You-Me-Us, a Love for All Seasons

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.]