http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
I am sometimes asked, especially at
poetry readings, why I revise poems, usually at a (much) later date, even if it
has been published in its original form. What is the point of having a poem
published only to revise it later? I have no definitive answer to that other
than I haven’t a clue. I suspect that sometimes a published poem is as good as
it gets at the time, but (and the poet has no way of knowing) it is only a first
draft.
Poems have a life of their own; some
persist in growing within mind-body-spirit as time goes by, nurtured by various
moods, thoughts, emerging philosophies and responses to this, that, and
whatever in a subconscious that is an extension of that same consciousness in
which the poem was originally shaped. Time, the ultimate mischief-maker, will
latch on to a trigger years later and confront the poet with either acknowledging
and/ or for compensating for any shortcomings in the original poem;
shortcomings of which neither poet nor reader may have been aware at the time
although some authoritative critics may have hinted at them without quite
understanding at what, precisely, they were hinting.
Now, life doesn’t always go as
smoothly as we would like. Trust love to be on hand to help relieve the stress ... although it has to be said that love can also be the cause of stress., especially when found wanting, for whatever reason and/or life tests it (and us) to the limits of endurance, such as when a loved one or close friend dies ...
Oh, and lovers have no monopoly on
love, either; as I have enthused before, and dare say will again, it comes in
all shapes and sizes; places and animals, as well as people. Nor, where any of
these are concerned does our relationship with love end in death given that
remembrance, too, is always on hand to stir the spirit and lift the heart
whenever it gets the call.
My mother once told me not to be
sad when someone we care for dies, but “Only shed tears of joy for joy will
always get the better of sorrow. Why people think it’s respectful to wear black
at funerals is beyond me. Funerals should be a celebration of happy memories, and
we all have our share of those or it’s a poor sod who doesn’t … so don’t you
wear black at my funeral,” she added with a typical twinkle (or tear?) in each
eye. I had no way of knowing at the time that she had a cancer that would find
me recalling those words within months.
YOU-ME-US, LOVE FOR ALL SEASONS
In the eyes of whom I love, a
feisty light;
memories of flowers come springtime,
birds nesting, badgers mating, a
celebration
of mind-body-spirit’s timely reawakening
from a winter of the heart ever listening out
to take its cue from Earth Mother
In the eyes of whom I love, a
bright light;
memories of sandcastles come summer,
laughter, ice creams, buckets and
spades,
shrieking gulls in concert with
children
letting rip with lungs applauding
joie de vivre,
for its magic, ignorant of illusion
In the eyes of whom I love, as pale
a light
as of snowfalls come autumn’s wake,
cosy fires of remembrance spreading
love
and peace across landscapes less
lonely
for Earth Mother’s harvesting of
time and space,
its enduring echoes of you-me-us
On the face of whom I love, a
guiding light,
its sun-moon-stars, my every day and
night
Copyright R. N. Taber 2005, 2020
[Note: An earlier version of this
poem appears in under the title ‘On the Face of whom I Love’ in A
Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books,
2005; alternative title added later.]
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