http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
This poem was
written in 1997 and first appeared in a poetry magazine based in Canterbury
before I included it in my first poetry collection. I wrote it after shopping in the West End of
London and being shocked at seeing so many homeless people huddled in sleeping
bags in shop doorways, on the steps of theatres, even churches and other religious institutions.
Years on,
London, like so many big cities around the world, continues to be haunted by
its homeless. It is a sad reflection on the 21st century, in
particular its finely rhetoric-tuned, comfortably-off world leaders in politics
and religion/s world-wide. [Does anyone really
believe they put the interests of the everyday man, woman and child in the
street before their own?]
Although I am not a religious person, I have no problem with (any) religious celebrations although I have to say they often strike me as more than a shade hypocritical where giving thanks to God often appears to play second fiddle to one-upmanship among family, friends, and neighbours who share the same religion.
Please give as generously as you can afford to charities that help homeless people.
It has to be said that giving money to homeless people can be a mixed blessing as they will often just use it to buy drugs or alcohol. Most, though, appreciate someone to talk to who can not only sympathise with their plight without being patronising, but also offer constructive advice such as where to go for help. [The nearest public library, for example, will have a wealth of information. During my years as a librarian in public libraries, I often looked up useful addresses that I would then call and hand the phone to a homeless person seeking help.]
CHRISTMAS AT THE
GOING RATE
Starling on the
snowy bough,
where will you go
now
as you stir your weary wings to fly
across this sorry
sky?
Better off than I,
stuck here,
sitting pretty
enough
in a world dishing
up pity
to its cardboard
men…
I pause and you
disappear, bells
ringing out
Christmas cheer
to celebrate the
Church's share
in a saviour for
all seasons
who taught the
heart needs not reasons
to care about
another, rich or poor,
saint or sinner. A
local tramp passes.
Good souls pause…
Wiping glasses,
hedging bets
on Judgement Day,
doling out a sweet
reprieve
of misery, and all
for 50p.
Now, let's hurry, we'll
be late;
carols at eight (or
is it nine?)
Thinly drawn, a
twenty-first century’s
cardboard line
Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2012
[Note: An earlier
version of this poem appears in Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001.]
Labels: advice, Christmas, cities, constructive, contemporary, help, homeless, homelessness, human, life, nature, people, poetry, rough sleepers, society, spirit, streets
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