.
This poem
last appeared on my general blog in 2008 and reappears today for no other reason than I feel it deserves an airing. After all, is it not one of
one of life’s greater ironies that it should be death that has never
discriminated between any of us, no matter our colour, creed, sex or
sexuality...?
THE VOICE
I heard a
voice singing,
wondered
whose it might be?
(I could
not see)
I heard a
voice laughing,
wondered
whose it might be?
(I could
not see)
I heard a
voice crying,
wondered
whose it might be?
(I could
not see)
I heard a
voice praying,
wondered
what (if anything)
to do
with me?
I heard
the voice dying,
wondered
where it might go?
One day
I’ll know...
[From: Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2007]
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