The Lilac Tree, no Fairy Tale

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“I’ve not much interest in the important things of life. Only in the beautiful things. Just” this lilac here makes me happy. – Erich Maria Remarque (Three Comrades)

“The smell of moist earth and lilacs hung in the air like wisps of the past and hints of the future.” – Margaret Millar

“Philosophy: A purple bullfinch in a lilac tree.” – T. S. Eliot

There was, indeed, a lilac tree in the garden of the house where I was born in Gillingham (Kent); true, too, it was still there when I made a point of passing that way during recovery from a mental breakdown in the 1970’s. True, also, that its fragrance filled me then, as it always has and always will, with the life force that is hope; for every blind alley, a kinder alternative.

THE LILAC TREE, NO FAIRY TALE

Once upon a time,
a lilac tree grew in the garden
of the very house
where I was born, lived and played
with friends and family,
would see birds and butterflies attracted
by its fragrance in full bloom,
extending a poetry of spring into early summer,
memories to treasure

Come winter, pruning
would bring tears to the eyes
of family and friends,
less hardy than the little lilac tree,
more vulnerable
for having to weather less-than-kind
ways of the world, eager to give it
a fighting chance to thrive, stay safe, be strong,
lend us a focus for living

Grown old and weary,
yet no less spirited for all that,
a whim took me treading
an alleyway in time and personal space
to the same garden gate
of the very house where I was born,
first felt the fragrance of lilac
encouraging heart-and-soul to weather whatever
in nature and human nature

In one corner of a stranger’s garden, I can still see
my lilac tree, sweet smell of eternity

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

 

The Inheritors

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Today's poem is one that was written in 1973 and had appeared in several UK poetry magazines before being included in my first collection, Love and Human Remains, in 2000; I have only recently slightly but significantly revised it while struggling to rise above certain health issues and compile new editions.

How often, as a child, I would wish I was an adult, especially whenever prevented from doing something for which I was considered too young! Invariably, my mother would wryly comment, "Be careful what you wish for..."

THE INHERITORS  

Man, discovering diamonds
in the sand, hastily gathers them up
in a greedy hand;
a breeze blows the fortune
in his face 

Poets, reflecting on diamonds
in the sand, love counting them out
in the palm of a hand,
then clouds happen along,
hijack the lot 

Lovers, dreaming of diamonds
in the sand, till enemies at the door
forcing our hands;
yet another lonely dawn,
and we’re gone 

Children, discover diamonds
in the sand, happy to share them  
among dear friends;
a fun day to remember, a treasure,
 for keeps 

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2000; rev. 2021

Boy on a Rocking Horse

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Todays poem first appeared on the blog in 2012; I recorded it on You Tube at the time:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b0gU5W8OQ2I (direct link to Video)

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtabe (for my You  Tube channel)

‘Powerless Structures is the beautifully created figure of a boy on a rocking horse and was the latest art work to grace the 4^th plinth in London’s Trafalgar Square.

The poem I have recorded over the video unfolded in my mind the more I considered what the sculpture meant to me personally. The rocking horse that stood by my bedroom window when I was just a boy provided an escape from the harsher realities with which, as a child, I was poorly equipped to cope. My imagination would let fly and take me into magical realms of fantasy, fairy tale and legend as regular readers of my blogs and/or collections know. .

Hopefully, video and poem complement each other in such a way that where the poem is a fairly personal take on the sculpture, the video leaves plenty of space for the viewer to bring his or her own take to this bronze figure of a boy on a rocking horse and latest art work to grace the 4th plinth in London’s Trafalgar Square. 

In line with the existing iconography of the other statues in the square, the child is elevated to the status of a historical hero. However, where they acknowledge the heroism of the powerful, this work celebrates the heroism of growing up. The image of a young boy astride his rocking horse encourages observers to consider the less spectacular events in their lives, which are often the most important.

Danish artists Michael Elmgreen and Ingar Dragset are widely reported as saying it was “up to the public to love it or hate it, but hopefully not ignore it."

Never ignored, that’s for sure.

BOY ON A ROCKING HORSE

Boy on a rocking horse,

rocking to and fro,

are you part of a happy family,

and do they love you so?

As a child in my bedroom,

I used to rock to and fro,

looking out of my window

at the garden below …

One day, at my window,

rocking to and fro,

a swallow settled on the sill

and said, ‘Hello.'

‘Don’t you ever get fed-up

just rocking to and fro

when there’s so much to see,

scores of places to go?’

‘There’s far, far, more to life

than rocking to and fro.

Fly with me and see the world,’

said the swallow.

If I had been happy enough

rocking to and fro,

now I longed to see the world

like the swallow

I became, oh, but so excited

that I rocked to and fro

so hard that, suddenly, I took off

through the window;

at first, flying was a terrific thrill

(after just rocking to and fro)

seeing how people, places, animals,

make up the world we know 

Then I recalled my little room

where I’d rock to and fro,

believing my folks would miss me

and how I loved them so.

‘Please, swallow, take me home

where I can  rock to and fro,

feel I belong, be part of a family

if only because I miss it all so.’

The swallow then took me home,

to just rock to and fro

by a window, looking on a garden

in a house (still) haunting me so

as any child who ever dreamed

while rocking to and fro

on a safe, friendly rocking horse

will, oh, but surely know

I know you, Boy on a Rocking Horse;

we met years ago, in a looking glass

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

The Yellow Balloon

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Children across the world are expected to take its worst tantrums in their stride, but for how long…?

For the many caught up in its conflicts, the world must often seem a bleak place, any worthwhile future, for them at least, an all but impossible dream.

Of course, it is not all doom and gloom, but children should not have to snatch at happiness as and when they can; it should be the greater part of growing up. Yes, even playtime has its ups and downs, good times and bad, but that’s life, a learning curve for all of us at any age. 

True, the world today is a dangerous place, but children need to be reasonably prepared for, not scared of it. Besides, is not having to deal with parental and peer pressures enough without having to contend with being made to feel they are a disappointment for not fully participating in someone else’s second hand life or, far worse, struggling to survive a war zone? 

Whatever, indeed, happened to playtime?

THE YELLOW BALLOON 

Children
playing with a yellow balloon,
mothers calling   
back home, as a mocking wind 
snatches it from tiny fingers,
dispatching it to drift mottled skies
weepy with satire?

Children
chasing after a yellow balloon,
father calling
back home, but they play deaf
among innocent cries
inciting adventures, welcome respite
from secrets and lies

Children
trying to catch a yellow balloon
beyond either reach or ken,
no sense of direction, quickly
consumed by angry skies,
menaced by cloud figures waving
smoking guns

Children
observed in tears over a balloon
burst by a phoenix
rising from its everyday ashes
to heavens where sunlight
last seen glancing off shrapnel
slowly killing them

Children, in near and faraway places
picking up the pieces…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

As Time Goes By OR Love, a (Personal) History

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Time passes; we change, grow older, yet a loved one’s image remains much the same, ageless and timeless in our eyes … 

If we take an hourglass as a metaphor for life, time passing should never be thought of as its  gradually emptying but as its constantly in need of topping up ... with all the emotional resources available to us, especially love.

This poem is a villanelle.

AS TIME GOES BY

Brown hair, shades of grey,
whatever path I pursue;
time, ever slipping away…

Fun childhood days at play,
youth’s wild ways too;
brown hair, shades of grey

“Let’s laugh, not cry!” I say
(some wishes come true)
time, ever slipping away…

For every weepy Blues day,
golden moments too;
brown hair, shades of grey

Late, love, it came my way,
gave my heart to you;
time, ever slipping away…

Forever, love vowed to stay,
life’s tangled strands undo;
brown hair, shades of grey,
time, ever slipping away…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2014

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]

Rascals on the Run OR The Shape of Things to Come

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‘Around the rugged rocks, the ragged rascal ran,’ was meant to be nothing more than an introduction to alliteration in the course of an English lesson when I was about 12 years-old. Yet, even as my teacher spoke those words, an image was forming in my mind of some unfortunate lad dressed in rags, bare feet bleeding after running round rugged rocks for no reason other than it was something to do, better perhaps than…well, whatever. (Being in school on a lovely summer’s day perhaps?)

That image will always haunt me. If childhood was no bed of roses, it was no bed of thorns either, but there were times when the going would get rough, not least because I had a hearing problem (perceptive deafness) that would not be properly diagnosed until I was 20 years-old. I’d find myself running round and round various rugged, metaphorical rocks unable to break whatever vicious circle of existence pursued me. Break it, though, I did, time and again if only by exercising mind over matter, a strategy that has served me well throughout my adult life.

Don't get me wrong, there was plenty of love in my childhood, fun times too, but that old adage 
'Children should be seen and not heard' was applied by just about everyone just about everywhere in those days, and having a voice to which people may well lend an ear but without actually listening is a tough nut to crack at any age, especially for a child still very much a novice in the art of language and communication skills. Most children and young people, though, are not only better able to adapt to circumstances than many adults give them credit for, but also have a much better idea of who they are, articulation or not. I know, I did. 

RASCALS ON THE RUN or THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO COME

Around rugged rocks, ragged rascals

run …into a story-poem as (gradually)

mind and spirit start homing in  

on artful shadows penetrating a mist,

outline of a child chasing shadows,

doing battle with hidden fears, taking

a pride of sorts in wiping away the first

of, oh, so many tears

Sea sounds, music to the child’s ears,

fun waves splashing on dream holidays,

TV family laughing, applauding…

till time to wake, give wishful thinking

the elbow, start climbing up walls

where giant spiders have ears, tell tales

enough on cry-baby bed-wettings to give

even a rascal the shakes

One times one is one, two times two,

(time to tie a shoelace, heading for a fall)

distant voices jeering, clapping a rascal

made to stand in front of the class, object

of pretend martyrdom, subject of abuse,

taking a pride or sorts in refusing to shed

a solitary tear, allying with artful shadows

dampening red hot coals   

One times one is one, two times two

(shoelace a sloppy bow, heading for a fall)

dispassionate voices, chasing a rascal

through the streets of town for truanting,

preferring to get high with crack-heads

than some bottomless pit of name-calling

created especially for those unable to keep up

a semblance of appearances

One times one is one, two times two

(best designer gear, evidence of a fall)

no character references for the court,

gets twelve months, no surprises there

for a rascal despatched to learn (or teach?)

a trick or two about climbing walls

where giant spiders with ears and eyes

make short work of flies

Sea sounds, in young-old ears,

fun waves splashing on dream holidays,

TV family laughing, applauding…

till time to wake, give wishful thinking

the elbow, start climbing up walls

where giant spiders have ears, tell tales,

carry knives or guns, and not to kill flies

or give rascals the shakes

Around rugged rocks, ragged rascals

run…into a story-poem likely to haunt

generations of children weaving

fictions around lives unfit for purpose,

branded liars and tantrum throwers

for a want of articulation on an absence

of real understanding in a world obsessed

with its own worldliness

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Spinning Yarns

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As a child, I loved reading myths, legends and fairy stories. As an adult, I began to realise that many are an entertaining metaphor for real life. Even so, not all magic is wishful thinking. Yet, the same imagination that fed on those stories so long ago continues to see me through the same need for escapism some 50+ years on.

The trick, of course, lies in learning to separate fact from fiction, wishful thinking from reality, naked truth from bare-faced lies....

SPINNING YARNS

Storytellers would have us believe

that once there was magic in the world,

a time when we all sang songs

of peace and love till a twilight fell

that had us playing hide-and-seek

among ruins of halcyon days confined

to make-believe

Storytellers would have us believe

that once there was chivalry in the world,

a time when men opened doors

for ladies without their being accused

of sexism, nor would a lady mind,

but take pleasure in being noticed so,

by way, too, of common courtesy  

Storytellers would have us believe

that once there was the stoicism of Penelope

who contrived to remain faithful

to the love of her life without being accused

of pandering to her man,

rather of ingenuity for putting a unique

spin on love

Storytellers would have us believe

that the old gods were jealous of each other,

interfering in the ways of humankind

that played them at their own games and won,

tore down their temples,

created a copycat Olympus

on Capitol Hill 

Storytellers would have us believe

that once there was magic in the world,

a time when we all sang songs

of peace and love till a twilight fell

that had us playing hide-and-seek

among ruins of an innocence confined

to childhood

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

[Note: While I never made it as a successful novelist, I confess have really enjoyed trying my hand at fiction from time to time; if interested, go to: http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2016/05/news-updates-fiction.html on my fiction blog where most of my novels (published and unpublished) are serialised.]

A Perception of Ghosts

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

[Update, June 15th 2019: A reader says he is left 'very confused' by my use of the term 'posthumous conscious' so I will try and be clearer. Take my old English teacher , 'Jock' Rankin, where I went to school in 1956-64. He has had a profound influence on my life (and poetry) although I had no way of appreciating just how much so at the time.  He died some years ago, but a part of him lives on in me, just as it does his family, friends, and probably many other young people he taught. Knowingly or unknowingly, we influence others, either by word or deed, even both, thereby archiving a little bit of ourselves in them. 

I often refer to  'Jock' Rankin in my blogs; hopefully, he lives on here as well as in the minds of all those who knew him in one capacity or another, although they may not realize it at the time, or any time for that matter. So it goes on... each and every one of us sowing seeds in each other that will grow as part of the human continuum for as long as humanity survives, and given its basic instinct for survival, I suspect that is likely to exceed all expectation.]

Meanwhile...

Now, as I grow old(er) there are times when childhood  seems like yesterday and even leaves stirring in the wind carry its echoes to my ears; the stronger the wind, the stronger the echoes, now happy and excited, now weepy and anxious, as I cannot help but reflect how life is much the same...

A PERCEPTION OF GHOSTS 

North wind,

roughly raking the last glowing coals

of a wintry day

Birdsong,

faintly among the trees like an echo

through my years

like tuneless whistling noises 

made by a child failing

to impress peers that mock,

and run away, 

never to know the hurt to self-esteem

left to contend with cruelty 

in all shapes and forms

left roughly raking the last glowing coals

of a wintry day

Wind drops,

nature’s opera taking off on wings 

of light into a blueness

such as a child feels when playing 

with imaginary friends,

happy and sad at the same time 

for meeting reality halfway, 

creating a safe place, yet less safe 

for being wide open

to fantasies, deserted, by the same 

once on-screen trolls insinuate all defences 

to loneliness

South wind,

gently stirring the last glowing coals

of a sunny day

Birdsong,

as strong among the trees in the twilight

of my years as shrieks

of joy uttered by a child when birthdays

finally arrived, in such times

as family get-togethers were mixed

signals of such love

as the child craved, feasted on, 

yet always left hungry, 

never (quite) able to satisfy an awareness

of a growing maturity always found wanting

in its nurture

Human hearts,

engaging with changeable perceptions on time

in personal space

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013; 2021

[Note: This poem has been significantly revised since it first appeared on the blog in 2013.]

Living with Hans Christian Andersen

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Everyone loves a Christmas tree, but (let’s face it) Christmas does a fir tree no favours.

Now, both as a child and adult, I have loved the fairy tales of Hans Christian Andersen...at any time of year. As Christmas draws near, I cannot help but recall The Fir Tree.  

The fir tree is in such a hurry to grow that it fails to enjoy the beauty around it. All it thinks about is how much it wants to become a tall fir tree and see the wide world and experience new things. It finds no joy in the moment, but is always longing for the future. Finally, the fir tree realizes it has wasted its life by living for the future instead of for the present.  As a story about failing to appreciate what we have going for us until it is too late, I dare say many if not most of us can relate to it in one way or another?

Hans Christian Andersen, 1805-1875

As well as loving Andersen’s fairy tales, I carried much of their sense of morality and spirituality with me into adult life, which is possibly why I still enjoy reading them from time to time. It can do no harm (can it?) to recall that naïve, free, faery, spirit upon whose back I would frequently ride off into magical other-worlds and find respite from childhood’s darker side. (However much we may like to think of childhood as all innocence and light, it is no more immune to the harsher realities of human nature and everyday existence than adulthood; the latter, even at its worst, at least offers experience and choices rarely if ever available to us as children.)

This poem is a villanelle.

LIVING WITH HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

A certain Danish weaver

became a tailor, turned to acting, 

found fame as a storyteller

His tales told world over,

(inspiring many an ugly duckling)

a certain Danish weaver

Denmark’s heart breaker,

(the little mermaid lost everything)

found fame as a storyteller

Shrewd political observer,

(even of an emperor’s new clothing)

a certain Danish weaver

Steadfast, like a tin soldier,

(firm favourite at bed-time reading)

found fame as a storyteller

Where childhood rides forever

on the back of its wishful thinking,

a certain Danish weaver

found fame as a storyteller

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

Looking out for Christmas, Anyone?

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Yes, Christmas will be with us in less than a month. However, not everyone enjoys a happy Christmas. For homeless people and others down on their luck, it is a time much like any other time...unless we can somehow make it special for them too.

Years ago, I met a homeless gay man who had been physically ejected from his family home on Christmas Day after his father discovered he is gay. This Christmas, I know of a couple on the run from their families who disapprove of their relationship because they are on opposing sides of the same religion. [If God doesn't mind, why should anyone else?]

No matter what religious festival is being celebrated at whatever time of year, a little understanding goes a long way. It is, after all, part of the pact we make with love. And what worth any religion without love in it? I am told that the God in whom so many people believe is a God of Love. Take love out of the prayer and ritual and all I imagine He sees is someone enjoying an ego trip.

We can't always expect to understand those we love and may not always agree with them, but that doesn't (or shouldn't) mean we love them less. It has always been one of humankind's greater tragedies that too many of us let socio-cultural-religious traditions dictate how we live, even love.

At the heart of every religious celebration is (or should be) love in all its shapes and forms...or what is there left that any God would have anyone celebrate?  

LOOKING OUT FOR CHRISTMAS, ANYONE?

Come, hear the bells of Christmas

though lost, alone, in the snow,

recalling times past when we’d leave

a card for Santa, hot cocoa

and a mince pie, try to sleep while

listening out for reindeer hooves

pounding across the sky, a cheery cry

ringing loud and clear for children

everywhere to hear, know (for sure)

that we are loved, no matter who

we are or how our lives shaping up,

whether or no we’re finding signs

of Christmas or much the same cruelty

(or worse) than the day before

Peering ahead down an endless road,

lost souls, alone, no place to go

till time (at last) to reclaim gifts of love

and peace, count blessings, let bells

speak for us, echo high and low, anxious

to share out the joys of Christmas,

fearful for lost souls looking for refuge

from a bitter-sweet winter snow
where no pretty flowers able to grow
yet nurtured out of sight and light
by Earth Mother, chief carer for a world
beyond even mind-body-spirit,
where all the odds stacked high against
mutual understanding or trust

Copyright R. N. Taber 2003; 2013

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised since it first appeared in Christmas Remembered, Anchor Books [Forward Press] 2003 and subsequently in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004]

Chariots of Fire

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I am reminded of a conversation I had many years ago when I was an egocentric teenager. I asked a teacher (as one does) what life is all about. Yes, well…silly question, I know, but I thought it sounded clever. More to the point, I thought it made me appear very clever.  I received what I thought was, in turn, a very silly answer, something about its being a bedtime story for grown-ups.

Now, though, I’m not so sure it was such a silly answer, and suspect it was too profound for my little poem to do it justice.

I recall telling my mother about that conversation. She just said, “He’s a very nice man if a little eccentric/ Mind you, there is always more to eccentric people than meets the eye just as there's nearly always something in what they have to say worth giving some thought to. Now, go and do your homework…’ Another very nice person, my mother . She, too, always had something to say worth giving some thought to. 

CHARIOTS OF FIRE

Sometimes, I regret my lost youth

but for its teaching me
my place in the world, neither high
nor low for racing chariots
of fire across a playground of dreams, 

skimming time and space,
grandest of all arenas least known
to Man

It’s enough, in the end, to land safe

and sound among moon shadows

bringing we charioteers such presence
of mind-body-spirit known only
to children hungering for fairy tales, 

now lost, now finding their way
in some otherworld to take up the reins
and race each other to cheers
and jeers, highs and lows, archived
to living memory 

Can it be, I wonder, that life is, after all,

a (potentially) feel-good bedtime story?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

Through a Glass Darkly

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An earlier version of this poem as first published 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...

To see “through a glass” (mirror) darkly” is to have an obscure or imperfect vision of reality. The expression is often presumed to have come from the writings of Paul, the Apostle who suggests that while we may not see clearly in the Here-and-Now, we will do so at the end of time. 

Alternatively: "For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known." Corinthians Chap 13 verse 12 (I know my Bible, it is a good read, even though I had rejected religion for nature by the age of 11 years.)

Whatever, many if not most children, may well know right from wrong, but lack the experience maturity brings to imagine the broader consequences of either. Ahm yes, but how many of us have the imagination to ever really understand the wider consequences of our actions ...? 

There is a lot to be said for the old adages, two that instantly spring to mind are 'Look before you leap.' and 'A little thought goes a long way.'

THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY 

In a pretty side street, tree lined,
its children playing hide-and-seek
make plenty din 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
yell and 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
at play 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 a joy to lean, grubby curtains
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,
no curtains (windows boarded up instead)
ghosts playing hide-and-seek
with eternity facing a bleak affinity
for wings circling the last tree left standing,
cracks in a mirror appearing

 Uncomfortable truths, a cruelty enduring

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2011

Metamorphoses, from Cradle to Grave

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As we metamorphose from infant to adult, from birth through life to death, who’s to say what will happen to us along the way?  We can but hope to meet life’s challenges head-on and come through them a better person.

Ah, but do we ever, at heart, leave childhood behind completely? I suspect the good, the bad and the ugly affect our behaviour in later years. Some of us will have enjoyed an idyllic childhood, but life is no idyll and that can be a tough lesson to learn. Others will have been less fortunate during their formative years; we can but do our best to shrug off unwanted baggage, and turn it into something positive; for as start, looking for the good in people instead of rushing to judge the bad and the ugly. (Who knows what baggage they may be struggling to but unable to shrug off?)  

For me, this nursery rhyme invokes ghosts of childhood and beyond that represent the various stages of ‘me’; a ‘me’ visible only to the inner eye, and one - that had a BAD relationship with my father - I wish, would go away, but of course, it never will, any more than a significant part of the damage it caused. Even so, life - for most of us - is a positive learning curve, and the children we were are a far cry from the adults finally put to rest.

‘Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish, I wish he’d go away...’

Perhaps you know the feeling?

This poem is a villanelle.

METAMORPHOSES, FROM CRADLE TO GRAVE

Days of nursery rhyme
maturing, breaking free;
haunting mists of time

Let’s walk, talk, climb
singing) up an apple tree;
days of nursery rhyme

This gene, that enzyme
maturing, breaking free;
haunting mists of time

First summits to climb,
marathons run to victory;
days of nursery rhyme

Graduating to prime,
wandering thoughtfully;
haunting mists of time

Charged with a crime
for each lost opportunity;
days of nursery rhyme,
haunting mists of time

Copyright R. N.Taber 2007; 2012

[NB This poem has been slightly revised (2012) from the original as it appears in  Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

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Making Peace With Mortality

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

Well, here we are at the start of 2012. I will be posting new poems and any for which readers particularly request from time to time over the coming months and my thoughts will be with you all.  I hope you will continue to enjoy browsing the archives. My fiction blog will continue on the usual twice weekly basis, and I will start posting another serial when Like There’s No Tomorrow ends; if you care to take a look sometime, you’ll find it at: http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com

My friend Graham and I will also be uploading new poetry-on-location videos to my YouTube channel as soon as spring arrives: http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Now, someone once told me that the older we get the farther back we look as there is less to look forward to.  Possibly, but I find looking back inspiring. Thankfully, memory becomes more selective as we get older and better able to home in on the good memories while glossing over the bad. Well, that’s how it is for me. Even the torment of a gay youth when being gay was still a criminal offence in the UK gives way to better times; such going on my first Gay Pride march here in London, meeting some wonderful people and no longer having to feel scared of my sexuality or less of a human being for it...

I so wish that feeling on all gay boys and girls, men and women worldwide.

One day ...

Now, regular readers will know that 2011 was not a good year for me. I was diagnosed with a low-medium growth prostate cancer in February. It wasn’t until November I learned that a course of hormone therapy has been very effective and I may not need it again for a good five years or so. By then, I may need radiotherapy, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. The hormone therapy has not been without side-effects, one of these being a urinary problem. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep for months, having to get up sometimes as many as ten or more times in the night to use the toilet! Oh, but there are many people in this sorry world of ours with far greater problems, so who am I to complain?

So, no, not a good year, for Roger T, but it could well have been a LOT worse so I am working hard at being very philosophical and counting my blessings. After all, those of us who have food in our bellies and a roof over out heads have every reason to be thankful.

London will, of course host both Her Majesty the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee as well as the Olympic Games this year so it should prove a good year for sporty types and monarchists. Yes, well, I am not sporty in the least, and although I have every respect and admiration for Her Majesty, I suspect I’m a monarchist by default since I have never been happy with the idea of the UK becoming a republic. [Ask any political historian and you’ll soon find out why.]

Whatever, here’s hoping for a better, kinder year ahead for everyone.

MAKING PEACE WITH MORTALITY

I saw an old man

looking in a toyshop window

just as the first snow

of winter was falling on passers-by,

and all the toys there

started singing and dancing

as if they understood

January Sales are on, someone

might buy them

for the love of a child who would

give them a home

I saw the old man

step into the toyshop window

through a curtain of snow

though winter already turning harsh

on passers-by,

and the singing-dancing toys

made him welcome,

nor did it matter that he was old

and they were toys,

since spreading love and peace

is down to all of us

I saw the old man

wave his hands, and kick his feet,

arthritis forgotten,

keen to show he’s still young at heart

and even the cruellest winter

cannot quite obliterate a spring

that will last forever 

as long as one toyshop window

nurtures its seeds with pride,

recalling even the dourest cynic

to a teddy bears’ picnic

His face at the window,

sight blurred, sweet-tasting tears

like rain to spring flowers,

the old man bade cheerful goodbyes

to the fun-loving toys

filling the shelves, leathery face

wearing a knowing smile

acknowledging more mistakes

than a shaggy dog’s hairs

and age as no more or less than

the sum of its memories

Between lines on his face

(for anyone who cared to read)

tales worth the telling,

lessons to be learned and passed on

to each girl and boy

by their favourite toy as we grow,

how though it (like us)

may fade, like the first flower

of spring, each New Year

offers us the potential to effect

repair and renewal

You’ll have guessed that man was me,

making peace (of sorts) with mortality

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012