Marking Time

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

Today’s poem has not appeared on the blog since 2008 so I guess now is as good a time as any to give it a airing albeit a revised version. 

I am 66 years-old now. When I consider the discrepancy between what I have achieved and what I’d once hoped to achieve, my heart sinks...until I consider various off-shoots of  that unfulfilled potential, and then the tree doesn’t look half so bad after all.

MARKING TIME

Youth, with dreamy eyes
and wind in the hair,
soaking up heaven’s store
of tears for cares

like leaves untimely fallen

on slim shoulders

Like a sapling in a breeze,
see it bend, never break;
watch leaves bud and grow;
now green, now reds,

now gold for each mortal

breath we take

Nor shall its season cease,
grown older, stronger;
a bold heart, harbouring
the finer seeds

of Creation for nature’s  

nurturing

Spirited tree, proud and free,
a living part of earth’s
finer tapestry, sheltering all
(no one’s enemy)

though they carve initials

on your body

Forever, tall and beautiful
in the mind’s eye;
where lashed to dark skies,
a freedom won

by egg cries sure to archive

its leafy passions

Potential in its prime, marking

time

  

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2011

[Note: This poem has been revised from an earlier version that appears in 1^st eds. of The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2004 (and on the blog); 2^nd ed. in preparation. NB 2^nd eds. of my poetry collections will not be available until after 2015 and will contain revisions of some poems. Meanwhile, signed 1^st eds. remain available to blog readers at a generous blog discount on (retail price + shipping). Contact rogertab@aol.com with ‘Blog reader’ in the subject field.]

Keeper Of The Flame

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

Today’s post is duplicated on both poetry blogs.

After a sleepless night on Friday, I managed to get a reasonable night’s sleep last night so am feeling less washed out today. I don’t mind anyone throwing a late-night party now and then, but ALL night is not fair on the neighbours in a residential area.

Now, I promised everyone a new poem so this post is duplicated on both poetry blogs.

Meanwhile...

Reader, ‘William’ who has to use an Internet café to go on-line has asked me to repeat the link to my YouTube channel.  I hope you enjoy it. My friend and cameraman Graham and I are hoping to record more poems ‘on location’ for YouTube during this year:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Meanwhile...

Raking the heart’s embers is easy enough. It takes but one precious memory to stir the flames of a love that was never meant to fulfil its promises...until, with all the passion of regret, we can but watch them fall away.

Now, a man or woman may be gay or straight, but neither is more or less vulnerable than the other to a love that, for whatever reason, is a secret only two will ever share.

KEEPER OF THE FLAME

I pile on wood,

and the flames leap higher,

bringing us together

as we were that summer

we’d meet up again

and again to go swimming

in the sunshine,

walking in the rain,

playing with fire

from each dawn to sunset,

now flaring, now fading

like love’s wistful voices,

its weepy echoes

I pile on wood,

and the flames are dancing,

lovers romancing

as we were that summer

we’d cherish

precious moments together,

each one stolen

from those who thought

they knew us,

yet never once suspecting

we were lovers,

not just best of friends

hamming it up

I run out of wood,

and too soon the flames start

to fall away

like an audience once a play

has reached an ending

well deserving of applause

even if no one cares

to admit the staged goings-on

were too close

for comfort, disturbing

vulnerable ghosts

ever tearful for being shut

in some secret closet

Fire smouldering, but a flicker

braving it out

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

The Ribbon

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

Regular readers will be well aware of my love for nature; not just because I am a poet and it is expected of poets, but because nature offers me the spirituality and inspiration I never found in religion or, rather, the majority of its followers, long before I acknowledged to myself that I am gay and would be made to run the gamut of religious conscience that so many followers of all the world religions plainly enjoy imposing on gay men and women.

THE RIBBON

As twilight favoured us

a misty golden rain,

a joyful hymn to peace

rose above its pain,

freely acknowledging

that we had come

to that last, lonely parting

at time’s guileless whim,

bringing us less prepared

than we should be

though each of us warned

enough of an eternity

stretching like a pink ribbon

in Earth Mother’s hair

against a near-far horizon,

beckoning us where

the rich and poor, beggars,

(even thieves) along

with saints and murderers

come for a reckoning

they’ve spent temporality

earning or avoiding

on that axis of morality

known for bending

rules and taking advantage

of cloth and kin

over anxious to salvage

the spoils of Creation; 

fading fast, that twilight,

waiting, like us…

on moon or stars to light

up the darkness

so we can see a way clear

to be sure the ribbon

for Earth Mother’s hair

is never forgotten

Or love (ever) forsaken

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

[Note: This poem will appear in my new collection Tracking the Torchbearer to be published next month.]

Dark Secrets

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

Today’s post is again duplicated on both poetry blogs.

Some readers who also enjoy my fiction blog have been in touch to ask for more details about my novel Catching up with Murder published by Raider International last year. So I am publishing a synopsis (+ poem) here today.

I cannot publish it as an e-book until next year (due to publishing contract) and may well serialise it on the blog eventually. Meanwhile, interested readers who may be interested can buy the novel from http://amazon.com & http://www.barnesandnoble.com/ (overseas) while UK readers can purchase from http://www.amazon.co.uk; all readers can access at the publishers’ own site: http://raiderpublishing.com/Home_Page.html

CATCHING UP WITH MURDER: a novel in three acts (approx. 100,000 words)

By Roger N. Taber

SYNOPSIS:

The novel divides itself naturally into three acts.  Act One commences with a young woman, JULIE SIMPSON, asking retired Chief Inspector FRED WINTER to investigate the death of an aunt, RUTH TEMPLE, found dead in her bath. Since a large amount of alcohol was found in Ruth’s body, the coroner records a verdict of accidental death.  Julie thinks otherwise but cannot convince Winter at first...

Once Winter is on the case, he not only embarks on various avenues of enquiry regarding Ruth Temple but is also reunited with an old flame CAROL BRADY whose husband had been murdered some years ago and whose son LIAM has been killed in a car accident although no body recovered and assumed washed out to sea. One potential lead after another leads to the same dead end, a village on the south coast called Monks Tallow. Moreover, Winter starts to suspect that Liam Brady is not only alive but inextricably linked to a series of tragic ‘coincidences’ there.

Act Two now takes the reader back twenty years to the early 1980s. A young man, RALPH COTTER, shoots his friend, SEAN BRADY, at Brady's home, witnessed by Brady's young son, LIAM.  Cotter, a married, closet homosexual, is terrified that Brady will expose him. Cotter runs to his lover, Darren “Daz” HORTON for help. They head for a cottage belonging to Horton’s aunt. (The aunt is visiting her daughter in New Zealand so the cottage is empty). En route, they stop to give a lift to a woman, SARAH MANNERS, whose car has broken down in a storm. Shortly afterwards, the car skids and smashes into a tree, killing Sarah.  The two men bury the body and Cotter evades capture by taking her identity.  Darren’s aunt dies and he inherits the cottage. He and Cotter live there, happily enough, as man and ‘wife’ in an obscure English village called...Monks Tallow.

In due course, the past catches up with Cotter and Horton, driving them to commit three more murders.

Act Three follows Fred Winter to Monks Tallow where he slowly pieces together this jigsaw of audacious masquerade and murder while inadvertently putting himself and loved ones in mortal danger...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007 

Meanwhile...

Here’s a poem about dark secrets if not the necessarily as dark as those that Horton and Cotter hug to themselves for so long. For me, as regular readers well know, one of my darkest secrets was once my sexuality. I had acknowledged to myself that I am gay by the time I was 14 years-old.

In those days, same sex relationships were a criminal offence here in the UK. Throughout my teenage years, I told neither family nor friends. I wasn’t ashamed, just scared. Even as a young adult, it would still be some years before I’d find the self-confidence to come out once and for all. It had been drummed into me during my vulnerable formative years that being gay was something dirty if not perverted.

Within my family I only ever discussed my sexuality with my mother just a few years before she died of cancer in 1976; she warned me against telling my father or brother. It took a severe nervous breakdown in my early 30s before I came out of that dark, lonely closet once and for all.

This poem is a villanelle.

DARK SECRETS

Dark secrets of the heart,

like claws of a trapped bear

ready to tear us apart

Under threat at the start,

nature’s soul stripped bare;

dark secrets of the heart

See truth’s unerring dart

sent flying through the air

ready to tear us apart

No sweet a fruit or tart

than words we cannot share;

dark secrets of the heart

Tools of a far subtler art

than Medusa’s stony glare,

ready to tear us apart

Endgame, a poison dart

(any time, anywhere);

dark secrets of the heart

ready to tear us apart

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

Seaside Through A Rain Cloud's Eye

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

I have written several poems about Brighton and readers 'Kate' and 'Kyle' have asked me to repeat this one as they, too, love the seaside out of season. Apparently, Kate lives in Brighton, but does not subscribe to the view of some local people that it is 'tacky' to enjoy going down to the beach. Good for you, Kate. If I lived there, you wouldn't keep me away.

Although I was still feeling a bit chesty after the worst cold I have had in years, I managed to travel to Brighton for the day last week and it was good to catch up with old friends.

As I live on my own and am estranged from my nearly all family for various reasons, friends have always played a very important part in my life; so, too, has Brighton since my mother used to take me there during school holidays when I was a child. Being able to combine both experiences is a real treat for me while an added bonus is the fact that I love train journeys.

It is no coincidence that I set my novel Like There’s No Tomorrow in Brighton. [See my fiction blog for a serialised version of the novel that I plan to upload as an e-book later this year so readers can download to kindle.]:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/2011/10/like-theres-no-tomorrow-synopsis_3445.html]

The weather on Wednesday was murky but not particularly cold for midwinter. The sea was rough and I had the beach almost to myself. Oh, but I so love the seaside out of season...

SEASIDE, THROUGH A RAIN CLOUD’S EYE

I see breakers crashing on the shore,

seagulls circling above,

face at windows of a nearby hotel

and a woman walking her dog

I see an ice-cream van doing no trade,

heads busy dodging umbrellas,

faces at windows of a nearby hotel

and a beggar being moved on

I see a windsurfer gathering speed,

seagulls keeping an eye,

faces at windows of a nearby hotel

and lovers pausing for a kiss

I see plastic shopping bags burst open,

their owner getting in a state,

faces at the window of a nearby hotel

and a man exit a Bookies crying

I see cinemagoers pouring into a street,

frantically reaching for phones,

faces at windows of a nearby hotel

and the lovers having a quarrel

I see the woman’s dog (not on a leash)

go chasing after a cat,

faces at the window of a nearby hotel

and the windsurfer taking a tumble

I see a watery sunlight breaking through

layers of cloud shades of grey,

faces at windows of a nearby hotel

showing signs of coming alive

[Brighton, East Sussex, March 17th 2010]

[Note: This poem will appear in my new collection Tracking the Torchbearer due for publication in February/April 2012]

Casual Chat In A Greasy Spoon

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

This post is duplicated on both blogs today.

Some heterosexuals are (still) all but obsessed with the belief they cannot possibly contract HIV-AIDS  because they are not gay. Yes, it’s unbelievable, but true. When it happens to them, they haven’t a clue how to handle it. The same can be said for some gay men and women of course; a lot of gay guys, too, live in a complacent little bubble of their own making.

I have written many poems about HIV-AIDS but it is today’s poem that last appeared on both blogs in February 2010 which has caught a reader’s eye. I have been asked to repeat it by ‘Rudi’, who apparently has a friend in denial about recently been diagnosed HIV + while being treated in hospital for something else. Rudi says, ‘It is like he can’t believe it could happen to a super fit heterosexual like him even though he sleeps around and doesn’t always use a condom. It has never occurred to him that one of his casual girlfriends might have been infected by another casual male partner...as if he’s the only one into casual sex!’ Rudi adds, ‘They have tried to help him at the hospital, but he won’t listen. He has convinced himself there has been a mistake, and they are a bunch of incompetents.’

Playing the blame game is always a waste of time. Rudi’s friend needs to see a doctor and counsellor and get medication/advice NOW. Just because people can live for years with the HIV-AIDS virus these days is no cause for complacency and is wholly dependent upon the right medication and a mature attitude to sexual responsibility.

Even talking to a complete stranger in a 'greasy spoon' café is as good a start as any although why so many straight guys seem to think we gay guys should be any more comfortable with the idea of HIV-AIDS than they are remains a mystery to me. Maybe they think that, because we have lived with the possibility longer and perhaps more intimately; it is ingrained in our psyche, forewarned, so to speak, being forearmed? There may even be something in that, but living with HIV+ is no easy ride for anyone.

This is an autobiographical poem and the guy who told me he was HIV+ plainly thought I’d be ‘a good guy to talk to’ because he thought I ‘looked gay’ and ‘would know about these things.’ I tried to reassure him and gave him some good advice for which he was grateful, but squirmed a lot. We shook hands when we parted, and he told me in a  well meaning if also very patronising way, ‘It’s been nice talking to you. Hey, you lot aren’t so bad, are you?’ I took it to be a rhetorical question and summoned a diplomatic smile.

By the way, Rudi didn’t say if he is gay or straight [does it matter?] but did mention that he is tested for HIV-AIDS on a regular basis, but a lot of his friends ‘can’t be bothered’ and/or ‘would rather not know anyway.’  Good for you, Rudi, and I hope you manage to knock some common sense into those idiots.

This poem is a villanelle.

CASUAL CHAT IN A GREASY SPOON

He blurted he’s HIV+ but isn’t gay

and blames people like me

(what was I supposed to say?)

I met him in a cafe one spring day

(me wearing a bright pink tee);

He blurted he’s HIV+ but isn’t gay

He was sad. I said, ‘Hi, a nice day’

and he got really angry

(what was I supposed to say?)

He said he doesn’t do nice, no way,

to ‘my sort’ especially;

He blurted he’s HIV+ but isn’t gay

I struggled to keep my hurt at bay,

fend off his hostility

(what was I supposed to say?)

Sex is a game it takes two to play,

we agreed over Fair Trade tea;

He blurted he’s HIV+ but isn’t gay

(what was I supposed to say?)

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

Youth - Middle Age - Old Age

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

Yesterday, I posted a poem inspired by a song sung by Doris Day. A reader has been in touch to ask, ‘It is bad enough that someone who claims to be a serious poet writes gay rubbish, which I find offensive, but to write about Doris Day is really the last straw!’

Well, for a start I have never claimed to be a serious poet only someone who takes poetry seriously; well, most of the time. I am certainly no poetry snob, and readers will know that I write on all manner of themes. Nor am I a music snob. I love Doris Day just as I love Ella Fitzgerald and Johnny Cash.  I love some classical music, but I also love some pop and adore rock ‘n’ roll. I love some opera but cannot claim to be an opera buff. With me, it’s pick’n’mix. So what’s wrong with that? If it is good of its kind, I will usually enjoy it. Why shouldn’t I enjoy Elvis Presley every bit as much as Placido Domingo or adore Shirley Bassey just as I do Diana Ross and Leona Lewis. And let's not forget the late, great Dusty Springfield or, for that matter, Mario Lanza or Frank Sinatra. I could go on all day...

If people choose to limit their appreciation to one kind of music, one genre of literature or one period of art, that’s up to them. But there are lots of people like me who love to dabble in this ‘n’ that, and where’s the harm?

So I offer no apology for offending that particular reader. What planet is he (or she) from, I wonder?

Meanwhile...

So many readers have asked me to repeat this trilogy of villanelles that has not appeared on the blog since early 2010 so here it is again. I hope new readers and those who are unable to browse the blog archives for whatever reason, quite possibly because they simply don’t have the time, will enjoy it and regular readers will also enjoy being reacquainted with it.

We all have to grow old, but to how many of us, I wonder, does the ageing process convey the wisdom that we must make the most of the best not the worst of it all...?

IN APPRECIATION OF YOUTH

Youth cries the world’s tears,

slows time’s flight,

relays Earth Mother’s fears

It will always lead the cheers

for wrongs put right,

Youth cries the world’s tears

Youth bonds with its peers,

develops second sight,

relays Earth Mother’s fears

To peace and love it steers

(Armageddon in sight)

Youth cries the world’s tears

As a mist of naivety clears,

it won't throw the fight,

relays Earth Mother’s fears

It straddles the world’s terrors,

a love poem to write;

Youth cries the world’s tears

relays Earth Mother’s fears

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

IN CELEBRATION OF MIDDLE AGE

In celebration of middle age

(after much rehearsing)

time brings us centre-stage

Like a bird freed from its cage,

we’ll fly on a poem’s wing

in celebration of middle age

Daring us turn the first page

in our history’s re-shaping,

time brings us centre-stage

Shake off cliché and adage,

give truth a rare dusting

in celebration of middle age

Inspired by youth’s raw rage,

its humanity enduring,

time brings us centre-stage

Acted out on a custom page,

a love poem in the making;

in celebration of middle age

time brings us centre-stage

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

BY WAY OF MARKING OLD AGE

By way of marking old age

(after much reflecting)

time edges us off-stage

Like a bird returned to its cage,

we’ll flex a feisty wing

by way of marking old age

Letting slip that life's last page

makes good reading,

time edges us off-stage

Let’s not pass cliché and adage

off as living…

by way of marking old age

Inspired by a well-honed rage,

its humanity enduring…

time edges us off-stage

No matter memory skips a page,

its poetry re-working;

by way of marking old age

time edges us off-stage

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

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

Castaways

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

Today’s post is duplicated on both blogs.

Many thanks to those readers who have been in touch to say they enjoy my Tweets on Life with which I link my blog posts to Twitter. However, I don’t use Twitter as a social network as I am not into social networking so if you want to contract me any time, always email me at: rogertab@aol.com

If you want to read my Tweets, go to: https://twitter.com/rogertab

Meanwhile...

In 2010 I posted two poems that I had written by way of a tribute to Doris Day. A number of you asked me to include them in my new collection Tracking the Torchbearer that will be published here in the UK during February/Match this year. I have  just finished collating the poems for the book, and only managed to find room for one of them (today’s poem); it will appear in the Opening Up To Love section and I will include a Note to say how I came to write it after listening to Doris singing Love’s Little Island. I first heard the song many years ago and, being a romantic through and through, it has always been a favourite of mine.

In another section of the book, Lasting Impressions, I will also include a tribute to the late, great Ella Fitzgerald called Ella Sings The Blues. [See blog entry for April 2010.]

Hopefully, there will be something for everyone in what will probably be the last collection I publish in book form. Book sales are already plummeting, and have never been too good for poetry anyway, so I may well only kindle publish Diary of a Time Traveller to mark my 70^th birthday in 2015.

By the way, none of my poetry books are available as e-books yet, but I will see how poetry transcribes to e-format later this year.

As regular readers are aware, UK readers can order any of poetry titles at any UK bookstore or try their local public library; all readers (including overseas) can order signed copies direct from me at a blog discount & pay via PayPal. Enquiries to: rogertab@aol.com with ‘Blog Reader' in the subject field or the email will not be opened. 

CASTAWAYS

Washed up on an island

in a misty dream,

passing centuries shadowing us

(wings across golden sand)

Game to explore an island

in a misty dream,

fair memories waving back at us

(castle flags on golden sand)

Last seen kissing on an island,

sea mist closing in,

too soon, time’s tide covering us

(footprints on golden sand)

Closer to nature on an island,

(love’s lasting dream)

earth’s descant surely winging us,

seabirds across golden sand

As golden sand to ocean waves

are the world’s lovers…

though humankind run the gamut

of nature’s grudges against it

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

Through A Glass Darkly

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

An earlier version of this poem appeared in the anthology An Immortal Truth, Poetry Now [Forward Press] 2000 and subsequently in my first collection the following year. The original version was written in 1984 following a discussion with several peers about how awful we were sometimes when we were children and how, whenever we look in memory’s mirror for those halcyon days, maturity invariably summons certain regrets that, in turn, cause cracks to appear...

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY

In a pretty street, tree lined,

children playing hide-and-seek

make noise enough

to wake the dead, the old man says

who lives on the ground floor

of an end house whose shiny steps

such fun we slip, towering wall

a thrill to squeal and climb, knowing

he’s sure to fuss, but by the time he’ll rush,

no sign of us

Waving a stick, he’ll bawl us out

and we’ll mouth him back, but not until

the door slams shut. Oh, but kids

growing up make no excuses, just din enough

to wake the dead, the old man says,

treading the ground floor of the end house

whose mossy steps so snug we sprawl,

graffiti wall sheer joy to lean, grubby nets

a-quiver at our kissing or could it be for all

he’s missing?

Children gone, traffic enough

to wake the dead, the old man said

who lived that shabby room

whose crabby gloom we never spared;

brave wall, a sorry spread,

curtains down (windows boarded up instead)

ghosts playing hide-and-seek

with eternity facing a bleak affinity

for wings taunted by the last tree left standing,

cracks in a mirror appearing

 A cruelty enduring

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2011

Some Days Smack Of Burning Rubber

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

We all have them from time to time...

So when was your last really, really BAD day?

SOME DAYS SMACK OF BURNING RUBBER

Shadows like ghosts burning rubber on the highway

come dead of night

One mischief making ghost gets to play at navigator

for old times sake

Driver takes a shortcut across a field of bad dreams

sprouting like four-leaf clover

Ghosts like shadows ready to drive a hard bargain

with the living for their favours

Driver on a Big Wheel screaming for the fun of a fair

under an acid rain of spreadsheets

Driver on a shrinking wheel, Gulliver lost in Lilliput

without a map

Highway coursing the driver’s veins as sure as boards

turning an actor inside out

Driver’s eyes opening. Wheel of Life resumes a pace

unworthy of a ghost

Home stretch, final act, driver’s waking up to a kinder

endgame than limbo…?

Shadows like ghosts burning rubber on the highway

come dead of night

  

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

[Note: this poem is one of 100+ that will appear in my new collection Tracking the Torchbearer due for publication by late February/early April; like my previous collections, it will be divided into (7) themed sections for easy reading.]

Out Of Africa

http://aspectsofagaymanslifeinverse.blogspot.com/

Today’s post is duplicated on my general blog because, hopefully, it will be of real interest and concern to all readers.  Here in the UK, it is bad enough that homophobia and hate crime against gay people, especially gay men, is alive and kicking, but in some parts of the world, and not only in the southern hemisphere either, it aspires to diabolical proportions.

Anyone who watched the Channel Four Dispatches programme ‘Africa: the last taboo’ in July 2010 will have a good idea what it is like to be gay in the greater part of Africa. 

Now, evangelical pastors preaching homophobia and worse across the world have much to answer for, but it is perhaps the greater part of Africa that they aspire to their most diabolical; their influence is such that a newspaper editor in Uganda has called for the deaths of known gay people, and they must accept no small responsibility for anti-gay legislation in many if not most African countries.

http://www.channel4.com/programmes/dispatches/episode-guide/series-65/episode-1

OUT OF AFRICA

‘Kill the homosexuals!’

an evangelical pastor cried,

and true to his words

many gay men and women

have since died

‘Homosexuals are sinners!’

the impassioned pastor yelled

at a congregation

that took up the cry, would

see us killed

‘Homosexuality is an evil,’

the demon pastor screamed,

‘and no known cure

so kill, kill, or see its sinning

go unredeemed!’

‘Man shall with woman lie!’

The pastor furiously exhorted

his flock to heed verses

from Leviticus, Christ’s coming

conveniently aborted

Someone in the congregation

dared point out that Christ said

we should love

and help our neighbours, not

wish them dead

‘Blasphemer!” the pastor cried,

near hysterically refusing to relent

his demonising

of homosexuality undermining

New Testament

Africa, Africa, what are you doing,

even listening?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

[Note: This poem will appear in my new collection Tracking the Torchbearer to be published in February/March 2012]

Woman In Green

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

Regular readers will know that many years ago, when I was in my early thirties, I had a severe nervous breakdown and became suicidal. I overdosed on paracetamol and was unconscious for thirty-six hours. I awoke in such pain that I somehow found the resolve to make my way to my nearby GP’s surgery but only recall telling a receptionist I had taken an overdose before I passed out again to wake up in hospital the next morning.

It was stupid thing to do. Yet, desperation rarely if ever recognizes stupidity.

In hospital, I felt guilty and ashamed for taking up a bed and the nurses’ time. The nurses were brilliant and could not have been kinder, which made me feel all the more ashamed of what, after all, is a very selfish act.

Yes, selfish. Yet, desperation rarely if ever recognises selfishness either. 

For the first and only time in my life, I saw a psychiatrist who was actually very helpful. [I have seen several who have been a complete waste of time.] It would be several years before I recovered sufficiently to think about finding another job, and years more before I began to feel all but fully recovered.  I have looked upon every day since as a bonus.

I survived all this with the support of some good friends and a faith in Earth Mother of which I had  had temporarily lost sight in a maze of feelings to which I could scarcely relate, and where I had lost all sense of identity. Various factors contributed to this sorry state of affairs, not least growing up in a gay-unfriendly environment although this was but one of many; a significant hearing loss no one appreciated, including myself as a child and an appalling relationship with my father played their part. Even so, I was an adult and needed to take responsibility for myself instead of playing the blame game and sinking into self-pity. I like to think I learned that lesson as time passed and I got a life.

Anyone driven to despair, whether or not they contemplate suicide, will know that it is hard if not impossible at the time to rationalise either cause or consequences. It is an illness for which the only cure must come from within. Yet, so often, those in despair fail to find the strength they need to go that last mile. But if strength fails them, so too does human nature. Even these days, mental illness is regarded with suspicion and scepticism.

I was lucky to have some good friends and Earth Mother looking out for me.  My despair had been a long slow burning fuse that was bound to ignite a powder keg of sheer chaos in me sooner or later. There were casualties other than myself, and I can only hope they, too, survived to continue making the best of life, people and circumstances; a philosophy that saved me and taught me a valuable lesson.

So if you know anyone caught up in a downward spiral of depression and despair, please don’t give up on them, but lend a helping hand to being them back to mainstream life. There are no shortcuts, and the journey is likely to be a long one; in my case, years, and I’ve still a way to go yet. I have travelled a long way along that road, and am grateful for all the help I’ve had in making every step. But among all the good memories, there will always be bad ones that will try to pull us down and sometimes succeed however hard we resist.

When I started to recover from my breakdown, many people thought I was ‘cured’; as if I’d had a bad dose of flu and was now okay. 30+ years on, I hear from and about other people in much the same position. So much for progress in real terms; that is to say in human terms...

WOMAN IN GREEN

I sat by the sea contemplating suicide
when a woman in green came and sat by my side.
stayed quite still, didn’t say a word;
my head, it rang with a gull’s shrill cry
as if echoing the heart’s screaming to be left to die,
no hanging on to this useless body

The woman in green didn’t look at me
but continued to exude that youth, life and beauty
I’d once loved, become my enemy;
following her gaze to a misty horizon,
I entered into a way of seeing altogether unknown
where the sea wore a green velvet gown

Grey hair streaked with a sunset’s glow
above eyes as teasing a blue as those I used to know
and pink lips urging me not to follow;
where once the sea, now a patch of grass
beneath an old tree on whose leaves of painted glass
nature would work its magic for us

Vanished, just as suddenly as it came,
knowing memories will keep murmuring your name
(sea of grass, leaves of glass, the same);
suddenly, I am bursting with a desire
to live (even love?) again, like an autumn leaf on fire,
its story all but told, waiting on another

I laughed aloud, forgetting the woman in green
and turned to explain, but she had already gone

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

[Note: This poem will appear in my new collection - Tracking the Torchbearer - to be published in the spring.]

Taking The Scenic Route

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

This poem appeared on the blog in 2010 as 'Where The River Bends'. Readers ‘Petra’ and ‘Karl’ have approved the new title and suggested I repeat it to help make returning to work in rain, snow or whatever after the Christmas and New Year breaks just that little bit more bearable.

Well, imagination is a wonderful thing so...

TAKING THE SCENIC ROUTE

Tracking a path through a forest of pine,

nature music all around, leading me where

feisty river’s twisting here, turning there,

and I pausing at each bend to cock an ear

for a lyric like no other, hidden away

in a mystic mist hugging me as if to keep

me safe from surly giants on the prowl

though (for sure) they mean me no harm

Silver, the river, blending with mist and sun,

covering me so that I am like royalty dressed

for a state occasion, needing only a crown

to let me call this fairy tale kingdom my own

and if a part of me knows (for sure) I dream

I cannot resist but must follow, follow, for all

its twists, turns, glorious music and a lyric

I can barely make out, straining to interpret

Birds and beasts of the forest shadowing me

as if at Earth Mother’s command, she concerned

for me as I track the eternal river through

a forest of pine, alone, ill-prepared for its twists

and turns and a mist cloaking me in silver,

making me into something, someone, I am not

yet I love how it shines me against the dark

enough (for sure) to scare off any malign spirits

Oh, to walk free and safe among Nature’s own,

let my senses run wild yet still retain a keen sense

of proportion, equilibrium, a feeling for fair play

that lets the river run, the trees grow, the birds sing

and beasts live, learn, and teach before dying

about the meaning of it all; no exceptions, even

for the likes of you and I. Stop! Look and see

the concrete jungle we’ve chosen for our reality

No fairy tale ending. Magical forest and silver river

insisting I cross the damn road, get to work on time

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

Where Dreamers Dare

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in January 2010. Reader 'Toni' wants to share it again with everyone because it ‘...sums up that New Year feeling.' I dare it will evoke a sense of déjà vu in most if not all readers....

WHERE DREAMERS DARE

As the world wakes up to a new start

its children dream an end to their fears;

may the Poetry of Peace play its part

Hear nature, its dire warnings impart

where Earth Mother brought to tears

as the world wakes up to a new start

Though world leaders but driven apart,

(come an irony of fog that barely clears)

may the Poetry of Peace play its part

Where green campaigners on the alert,

a Coalition of Compromise soon gathers

as the world wakes up to a new start

If easy enough to speak from the heart,

it’s a rare being, on its promises delivers;

may the Poetry of Peace play its part

While the horse but following the cart,

humankind, its finer purpose disappears;

as the world wakes up to a new start,

may the Poetry of Peace play its part

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

Flesh And Blood

http://aspectsofagaymanslifeinverse.blogspot.com/

Today’s poem has been inspired by tales told me by young people whose Coming Out experience was no way as tough an experience as they expected. Me, I did not feel I could confide in my family and only told my mother a few years before she died in 1976. I was in and out of the damn closet for years, trusting relatively few people with the knowledge that I am gay, before I finally came out to stay in the early 1980s. [Gay relationships ‘between consenting adults’ were decriminalised in the UK in 1967.]

The poem last appeared on the blog in 2010 and is repeated today on both blogs for all those gay boys and girls, men and women who have found coming out to family and friends something of a traumatic experience. Besides, my blogs are read worldwide so hopefully gay people whose socio-cultural-religious origins will not allow them to be openly gay, might take heart in the fact that no civilised person sees sexual identity as unnatural, criminal or sinful; it is simply part of our whole identity, albeit an integral part, but it is the whole that really counts. Picking on someone for their sexuality is like claiming to have completed a jigsaw puzzle with much of it still missing, and only a very foolish person does that...

It is easier to be openly gay if you are growing up in a gay-friendly environment, but many of us don’t so it is can be really tough on everyone concerned. Even so, it is well worth it if only for personal peace of mind. If it means having to move away from family and friends and getting a life while they mull things over, so be it.

Sadly, it can take some people a long time to shake off the worst of the outdated, misleading and often offensive stereotypes that continue to attach themselves to gay people in the minds of the less enlightened among the heterosexual majority. But if any family members or so-called ‘friends’ really can’t see that we’re still the same person for coming out of the damn closet they put us in ...well, maybe we are better off without them. 

Believe me. It gets easier for most people...family, friends, and us too! I guess it goes with the territory, learning to fit in to our sexuality like a hand to a glove, and then, before we know it, as a hand to the body with which nature has blessed us.

Oh, but if only those blinkered leaders in countries where gay relationships remain a criminal offence would accept that sexuality is as natural as each breath we take and we can make a valuable contribution to our native society, especially failing societies; invariably, these are hosted by repressive regimes and/or have the ear of religious fundamentalists. [So-called ‘Christian’ evangelical pastors around the world, especially those still relentlessly inciting hate crime across much of Africa, take note!]

Yes, I know I have said it all before. But as my dear late mother used to say, if something is worth saying, it is always worth repeating. Mind you, the old adage is so true; there are none so deaf as will not hear or so blind that will not see. I guess we just have to try and make them...

Did I say it would be easy?

FLESH AND BLOOD

When we told my parents

we are gay and in love,

the looks they flung us said it all

their words fraught

with anger, pain and distress,

urging us to think again

about just what it would mean

to fly in the face of religion,

insult God - and for what?

Desires of the flesh

overriding all human decency

(unnatural at that)

When we told your parents

we are gay and in love,

the looks they flung us said it all,

tumbling over words

conveying their happiness,

hopes that we will

know the same joys of love

that had been theirs

for years - and for what?

Desires of the flesh

mindful of all human decency

playing its part

When my parents met yours

over dinner one night,

the looks they flung each other

did not augur well

for an entertaining evening

but yours won mine over

with their no-nonsense talking

about living, loving,

sharing - and for what?

Desires of the flesh

with all that’s good and decent

at its heart

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: This poem will appear in my new collection Tracking the Torchbearer scheduled for publication in the UK during February/March 2012]