Sleepy River

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

"I don't believe in failure. It is not failure if you enjoyed the process." - Oprah Winfrey

“There will be little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to expect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better: we find comfort somewhere. “ – Jane Austen

"Make failure your teacher, not your undertaker." Zig Ziglar

" To see a world in a grain of sand/ And a heaven in a wild flower, / Hold infinity in the palm of your hand/ And eternity in an hour." - William Blake 

Hi folks,

I hope you are all coping with the exceptionally warm weather, unseasonably hot in some places around the globe, even those accustomed to high temperatures. 

Now, today’s poem was inspired by a favourite song of mine, recorded by the late African-American, baritone singer and actor, Paul Robeson. 

Years ago, when I was still at school and living with my parents, I would sit at the dining room table and do my homework, then sit back and listen to his beautiful voice while letting this particular song lead me through a landscape of dreams. 

Ah, the dreams of the young, so accessible, we would engage with and be inspired by them, whatever the chances of their coming true; all the thrills of fame and fortune with none of the spills that real life so loves to dish us all from time to time...

Relatively few dreams/aspirations of mine ever came true, but I still revisit them, even as I grow old, if only for their remarkability to keep me young at heart... until I find myself looking in a mirror and wondering just where I want wrong in the pursuit of those same dreams. 

Yes. they haunt me now, such dreams that I had, but mostly as friendly ghosts, whose company I have enjoyed, notwithstanding multiple errors of judgement on my part along the way…

SLEEPY RIVER

Walking in the sunshine
by a sleepy river where years ago
we’d stroll, hand in hand,
engaging with a fantasy landscape
of daydreams, destined
never to come to such fulfilment
as mind-body-spirit
aspired, but such is life, and no worries
so long as there’s you-me-us

Reasoning not the need
we’d travel the world first class
among such cloud faces
as had the measure of us, but happy
to keep company with smiles
of intrepid aspiration
as invariably accompany young lovers
wherever and whomsoever
they may be, in all walks of life in a world
where survival is the keyword

Ah, but too often dreams
fall foul of misunderstandings, 
barefaced lies, excuses
and good intentions, like shipwrecks
of which the less said, the better,
fat chance of retrieving 
remains of relationships abandoned
for lack of true staying power, togetherness,
found wanting under duress

Now, I grow old, saddened
for having failed so many dreams,
gladdened, though,
for having battled to see them fulfilled,
nor any sense of failure
in having surrendered them to vagaries
overtaking me, not one dream
forsaking me, but still able to inspire, embrace 
the poetry of personal space

Sleepy river, every tide a collective you-me-us,
every ripple, every wave, a life force...

 Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

Tracks

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

OVERHEARD: “They’re always right so everyone else has to be wrong. How vain or self-centred can a person be, for heaven’s sake?” 

Possibly the person in question is neither vain or self-centred in the sense their accuser implies. Sometimes people need to address their inner selves so often, in order to avoid a personal abyss, that they develop tunnel vision; not in every respect, though, only as and when they need to make some cliff-hanger of a personal decision. 

Whatever, everyone’s cliff-hangers are different; what may help one person may not help another. 

Since the person under discussion here was clearly asked for advice, or at least an opinion, with which the speaker plainly disagreed... don’t they deserve some credit for at least trying to answer, in the light of what they may well have discovered for themselves, rather than sitting on the proverbial fence? 

Now, the speaker may well be right, but doesn’t the accused deserve the benefit of doubt rather than be given a stereotypical label that may well do the rounds and prove to be unfounded in different circumstances...? 

Why did I earwig and subsequently write the poem? Well, possibly because one of my favourite recordings from the 1960’s is Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood by The Animals. Sadly, it happens to some of us all the time... 

TRACKS 

Everywhere I look,
I’ll invariably fail to see what lies
beyond certain perimeters,
narrow, though, they well may be
for reasons best accounted for
by formative years left least aware
of a mind-body-spirit
failing to master such arts of interaction
as effect true communication 

Unable to break free
of such hauntings and compelled
to follow, though they lead
into such dark, complex landscapes
of emotion and imagination
as more likely to effect tunnel vision
than lend me a key
to better understanding the finer mysteries
of human history over centuries 

From time to time,
personal space allows me glimpses
of a kinder past-present-future
than the human engine in me running
on lines meant to leave me
missing out on such key destinations
as Love and Peace,
only for me to miss my destination yet again
on such tracks as are but human 

Call me Self-centredness, that human faculty
often mistaken for vanity 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

 

L-I-F-E, A Masque Haunt

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

2020 has seen rising tensions across the entire spectrum of humanity, testing even the strongest of human spirits, bringing out the worst as well as the best in us; the worst, caving in to frustration and rage while others struggle to act as peacemakers against a Here-and-Now subject to invisible tide of Covid-19. 

In 2020 the world has almost certainly seen and shared in the devastating effects of more pain and premature deaths than for centuries, bringing some of us together while driving others apart, and leaving many to fend for themselves as best they can. 

Yet, where there is life, there really is hope and our hopes for better, kinder times ahead lie in the making and delivering of vaccines designed and tested to defeat the coronavirus once and for all; the word is, it can defeat the new variant also. 

It will be some time yet before everyone has been vaccinated. In the meantime, we can but let Hope take root in us and let it rise above the unkinder and more negative qualities with which human nature is so often likely to engage whenever under duress; at the same time, we should try and make allowances for the latter, too, both in ourselves as well as in others, while not letting it get the better of either, if only because that is doing no one any favours. 

L-I-F-E, A MASQUE HAUNT 

I come in all shapes and forms,
attacking mind-body-spirit, part by part
as time goes by
without its always being on the alert
or understanding why
it feels undermined, drained of everyday
life forces
like hope, resolve, stoicism, even the power of love
threatened by an invisible enemy 

I bring out the worst and the best
in humanity worldwide, made answerable
for such feelings
and actions no more in keeping with us
than our losing heart
for waking each new day with a sense of dread
the growing weight
of daily trying to makes sense of ever moving goalposts
as likely as not foiling all finer aspirations 

Ah, but the human hearts dances
to many a tune just as love comes in many
shapes and forms;
people, places, memories, all configuring
inner strengths
within even a failing mind-body-spirit, urging it
to do battle with me,
defeat my best agents conspiring to bring it down any way
they can, and will, unless it calls them out 

I am called Stress, in any Masque Haunt, its natural leader
until Love steps up, blows my cover, takes over 

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2020

 

 

 

 

Lines on the Accidental Life of a Raindrop

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

Another new poem today.

A regular reader has emailed to asks if I am not ‘slightly obsessed’ with rain imagery in some poems although he enjoys it, ‘given that it is one of those a positive life forces with which you also seem more than a little obsessed’. Well, I hope I don’t come across as ’obsessed’ in any of my poems.

Yes, I am fascinated by and empathise with various life forces; good, bad, ugly and sublime aspects of human nature … which I suspect applies to most of us if we are truly honest with ourselves. It is, after all, what the arts are all about as well as entertainment, the sciences, too, as well as looking for and finding answers; in the latter, science has an advantage since all the arts can too is make suggestions and offer alternatives to both entertain audiences as well as providing food for thought.

As a child, one of my elders and betters told me that art is the opposite of science; even at a young age, though, we had to agree to differ; in children and young people this is too often seen as being precocious. Different, yes, very different, but both are mentors to mind-body-spirit, each in their own way.

Much the sane can be said for nature and human nature; take a raindrop falling from the sky, catching both light and a child’s imagination, food for thought, indeed; where imagination entertains, invariably asking more questions than answering any …such observations may well not only stay with us  all our lives, taking us on a voyage of discovery that consciously or subconsciously  may well affect every move we make, every word we speak, who we are at any given time and whom we may yet become ...

No mean mentors, raindrops …

LINES ON THE ACCIDENTAL LIFE OF A RAINDROP

I watched a raindrop falling,

saw it splash on the ground without a sound,

and the silence, it was deafening,

killing the roar of traffic all around, leaving me

wondering who and where I am,

looking back at the heavens, asking questions,

needing reasons as to why

one minute I’m in a busy, noisy place, the next

travelling time and (personal) space

Silence, splashing my face

like thoughts that never seem to find a voice,

sailing through my head,

much like a summer breeze, every word unsaid

splashing on the backroads

of my mind, like raindrops fallen to the ground

only to conspire with others

to form puddles for children to make such faces in

as prompted by some native intuition

Years on, the boy I was that day,

a man now, but still watching that same rain fall

into much the same silence,

weirder now than ever for being so much rarer,

more likely to be swept along

by the rushing by of a Here-and-Now, little pause

to wonder where the time goes,

as likely breaking me for going with its flow had I not

listened to the silence, and never forgot

Old now, mind-body-spirit as full of pleasure as pain,

just for watching raindrops splashing Memory Lane

Copyright R. N Taber 2020

The Seekers OR Beyond Rhyme and Reason ... What?

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2016 under a different title.

I am often asked (a) Why do I write poetry, and why so little blank verse when everyone knows rhyme is old hat, especially as the media ignores me for the most part so I’m not even "famous"? and  (b) Why spoil a good poetry site by including gay poetry? [Thank you for the praise element there.]

Well, fame isn’t everything, nor is blank verse, and I do have a reputation of sorts around the world if feedback from my blogs and other Internet sites is anything to go by. The most important thing to me is that there are people out there who read what I write; whether or not they like what I write is less important than it may give them food for thought. [Even not liking something demands we ask ourselves, why?] As for including gay-interest poems, as I do in all my collections…why not? I am a gay man and a poem is a poem is a poem. I have received emails from heterosexual readers to say it has helped them think differently (better) about gay people and from gay readers thanking me for my inclusiveness. Opinions will always be divided; such is the nature of food for thought.

Poetry is a passion with me. Prior to university, I wrote many poems; less so for some time afterwards. Reading and writing critical essays about great poets was very enjoyable, but also very daunting. How could I possibly follow in the footsteps of the likes of Wordsworth, Shelley, Blake, Hardy and so many more? It took a while for the penny to drop. I could not hope to follow in their footsteps nor should I even try. No, I must create footprints of my own. It would not matter if few people found them worth following so long as they were there, to be chanced upon; hopefully, of some worth to someone somewhere at some time or another finding their way in life (and losing it now and then) as I have done. Reading great writers has helped me become a positive thinker; no mean feat considering the inferiority complex that dogged me at home, school and young manhood.

I have only ever been in love once in my whole life, but love takes various forms and I have loved many people in various ways. Take friendship, a form of love at all its various levels, and probably the most commonly open to abuse. Sometimes love is returned; often, though, it is abused. Nor am I referring to just physical but also  psychological abuse; people taking advantage of love, taking it (and us) for granted, always taking, taking, taking… with little or no thought about what it means to give. It can hurt, really hurt. For me, poetry has always helped ease that hurt. 

Yes, poetry is my passion, a love that returns far more than I can ever give. Especially as I grow old, the passion continues to course through my veins and remind me of all that is beautiful in this sorry world, in nature and human nature; more than a match for cynic or pessimist, and music to the ears of a positive thinker so long as he or she remembers to listen out with inner ear, see with inner eye, feel a way through bad times to better. I recall loves of my life - in all shapes and forms - that inspire me, always have and always will.

Whether we acknowledge it or not, we are all poets in the sense that poetry is the very act of living; how we chose to define it - and ourselves - is down to each and every one of us, each in our own way, not least in poetry, bearing in mind how there is a poetry of sorts in everything we are, do, regret, aspire to ... whatever, if we care to look, and learn  from the looking whether or not we ever quite find it.

This poem is a villanelle.

THE SEEKERS or BEYOND RHYME AND REASON ... WHAT?

Who seeks out poetry, seeks love,

always listening out for its call

in nest or flight, wings of a dove

Between earth and heavens above,

as human passions rise and fall.

who seeks out poetry, seeks love 

Find nature’s finest, hand in glove

with Man’s first aim, survival;

in nest or flight, wings of a dove

Where a trophy hunter may prove 

keen eyes for a potential kill,

who seeks out poetry, seeks love

A power to make mountains move,

centuries-old nightmares repel;

in nest or flight, wings of a dove

Grown cold, hand out of its glove

among rhetoric's overspill?

who seeks out poetry, seeks love,

in nest or flight, wings of a dove

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

N-A-T-U-R-E, Pacemakers OR Up for a Challenge

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

Now, most if not all of us know only too well how great a challenge the ups and downs of life can be,  especially now as the COVID-19 coronavirus may have passed its peak but persists in affecting daily lives around the world., not least those who have lost loved ones to it.

Nature, not unlike human nature is likely to draw us  into various relationship triangles here at various stages in our lives, not infrequently running circles around us and leaving us uncertain as to which way to turn next;  we can but do our best to shape up on our own account, and may the best man, woman, girl or boy win. As for what we mean by 'best' or 'win'... well, how subjective is that? It depends on your point of view, I guess, and a poem can only ever hope to touch upon skeleton templates. 

My English teacher, 'Jock' Rankin - more years ago that I care to remember - once described the relationship between the reader and any piece of writing as putting flesh on the bones; not an uncommon analogy, but one that went over the head of a slow-learner 12 year-old as I was then. In time, though, I came to see how appropriate it is given that no piece of writing strikes any two readers in quite the same way, thereby taking on a life of its own for the reader/s and in the abstract; the latter, in the course of any subsequent discussion, being left to us to make of what we will. A good teacher will suggest interpretations without imposing any; we may well instinctively opt (at the time) for what we discern as the teacher's preferred point of view, but the best teachers provide food for thought that can last a lifetime. Needless to say, Jock was one of the best. 

In many ways, my secondary schooling was all but irrelevant to my educational needs in the sense that its curriculum embraced more technical and science subjects than I have ever had a talent for. Even so, I learned more from its teachers than anything on the curriculum, and for that I will always be grateful.

'The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.' 

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

(Image taken from the Internet)

N-A-T-U-R-E, PACEMAKERS or UP FOR A CHALLENGE

Dawn,

demanding we play our part,

do our best

to rise above the worst

society can throw

at us, contrive (or negotiate)

a winning streak

least likely to drag us back

to Square One

Noon,

challenging us to do (far) better

than our peers

if only to earn promotion

of the sort likely

to bring in enough to pay off

the credit cards,

stop the bailiffs returning us

to Square One

Sunset,

too soon for congratulations

on playing our part,

keeping society off our backs

(for now, at least)

long enough (we live in hope)

to take a step back,

get the measure of ourselves

in Square One

Night,

running a gamut of high hopes,

broken promises,

missed opportunities, pipped

to the post every time

by Fate’s favoured, among whom

we are as...chaff

in an ill wind blowing us back

to Square One?

Sunlight,

waking up to chinks in shutters

greeting us

with wicked winks and cheers

from town and field,

applauding our taking off (again)

on wings of a skylark,
setting as tough a pace as any
for being alive

  

Copyright R. N. Taber 2017

A Sense of Who We Are

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

Life is what it is; we make the best (or worst) of things. Everyone is different and no one has the right to judge another simply because they appear to aspire to less than their potential suggests. Fame, fortune, travel…these are wonderful achievements if and where the cap fits but aspiring to be nothing more or less than a good parent/person is no less wonderful, even more so perhaps for its invariably being less obvious (or newsworthy).

Whatever, we can always fall back on imagination.

A SENSE OF WHO WE ARE

Home truths, like near dead lilies on a lake

running dry

Lifelines, like veins of a turning leaf

come autumn

Desire, taking comfort in homemade soup

in winter

Wisdom, taking its cue from the first

cuckoo of spring

Ambition,  Jack Frost’s tablecloth spread,

our places laid

Passion, saving water lilies from a lake

running dry

Love, preserving archives should humanity

need reminding

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2016

[Note: This poem first appeared in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007 and was subsequently published in CC&D v 270, Scars Publications, USA]

Engaging with a Speculative Mind

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

Society - that is to say, the more vocal and 'pushy' of its so-called  'betters' - may well like to think the human condition can be moulded as it sees fit, but it underestimates the human spirit, that inner self inclined to resist all attempts to fit us into boxes for which we were not made.

By all means, let us resist ...

ENGAGING WITH A SPECULATIVE MIND

Some turn to love but for escape, comfort,

weary of a world full of pain and hate,

sick of always being told what to do (or not),

seek peace, understanding in a kind heart

Some find an escape and comfort they seek,

believe they're safe under sheltering skies;

some, disenchanted by love for its own sake,

weary of the same people, places, half lies…

If squaring up to life’s clout is never easy,

squaring up to love is harder still by far;

as for looking both in the eye with sincerity,

that demands the sureness of a guiding star

As clay to the potter's wheel, human nature

can but do its best with what's on offer ...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2016

[Note: First published under the title ‘Horoscope' in A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

Waking Up to the Power of Positive Thinking

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

Please remember that my blogs do not accept comments, but I always reply to emails. Some readers have said they have problems using AOL; in which case try taberroger@yahoo.com. I look forward to hearing from you.

Now, who hasn't despaired now and then of even getting up in the morning?

People sometimes tell me that they have given up on love. I tell them, never even think about it.. Love can happen along just when you least expect it. Besides, as I’ve pointed out many times on the blogs, love expresses itself in many shapes and forms; it doesn’t have to be sexual. Love between lovers is special, yes, but then any love is special; for family, friends, pets, even places.

Give up on love and we might as well not bother to get up in the morning, for all life is worth without love in it. We just have to see what’s on offer and GO for it. Take me, for example. On days when I feel down and there’s no one around to talk things through with (or I may not feel like talking to anyone anyway) I’ll most likely take myself off to be by the sea for the day, often Brighton (Sussex) because I love everything about the place and always feel so much better for going there.

Oh, and as regular readers will know, just because I am not religious and don’t accept the God as portrayed by various religions, doesn’t mean I'm not receptive to succour from a sense of spirituality. Only, I get it from nature, not religion.

This poem is a (yes, another) villanelle

WAKING UP TO THE POWER OF POSITIVE THINKING 

No heart beating in vain
under anaesthetising darkness
at a new dawn

Left wondering when
(if ever) its turn for happiness…?
No heart beating in vain

Will sleep’s half-open
portals close on or let in distress
at a new dawn?

If dreams bring pain
where life and death paths cross…
no heart beating in vain

Late invitation
to troubled souls seeking redress
at a new dawn

Where light bursting in,
nature filling us with its life-force,
no heart beating in vain
at a new dawn

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2015

[Note: Revised (2015) from an earlier version that appears under the title 'Heartbeat' in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.]

Dreamers, Awake

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

It is only human nature to go for gold in life...whether it’s passing an exam, winning a sports event, or some one’s heart. Sadly, it is also human nature to beat ourselves up if we don't find it.

Whatever...win some, lose some. The important thing is, never feel a failure (or let anyone else make you feel that way) if things don't work out quite as you'd hoped; each and every one of us deserves a pat on the back, at the very least, just for giving it our best shot. No one can do more.

As for finding whatever gold it is we seek at the end of whatever rainbow, well, that's just the start; holding on and living up to it...that's something else altogether.

This poem is a villanelle.

DREAMERS, AWAKE

As every dreamer (waking) knows
it's agony and ecstasy
in this life’s weepy highs and lows

Love, a going for gold that shows
real true grit humanity
as every dreamer (waking) knows

Out of dreams, inspiration follows 
a bitter-sweet reality
in this life’s weepy highs and lows

Missing out on home goals throws
us but temporarily...
as every dreamer (waking) knows

Watch time lends all its tomorrows
to shades of immortality;
in this life’s weepy highs and lows

By nature, the human spirit grows
to bear the fruits of its maturity
as every dreamer (waking) kmows
in this life’s weepy highs and lows

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Ghost Fingers

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

Regular readers will be aware of my passion for clouds, also more than a passing interest in the posthumous consciousness; this poem combines elements of both.

(Photo taken from the Internet)

GHOST FINGERS

Inspiring the young, comforting old,

fuelling tales at cosy fires,

melting a frost on cobbles of despair,

thawing the icy grip of fear;

a warning too or at least a hint

of what’s to be, rooted

in shifting sands of a memory playing

fast and loose with our desires,

heavenly spires secretly tumbling us

Partying the young, partnering old,

fireflies dashing at twilight,

breaking into its pregnant silences,

fracturing cruel thoughts;

an intruder too, wearing a mask

that’s oozing familiarity,

shifting sands of a memory playing

fast and loose with our desires,

heavenly spires overtly spinning us

Driving the young, steering the old,

taking rough with smooth,

making inroads to forbidden places,

bringing hope, love;

a stranger at the wheel, no map

to dictate our route across

shifting sands of memory playing

fast and loose with our desires,

heavenly spires playfully teasing us

Feeding imagination, art’s finer promise;

clouds, like ghost fingers, signing to us

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007

[From: Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007] 

In Harm's Way

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

Some readers have commented on my profile photo that was taken by a friend, Christopher King who is also a professional photographer. He also took the b/w photo it replaces. I was delighted with both, especially as I am not very photogenic. You can find more about Chris at:

http://www.christopherking.org/

Meanwhile...

We all have a force for love on the inside looking out for us. Whether or not we pay it much attention, it records everything we do, good or bad, for better or worse. Moreover, it is a permanent archive, available for reference by anyone who may be interested in searching for more than just proof that we ever existed…among the lower as well as higher profiles in history’s much doctored pages.

This poem is a kenning.

IN HARMS WAY

I fly where eagles dare,

tread where hungry lions feed;

among all my enemies,

it’s of short sightedness I most

have cause to be afraid,

that legacy living histories

designed to weaken

if not the bring down the pillars

of its communities

I swim with dolphins

to lead humankind to safe shores,

away from sharks

sniffing for blood in deceptively

still waters,

befriending those beguiled

by a killing tide’s moon

or having taken on high noon

without back-up

I run with hares from foxes,

if less likely to mistake the fortitude

of tortoises for folly

than the less perceptive human being

is inclined to perceive poverty

for weakness or taking pleasure

in those simpler pursuits

cash can’t buy (nor ever will)

as throwing the race

I am that vulnerable mind-body-spirit

shaped by life, seduced by art

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

Graffiti Art: Engaging with Shortcomings and Potential

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

‘Leo’ who describes himself as 'an aspiring poet' has asked me to repeat this poem, last seen on the blog in 2010, because it ‘keeps me focused on the fact that there are more important things in life than wealth and ambition.’

I am happy to oblige, Leo, but bear in mind that there is nothing wrong with having wealth or ambition; it’s how a wealthy and/or ambitious person handles either or both that counts.

It is how we live and how far we try to compensate for our flaws (we are all but human) that defines who we are, not what we have or don't have; regardless of race, religion, sex or sexuality...

This poem is a villanelle.

GRAFFITI ART: ENGAGING WITH SHORTCOMINGS AND POTENTIAL

I have worked with rhythm and rhyme
as poets for centuries have done,
building bridges on a river called Time

Where they fell at some god’s first crime
on killing fields of the sun,
I have worked with rhythm and rhyme

For all those cut down in their prime,
let’s redeem the bloody deed done,
building bridges on a river called Time

Like a lotus rising from the world’s slime,
symbol of a spirited imagination,
I have worked with rhythm and rhyme

Let past and future, great players of mime
embrace audience participation,
building bridges on a river called Time

No dark toll where goat bells gaily chime
(echoes of the Parnassus run);
I have worked with rhythm and rhyme,
building bridges on a river called Time

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: First published under the title ‘ A Poet’s Take on Eternity’ in Far and Wide: Forward Press Regional Collection, 2010]

After Dark

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

Sometimes we despair of any beauty in the world for being reminded day after day by the media of its ugliness. Fair enough, since we should not turn a blind eye or we risk becoming complacent within the confines of our own personal space; the world is bigger than that. Oh, but then we have only to look out of a window after a storm to witness all the splendour of nature reasserting itself; a kaleidoscope of colour that reminds us it’s wonderful to be alive even though life may sometimes assume the aspect of a bad dream.

Similarly, just as we start to despair of this sorry world, an act of kindness invariably restores our flagging faith in human nature.

Many people, like me, suffer regular bouts depression; mine have struck at random since early childhood although childhood depression wasn’t recognised in those days. (I am 66 now.) For me, it is always the same sensation. I am being relentlessly, mercilessly sucked into murky depths we invariably refuse to acknowledge as denial or some other form of negativity. Yet, even as a child, a passer-by has always come across me just as I am about to drown, and thrown me a lifeline. By the time I’ve been hauled to safety (and it can be a long haul) I’ve arrived at a whole new, positive perspective on life and self...until the next time.

My rescuer is always there for us all, and is called Hope.  At the same time, I,  am a pragmatist; it is quality of life that counts and that will be different for everyone if only because everyone's endurance threshold is different. If I were to be diagnosed with a degenerative illness, for example, I would visit Dignitas in Switzerland all the while assisted suicide remains a criminal offence here in the UK. Others may well be stronger than me or hold religious beliefs that say suicide a sin, but I know my limitations.

Even if the worst were to come to the worst, though, I would never abandon hope. As regular readers will know, I find and take a strong sense of spirituality from nature, and...spring always follows winter. While I cannot accept there is life (as we know it) after death, neither do I believe the human spirit is so easily defeated; something of ours will live on in the hearts and memories of those closest to us, influencing - if indirectly, even unknowingly - their lives.  They, in turn, will pass on something of themselves - of which we are a part - to others; thereby, a sense of immortality.

I decided years ago that if I am ever diagnosed with an illness likely to gorge not only on my body but on my sense of who I am, I will take a one-way trip to Switzerland; rather that than let pro-life campaigners subject me to a  living hell, take a chance on a some unworldly darkness pushing this mind-body-spirit beyond its powers of endurance into a quality of light worthy of a poem.

'The lotus flower blooms most beautifully from the deepest and thickest mud.' - Buddhist proverb

AFTER DARK

Treading lightly among lotus flowers

risen from mud to show this world of ours

there is beauty to be had, even where

it may seem lies precious little more than

the stuff of a slum child’s dream

Opening my heart to those who dare

allow the same, so they may yet discover

there is treasure to be had, even where

it may seem, at first sight, there’s nothing

to inspire even a poor poet

Offering sustenance to those who seek

to strengthen a mind and body grown weak

from treading heavily among weeds

where nature meant to tell a different tale

were nurture called to account

Bringing vision to those who would see

into the murky waters of pain and misery

where the dark is rising, Earth Mother

but waiting (like us) to flower and produce

fruit that is a poem called Lotus

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2018

[Note: I agonised for a long time over the title of this poem, first published as 'Where There's Life' in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

To The Lighthouse

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

It isn't only sailors that need to watch out for a guardian light.

We all need to keep an eye on light at the end of whatever tunnel we may sometimes find ourselves in; it may dim sometimes, but will never go out...unless we let it.

The poem is a villanelle, its title inspired by a novel of the same name by Virginia Woolf. Even so, where her brilliant, deceptively simple tale might well be seen as a literary variation on the old adage, it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive, my poem could only ever aspire to be, at best, a distant echo. It is true, though, that all that goes into getting there counts even more than reaching (or not reaching) any goal.

Regrets? Yes, of course, we all have them, but we also deserve credit for trying...well, don't we?

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

It’s a light that I will always see

wherever I go…

in spite of shadows crowding me

Day or night, it will constant be,

come rain or snow...

it’s a light that I will always see

I take heart that others can see,

be in the know…

in spite of shadows crowding me

On land or sea, a born sexuality

like a lighthouse glow...

it’s a light that I will always see

It lends me a sense of spirituality

as through this life I go…

in spite of shadows crowding me

Come a time we are but history,

let others follow...

it’s a light that I will always see,

in spite of shadows crowding me

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