A Christmas Blessing

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

Here's a Christmas poem/post from my gay-interest poetry archives for December 2010.

A reader has emailed to say I should not post Christmas poems because I am not a Christian. Indeed, I do not subscribe to any religion, yet I enjoy  a strong sense of spirituality that I take from nature; religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality. The human spirit is innate; what we do with it is down to us, our responsibility, no one else's. Moreover, I accept that Jesus of Nazareth was an historical figure, and his message of love and peace sets an example we would all do well to follow as best we can within the complex confines of human nature and certain self-perpetuating nemeses such as prejudice and hypocrisy, to name but two...

People often make wrong assumptions about older folks. [I’m getting on a bit now and people seem surprised that I can use a computer!] I will never forget how, some years ago, an elderly couple in their 80's were very kind to me when I was the victim of a homophobic attack; they were devoutly religious and knew I was gay but all that mattered to them that I needed help.

The point of this poem has little or nothing to do with Christmas, and was inspired by a true story told me by a friend some years ago. These days, many people’s attitudes have changed…but not all. In some countries, even here in the West, there are gay men and women too frightened to be openly gay for all sorts of reasons. Yes, I know I have said this many times before. But as my late mother used to say, if a thing is worth saying, it’s always worth repeating.

Those of us whose family, friends, school friends and workmates help us feel relaxed about being ‘out’ should not be complacent or assume it is the same for everyone. It is probably hardest for gay boys and girls still at school. I well remember the torment of having to come to terms with being gay on top of all the usual teenage angst, and sometimes wonder how on earth I managed to survive to adulthood at all!

Some ignorant people will always try to give gay folks a hard time. For my own part, I always like to point out that’s their problem, not mine. [That usually shuts them up.]

Yes, tragically, homophobia is alive and kicking. So whatever happened to Peace on Earth and Goodwill to all humankind? Nor is it just Christmas but other religious festivals, too, that are found wanting. Religion may well be about faith, ritual and prayer. But what is all that really worth if it loses sight of its humanity?

A CHRISTMAS BLESSING

They said it didn’t matter I’m gay,
seemed glad for me when I found you,
accepted us as a couple, for who
and what we are - and we were happy;
days, months, passed and nothing
happened to spoil our idyll although
as autumn slipped into winter
we noticed a subtle change in people
as hearts and minds began to focus
on Christmas – or did I only imagine
they looked away? I knew better
but put my faith in love to win the day

Suddenly, it seemed everyone was asking
everyone else what they had in mind
for Christmas except us, no one meaning
to be unkind, of course, but assuming
'that sort' would not expect an invitation
to any family celebration

Whenever we would venture to suggest
this or that, all we’d hear was,
‘Oh, we’d love to have you, of course
but, sorry, a full house this year;
Besides, you know how some old people
feel about gays and we don’t want
to spoil grandma’s Christmas do we?’
(said most sincerely.) So we anticipated
a quiet, loving time, just the two of us
till, days before Christmas, a phone call
from your grandmother just to say
she was looking forward to seeing you

‘Oh, and your partner too, of course.
Sadly, it was all very different in my day;
few people then found the courage
to walk tall, heads high, and openly gay.
You are truly blessed, for what it's worth
(as much to us as Peace on Earth)

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2010

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

Wishing the World Love and Peace (Not just for Christmas)

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

One of various Christmas poems I have written over the years, this post/poem is taken from my gay-interest poetry blog archives for December 2013. I subscribe to no religion yet the spirit of Christmas always touches me, and takes me down Memory Lane, especially perhaps as I was born on the winter solstice, just four days before Christmas Day...

The Christmas Peace of 1914 is legendary. On Christmas Eve 1914, men of the British Expeditionary Force (B.E.F.) heard German troops in the trenches opposite singing carols, spotted lanterns and small fir trees along their trenches. They started shouting messages to each other and the following day, British and German troops met in no man’s land to exchange gifts, take photographs and even play impromptu games of football. Tragically it made no difference to four more years of the war meant to end all wars…  

If Christmas and other religious festivals are about peace and love, why don’t we see more of it in everyday life? 

For those lovers (gay or straight) who have found both in a meaningful relationship with each other, family, and friends…ENJOY. 

For those lovers (gay or straight) who are less fortunate, ENJOY every precious moment with each other. 

Can there be any greater comfort and joy than love? For religious minded people, may they enjoy their festivals, but let’s all remember that religion has no more a monopoly grip on love than it has on the human spirit.

If Christmas and other religious festivals are about peace and love, why don’t we see more of it in everyday life?

For those (gay or straight) who have found both in a lasting, meaningful relationship with each other, family, and friends…ENJOY.

For those  (gay or straight) who are less fortunate, ENJOY every precious moment with each other.

Can there be any greater comfort and joy than love? For religious minded people, may they enjoy their festivals, but let’s all remember that religion has no more a monopoly grip on love than it has on the human spirit.

This poem is a villanelle.

WISHING THE WORLD LOVE AND PEACE (NOT JUST FOR CHRISTMAS)

One day, close to Christmas,

long, long, ago…

cock robin sang for us

Bigots had been unkind to us,

dealt a savage blow

one day, close to Christmas

Icy rain, camouflage for tears

we refused to show

cock robin sang for us

A kind snowman hid our fears

under a coat of snow;

one day, close to Christmas

In a time of gifts and promises

(prayers to follow?)

cock robin sang for us

Love, defying even wintry years
to chill us to the marrow;

one day, close to Christmas,

cock robin sang for us…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

Oscars

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

This poem remains in my gay-interest blog archives for June 2011. At the time, I wanted to post it on both blogs, but was already receiving hate emails  even though it was early days for my poetry blogs, so I decided against it. Its appearance here today is down to positive feedback with regard to my publishing from one or other archives, and discovering just how many readers share a home computer so need to be careful as to which sites they access; there can be few worse experiences in life than being 'outed' before we are emotionally ready to fight our corner where necessary.

Several men have been in touch who find themselves in heterosexual relationships from which they have no wish to extract themselves, but feel guilty about having sex with other men whenever the opportunity arises. This guilt is so hard to bear that their respective their marriages are under threat as a result. I offer no solutions or advice, but suggest they might consider seeing a marriage counsellor along with their respective partners. In my experience, it is much easier to discuss matters with a third party who is neither a relative nor friend but a professional who is not only detached but has also almost certainly heard it all before so is unlikely to be in the least shocked or judgemental.

Now, it is tough on a woman when she finds out her husband or boyfriend is gay or bisexual; or a man when he discovers his female partner has lesbian tendencies. Let’s face it. It is, after all, a betrayal of their relationship. It isn’t easy for either party. Whatever reasons, excuses, explanations or pretty rhetoric we care to debate, betrayal is betrayal. And betrayed people feel immeasurably hurt. It is not only the heterosexual partner who feels betrayed either; many repressed gay people are likely to feel they have betrayed everything they were brought up to believe in.

Regarding bisexual men and women, there is a train of thought I won’t follow here that most people who see themselves as bisexual do so because they are loath to examine the gay side to their sexual identity too closely; all the while they can happily swing both ways, their masculinity, or femininity as the case may be, is not under threat. Yet, among the many people who assure me bisexuality is ‘cool’ I’d say the majority are essentially gay. [I will leave transvestites and transgender people out of the equation for the purposes of this blog entry, but in no way do I underestimate either their problems or the courage many display in overcoming them.]

Whatever, it can take time to learn to believe in ourselves. Only then can we start to believe in each other. Betrayal is a raw wound that can take a long time to heal. Tragically, some such wounds never do heal properly. Even so, if the relationship between partners of the opposite sex is such that they are close friends as well as lovers, those wounds may start to heal sooner rather than later. Yet, once the die is cast, they have to find their own ways of dealing with it and we should not judge those too harshly who find themselves unable to forgive.

Many gay men and women can form a physical relationship with the opposite sex if the attraction is mutual and strong enough; some even think themselves into heterosexual mode because they can’t face up to being gay, probably having been brought up to think the worst of gay people by the less enlightened among the heterosexual majority. It isn’t easy to shake off the shackles of formative years. For most of us, sexuality will out us in the end. Tragically, some stay in the proverbial closet all their lives; those who can and do break out, in the early days at any rate, are likely to leave a trail of tears, not least their own.

Few of us set out deliberately to hurt others, especially those we love. But sexuality is an issue that is relatively rarely debated in the home or in any public arena; never at all in some parts of the world. Oh, there are books and the Internet, but the long and the short of it is we are on our own and have to work it out for ourselves.

Once we have acknowledged to ourselves that we are gay, it becomes easier (never easy) to tell other people. Some people are receptive to our findings, others reject them and try to steer us in another direction while others choose to see us as a lost cause and give up on us. And I use the word ‘choose’ deliberately. We all have a choice. As it happens, various socio-cultural-religious get-out clauses are not in short supply, but we are each and every one of us ultimately responsible for whatever choices we make in life, no one else.

It is not only gay people who find themselves at odds with loved ones, friends and various socio-cultural-religious traditions, but we are discussing gay people so let’s not get sidetracked.

When a gay person finds that he or she cannot stay in a heterosexual relationship any longer, the closet door has to be flung wide. There is a lot of understanding out there, but there is also a lot of ignorance and bigotry. As I have said on the blog before, little or nothing will change in real terns until sexuality is openly and intelligently discussed in schools. Legislation to give gay people equal rights in society is all very well, but you cannot legislate for bad attitude.

As for me... I am in my late 60s now and have only slept with two women in my life. Technically, I may be bisexual, but I have thought of myself as a gay man for many years and always will.

I have recently (slightly) revised this poem that I wrote in 1999.

OSCARS

When I am with a woman
I am hers alone, no thoughts
of men as we make love
with a sure passion, and wherever
we walk, talk, laugh, play,
I’d never wish myself elsewhere
or some man setting out
to prettily seduce me there

It doesn't work that way

Love of a good woman
(put at a price above rubies)
is a treasure I respect,
and would never wish to abuse;
So why this naked heaven
with a man, more pleasing to me
than any earthly jewel,
does my inner eye choose?

Who knows?

Copyright R. N. Taber 1999; 2011

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]

Epilogue

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[Update: Oct 6, 2017]: The 2nd Invictus Games, created by Prince Harry, and the only international multi-sporting event for wounded, injured and sick service men and women, have been a great success, not only - and most importantly - in helping the participants to rise above any disability and all the emotional baggage that goes with it, but also in helping able-bodied audiences around the world to appreciate their efforts; disabled people are far too often stereotyped, even all but written off because the less enlightened see only the disability, not the person. More yet needs to be done for war veterans worldwide to encourage those who feel undermined and undervalued by virtue of this or other disability to give them a shared purpose in life, restore self-esteem, let them feel appreciated for who they are and for their self-sacrifice on our behalf without any sense of being patronised. Three Cheers for Prince Harry for having the sensibility and insight to found the event; his mother would have been very proud of him for it.]

November 11, Armistice Day, will see the commemoration of an armistice signed between the Allies and Germany at Compiègne, an agreement that ended the fighting on the Western Fron that went into effect at 11 a.m. Paris time on 11 November 1918. While it marked a victory for the Allies and a complete defeat for Germany, it was not a formal surrender; although the armistice ended all actual fighting, it took six months of negotiations at the Paris Peace Conference to conclude a peace treaty, the Treaty of Versailles.

Today’s poem first appeared under the title, Epilogue in the on-line poetry journal, Ydrasil (2009) and Poetry Monthly International (2010)before I changed the title yet again for my collection. (It sometimes takes a good while for me to feel 'right' about a title.) I wrote it soon after a former soldier I’d met in a bar had been telling me about a friend and former comrade who was in prison. The friend has been found guilty of attacking an ‘innocent’ party who had been goading him about looking better in uniform than in a suit. Apparently, he was on probation at the time. My companion commented, ‘It’s hard. You go to a war zone a whole person but each time you come back it’s like something more of that person is missing. Part of you dies out there or goes AWOL at the very least. I guess how much so is different for everyone…’

Many ex-service personnel (anyone, anywhere) need help to adjust to everyday life once they are home again either on leave or after being discharged. While it is important to help the injured and support the bereaved, there are also men and women who carry no visible signs of having been to war, but are just as much in need of our support and understanding as well as (in some cases) professional counselling. 

The man in the bar told me something else. ‘You have to be tough to fight, really tough. Show any weakness, and if the enemy doesn’t get you, your own side will. Back home, it can often feel like there’s a total stranger living in your skin and the chances are you don’t like that person at all. It's like the old self is all but dead. Sometimes the best part of that old self will make its way back, sometimes not. I dare say it’s the same for both sides in any war…’ He paused before adding tearfully, "It's hard on family and friends. They see a soldier hero, and have no idea..."

All disabled people, and I include forms of mental illness and any struggling to get the better of the likes of post traumatic stress disorders - regardless of race, creed, gender or sexuality - are an inspiration,  heroes of battles they face daily, winning some, losing some, but determined to get the better of both disability and the misleading stereotypes it so often attracts.

This poem is a villanelle.

EPILOGUE

I so look up to you with love and pride

for the finer human traits you nurture
in each, a candle lit for those who died

The first time you went to war, I cried,

while you but longed for adventure;

you fill me with such love, and pride

In Iraq, your worst fears chose to hide

in caches of ‘true grit’ human nature;

in each, a candle lit for those who died

In Afghanistan, you fought side by side

with the bravest, a born again warrior;

I so look up to you with love and pride

You saw friends killed or injured, tried

seeing Hell as but forms of cruel satire,
in each, a candle lit for those who died

You seemed to take it all in your stride,

 heaving the fallen over your shoulder;

 I so look up to you with love and pride,

 in each, a candle lit for those who died

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012; 2016

[Note: This poem appears under the title 'Missing, Believed Killed' in  print editions of Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Book, 2012.]

Olympic Games OR Old Gods, New Gods, and the Rest of Us

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[Update (July 21, 2016): Congratulations to Team GB and everyone taking part in the Rio Olympics. As for those nasty people who targeted Tom Daley for homophobic abuse, I can only echo J. K. Rowling; I am not sure which is more offensive, the stupidity or the spite. Some religious groups especially need to get real; their founders would be appalled. I do not subscribe to any religion, not least because I find it too divisive and closed-minded where religion should be the very opposite, acknowledging that our differences neither put us in the wrong nor make us different, simply human. Moreover, I came to this conclusion before I realised I am gay. One of my You Tube videos makes the same point: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrTjc2373IU  Needless to say, I received a number of offensive emails after posting it.]

Now, leaders of every society like to play games with its citizens and today’s poem was written in 2000; it has nothing (directly) to do with the Olympic Games. Even so, here’s wishing good luck to everyone participating in the Rio Olympics and upholding humankind’s finer qualities of fair competition and mutual respect among winners and losers alike. To win a medal is, of course, a wonderful achievement, but as wonderful if not more so is the thrill of taking part, an incomparable memory to share and treasure over a lifetime.

If the poem invokes a sense of society falling into moral and political well as economic decay, hopefully the feeling rarely lasts; it only takes events that embrace the human spirit of the Olympic Games to raise our hopes once more and make us realise there is (far) more to life than any judgmental take on it will ever suggest.

Even so, let's not forget how Greek mythology would have us believe the old gods got up to all sorts of mischief on Olympus; all work and no play…

Mount Olympus, Greece

OLYMPIC GAMES or OLD GODS, NEW GODS, AND THE REST OF US

What will be, will be,

in this century as others gone before;

wealth and poverty, a sick lottery

of love and hate, peace and war invariably

played out by tin gods with humankind

and everything to play for, bearing in mind

(of course) that who dares wins,

no matter what their sins, and losers

will always cast the first stones

before they will admit being taken in

by substitute icons

Olympus, alive and well on Capitol Hill,

humanity, in free fall…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2016

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised and an alternative title added (2016) since it first appeared in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001; rev. ed. in –format in preparation.]

Getting it Wrong

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

I often look at contemporary UK society and don’t like what I see; more litter louts; more people strung out across pavements so other cannot pass; more folks on the MP3 players or mobile phones who have no awareness of their immediate surroundings and expect everyone else to get out of their way; more elderly people having to stand on crowded trains and buses where the majority of those sitting down are under thirty-five; even more occasions when it’s a case of first in the bus queue and last (if at all) to get on the bus…the list is endless.

My first boss at a public library where I worked after leaving school (in 1964) told me that a public library is a microcosm of society. It is so true. You meet all types in libraries. As many if not most public library services in parts of the UK have gone into freefall so, too, has society. Good manners, for a start, seem to have flown out of the proverbial window. Few people say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ any more, but take any services rendered, even everyday acts of kindness for granted. On the streets of London, the majority push, shove, everyone for themselves without as much as an ‘Excuse me please’ or a ‘Sorry, I pushed you into the road or against a wall. If you complain, the chances are you will be verbally or even physically abused. The last time I shouted at a cyclist riding on a busy pavement who sent me sprawling as I came out of a shop…I was told, ‘F***k off, you old fart!’ Needless to say, I continue to protest.

Life is a balancing act, I guess; we can get it right some of the time (even most, with any luck) but few if any of us can expect its scales to weigh in our favour all the time...however hard we try.

Thankfully, there are many exceptions to bad apples; if we look hard enough, we will see the bigger picture, and find some lovely people out there…

GETTING IT WRONG

Bus stops, anarchy;

assault-by-default on mad,

rush hour trains

Death on our roads,

date rape in bars, gun law

on angry streets

Disabled access

in key places leaving  much 

to be desired

Perverts coasting;

hypocrites anxiously taking

Communion

Minority groups,

milking political correctness

for all its worth

Human rights,

where the machinery of justice

badly need oiling

Imagination, 

getting the better of worsening 

world scenarios

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appeared under the title 'All the Wrong Pieces' in an anthology Upon Reflection, Poetry Now (Forward Press), 2004 and in  A Feeling for the Quickness of  Time by R. N. Taber  (2005)]

First Impressions

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Have you ever wondered what a baby thinks as he or she opens their eyes for the first time in a mother’s arms? Okay, a baby can’t talk, but who says we can’t think for ourselves even from the very start? We feel reassured, safe...

Ah, but for how long?

It is one of humankind's greater tragedies that many children are born into an environment that will give them neither the love nor care they deserve.

With luck, we are welcomed into the world with love. A sense of the power of love passes from mother to child, and will stay with us always.

Yes, with luck. Sadly it is not the same for all of us, and we have to look elsewhere to discover the power of love for ourselves. Some of us do, others never will. There are so many unwanted children and young people in the world who deserve better.  I have known some people who have gone through the Care system and not only survived, but done well for themselves. Yet, I have also known others who have ended up spending most of their lives in and out of prison, never knowing that wonderful sense of belonging peculiar to family life and being loved as a matter of course, no matter what. My own family life was flawed (whose isn’t?).Even so, that immeasurable sense of belonging helped shape my formative years in a very positive way.

A sense of belonging should never be underestimated. Tragically, it drives some young people to become part of a street gang; gangs are often seen as a substitute family, albeit a poor one. I once knew a family whose children became involved in a local gang culture. When one of the sons went to jail for a gang related offence, the parents saw it as a wake-up call, moved away and set about mending their broken family life. That was years ago. All the children have turned out well and take their own parental responsibilities very seriously; their children will never want for love, care, and a positive sense of direction.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

The first thing I saw on opening my eyes

was a love in my mother’s face

I hadn’t yet learned the words to describe,

but sensed I was in a safe place

The first thing I felt as I opened my eyes

was my mother’s arms cradling me;

I hadn’t yet learned the words to describe,

but sensed it was a good place to be

The first thought I had on opening my eyes

was that this was but the start 
of living by and learning words to describe

the love in Earth Mother’s heart

In a world without words, only its first cries

find reassurance in well-meant promises

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

[Note: This poem was first published under the title Opening Up to Love in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]

New Year, New Hope, Old Story

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

Today’s poem first appeared in Poetry Monthly International (sadly, since discontinued) in 2008 prior to its inclusion in my collection. It seems an appropriate enough poem for today since this evening will be New Year’s Eve.

Let’s just hope the celebrations will not be premature and that the 2014 brings more than just hope for world peace and a genuine sense of reconciliation between its divided socio-cultural-religious groups; a recognition, too, of basic human rights for everyone regardless of colour, creed, sex or sexuality, especially in those areas of the world and its societies that encourage if not legislate a policy of persecution.

NEW YEAR, NEW HOPE, OLD STORY

Bursting into the New Year

with a sing-song and a prayer

for peace across the world

Toasting our tomorrows

by way of drowning sorrows

for not letting go of pain

Putting on a smile, laughing

at sick jokes, better than crying

for the price of our mistakes

Brave New Year resolutions

little more than poor solutions

to centuries-old problems

Humankind’s record so poor,

less likely to make peace than war

if good at saying prayers…

Higher and farther they fly,

fine words across a New Year sky,

only to repeating history...

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

Streetwise or C-l-o-u-d-s, Mind Games

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

We don’t always know what we want, and when we do, we don’t always get it, but that should not stop us even just window shopping for inspiration…like millions before us throughout history anxiously seeking inspiration or perhaps just a comfort zone of sorts, sufficient at least to see us through another cloudy day.

“Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add colour to my sunset sky.” -  Rabindranath Tagore, Stray Birds

STREETWISE or C-L-O-U-D-S, MIND GAMES

Now and then life grabs us

by the scruff of the neck

and tosses us into The Street

where we lie on our backs

look a passing cloud in the eye,

demanding answers it

It soon becomes very clear

the cloud doesn’t care

what on earth we're doing there,

(nor it seems do passers-by)

so we have to face the possibility

it could well be our fault

Our flaws stand up poorly

to close examination,

lying on our backs in The Street;

time to get real, get up,

walk on, trust centuries of hope

to treat blisters on our feet

Wearily, treading the world

in anxious footprints left

by ghosts fired by desperation

to track the kinder side

of reality, live in love and peace,

secure a comfort zone

Last spotted throwing caution
to the winds, putting can
before can't and will before won't,
giving winds of change
a fighting chance to do their best
on the street where I live 

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

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

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

Tattoo Art, a Singular Unselfconsciousness

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I well recall how, in my teens, I confided to my mother that I was worried sick about an interview with a Careers Officer the next day because I couldn’t make up my mind what I wanted to be when I left school. She just shrugged and said, ‘Try being yourself and you won’t go far wrong.’ She was right, of course, but that was hard for me to admit at the time since I wasn’t being myself at all as being gay was still a criminal offence. I’ve tried to make up for it since.

Love it or hate it, most people are inclined to nurse a secret envy of tattoo art in so far as it conveys an unselfconsciousness that speaks for the self which, without meaning any offence, refuses to pussyfoot around or participate in the socio-cultural-religious sensibilities of others.

Every art form, of course, attempts the same.

TATTOO ART, A SINGULAR UNSELFCONSCIOUSNESS

I’m not the sort to strut

sidewalks alongside the latest

fashion clones

I prefer to speak plainly,  

no making a stab at diplomacy  

with awful clichés

I’ll not vote for the party

least likely to keep pre-election 

promises

I have never been in awe

of celebrities who love to preen

on camera

I like to call a spade a spade;

a ‘digging implement’ impresses

no one

I rejected religion years ago;

nature lends me a growing sense    

of spirituality

I love to share word patterns;  

as tattoos to the body, so art forms

to the mind

  

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

Human Spirit, Battle Cry OR Who's Counting the Petals?

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Sometimes I despair of the world we live in. (Well, don’t you?) But despair never did anyone any good so, no matter how high the odds stacked against success, we have to try and stay positive.

True, it's never easy…

As I have said before - and dare say will continue repeating myself (as I often do) - if we can’t change the world, we can at least try and improve our own little corner of it, and trust that the ripples any change for the better make…will spread.

HUMAN SPIRIT, BATTLE CRY or WHO'S COUNTING THE PETALS?

Floods here, drought there, swollen bellies;
refugees from civil wars pleading aid;

terror taking place on our own TVs, world

rising above its being afraid

So what are the world’s governments doing?

All they can, we’re expected to believe,

so why tragic images we’re seeing of a world
wearing its heart on its sleeve?

Where horror hits hardest, a hurt laid bare;

beyond headlines, inconceivable pain;

where flowers at gravesides, petals like tears
for those battling to move on

Cash (still) flowing freely for wars, elections,

Big Business politics for generations ...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004;2018

[Note: A slightly different version of this poem appeared in a 2004 issue of CC&D magazine, Scars (US) publications and subsequently in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.]

Making sense of Numbers

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Before I retired, I was a librarian working in public libraries here in the UK. It has been a source of great concern to me in recent years that a growing of children and young people asking for help in finding material for homework projects had such poor literacy and numeracy skills. For some adults too, of course, that may not have had the benefit of much formal education, these skills same remain underdeveloped.

It has always seemed to me that numeracy is somehow seen as the poor relation to literacy even though a grasp of number is every bit as important as a grasp of letters.

 ‘Karl’ and ‘Brett’ once wrote in to tell me how getting help to improve their numeracy skills ‘by leaps and bounds’ had considerably boosted their self-confidence. Karl says ‘Numbers were like a foreign language. I could not make any sense of them.  I was made to feel I was in a minority and was too ashamed to ask for help. I got paranoid and it felt like there was some sort of conspiracy against people like me. I didn’t realise so many people have the same problem. Now I can even work out rail and bus timetables. Before finding a really good (home) teacher I was clueless about the 2400 hours clock.’

Believe me Karl, 2400 hours timetables confuse a LOT of people.

This poem is a villanelle.

MAKING SENSE OF NUMBERS

It can feel like a conspiracy,

(the world an enemy)

this nightmare, innumeracy

Out shopping, and invariably

spending too much money;

it can feel like a conspiracy

Debts spiraling relentlessly

(affront to integrity)

this nightmare, innumeracy

I look at my friends and envy

their budgeting effortlessly;

it can feel like a conspiracy

I once confessed ashamedly

to life turning sour on me,

this nightmare, innumeracy

I found support and sympathy

and help for others like me;

it can feel like a conspiracy,

this nightmare, innumeracy

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

The Last Long Hauler Out Of E-Bay

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Some people like to hedge their bets regarding what if anything they might face once they have ‘shuffled off this mortal coil’. (That’s straight out of Hamlet, of course. Good ole Shakespeare. Sounds so much better better than just being dead, doesn’t it?)

Me? Well, I was never much of a gambler so I guess I’ll just have to take my chances with nature…

THE LAST LONG HAULER OUT OF E-BAY

Bid for a ticket,

now halfway to (Heaven?)

angels rushing by - no

less anxious than I to see

the end of the line

Looking down, I see

people on hands and knees

in poverty and pain - far

more anxious than I to see

if God’s at home

Looking out, I feel

a devil’s breath on my face,

smell incense burning

like a pot-pourri of roses

and grow anxious

Bid for a ticket,

now halfway to (Heaven?);

angels rushing past - no

less anxious than I to make up

for lost time

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

Peace

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Peace Rose

Of all the dreams anyone ever had, second only to love, the most beautiful if one of the saddest has to be…

PEACE

It’s a hybrid rose called Peace

that carries spring into summer,

letting its petals fall in autumn

to shield the heart from its winter

Coloured yellow, the peace rose

is for remembrance of times past;

if love, like roses, fade and die,

be sure its petals are crafted to last

At any time of year, whenever

and wherever we ache for a need

to inhale love’s heady perfume,

Peace roses, human senses, invade

Too often loved ones go to war,

never to return or, even if they do,

we too, like them, still suffer

as only humanity in winter can do

If the more ghastly realities of war

even ghosts fear, only fools suppose

its deeper roots lie but dormant

as nature sleeps and nothing grows

At such times, we must be strong,

take well-worn paths the heart knows,

for where there’s love there’s hope

and kinder summers of the Peace rose

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

Christmas At The Going Rate

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This poem was written in 1997 and first appeared in a poetry magazine based in Canterbury before I included it in my first poetry collection.  I wrote it after shopping in the West End of London and being shocked at seeing so many homeless people huddled in sleeping bags in shop doorways, on the steps of theatres, even churches and other religious institutions.

Years on, London, like so many big cities around the world, continues to be haunted by its homeless. It is a sad reflection on the 21^st century, in particular its finely rhetoric-tuned, comfortably-off world leaders in politics and religion/s world-wide. [Does anyone really believe they put the interests of the everyday man, woman and child in the street before their own?]

Although I am not a religious person, I have no problem with (any) religious celebrations although I have to say they often strike me as more than a shade hypocritical  where giving thanks to God often appears to play second fiddle to one-upmanship among family, friends, and neighbours who share the same religion.

Please give as generously as you can afford to charities that help homeless people. 

It has to be said that giving money to homeless people can be a mixed blessing as they will often just use it to buy drugs or alcohol. Most, though, appreciate someone to talk to who can not only sympathise with their plight without being patronising, but also offer constructive advice such as where to go for help. [The nearest public library, for example, will have a wealth of information. During my years as a librarian in public libraries, I often looked up useful addresses that I would then call and hand the phone to a homeless person seeking help.]

CHRISTMAS AT THE GOING RATE

Starling on the snowy bough,

where will you go now 
as you stir your weary wings to fly 

across this sorry sky?

Better off than I, stuck here,

sitting pretty enough

in a world dishing up pity

to its cardboard men…

I pause and you disappear, bells

ringing out Christmas cheer

to celebrate the Church's share

in a saviour for all seasons

who taught the heart needs not reasons

to care about another, rich or poor,

saint or sinner. A local tramp passes.

Good souls pause…

Wiping glasses, hedging bets

on Judgement Day,

doling out a sweet reprieve

of misery, and all for 50p.

Now, let's hurry, we'll be late;

carols at eight (or is it nine?)

Thinly drawn, a twenty-first century’s

cardboard line

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2012

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001.]

Winter On Civvy Street

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Regular readers will know that I am a shameless Doris Day fan. The National Film Theatre on London’s South Bank is showing some of her movies throughout December and I have managed to catch a couple: Young Man with a Horn, based on the life of legendary Jazz trumpeter Bix Beiderbeck and my favourite Doris Day film, Love Me Or Leave Me. Oh, but it has been a real pre-Christmas treat!

Meanwhile…

Today’s poem is dedicated to less fortunate people everywhere, especially emotionally damaged ex-service personnel like the subject of the poem with whom I chatted one wintry night in London  several years ago. I bought him a hot meal and a few teas at a nearby café, as he relayed a stumbling, tumbling tale of family life blown apart all but as effectively as a roadside bomb had killed his best friend while serving in Afghanistan. I toyed with the idea of inviting him to share Christmas with me, but when I returned from the café’s toilet, he had gone. I looked, but there was no sign of him amongst a flurry of snow outside.

I tried several times to write a poem about that evening, but have only just completed one of which I like to think he would approve. He would not tell me his name, but I guess he could have been any one of many people returning from fighting this war or that anywhere in the world, unable to return to anything like the way things once were.

Was he gay, people ask? Oh, and what has sexuality to do with it?  True, gay men and women fight in wars, too. (Take the Great War poet, Wilfred Owen to name but one…) As it happens, though, I didn’t ask…and why should I?

One of life’s greater ironies is that peace can be just another war…something perhaps to bear in mind during Christmas or any religious festival calling for peace in our time?

WINTER ON CIVVY STREET

Icicles, dangling from a roof

like frozen tears in a homeless soldier’s beard

house cringing from all it has seen

and heard during years it has stood on the street,

watching war wives and widows struggling

to make frayed ends meet, keep up appearances 

for wishful thinking

Icicles, starting to melt, old house

unashamedly crying for the homeless soldier

walking its street in mid-winter, no place

to call home since returning from the Front Line,

haunted by dead friends, missing comrades,

walking wounded…all terrorising a mind’s eye

with wishful thinking

Icicles, smearing honest brickwork

with what has to be the saddest graffiti nature

ever left (if briefly) on the face of a house,

whose cosy curtains come alive with firelight

and companionable shadows, testament

to a kinder Spirit of Christmas and its poetry

of wishful thinking

Icicles, gone without leaving a trace

like the homeless soldier, long since moved on

to some other blurred, nameless place

that’s, oh, so scarily similar to that Front Line,

tossing images of love, hope, and peace

into the next coffin alongside a growing rage

with wishful thinking

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

[Note: First published in CC&D v 242, Scars Publications (U.S.) March 2013 and subsequently in The World at War, Forward Press, the same year.]