Endurance

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“Endurance is not just the ability to bear a hard thing, but to turn it into glory.” – William Barclay

Endurance id one of the most difficult disciplines, but it is to the one who endures that the final victory comes.” – Buddha

“Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.” – Helen Keller

“In war, whichever side may call itself the victor, there are no winners, but all are losers.” – Neville Chamberlain.

Now, there are few good-feel News stories in the world today; one such story is the release of Nazanin, Zaghari-Radcliffe forcibly detained and separated from her husband and young daughter for six long years by Iranian authorities bent on using her (among others) as a political pawn. The human mind can barely begin to imagine the full horror of her experience; it can only be awe-struck by an inspirational level of endurance.  

Meanwhile, the horrors of war continue, yet again, to dominate our tv screens as the Russian invasion of Ukraine proceeds into it fourth week...

ENDURANCE

Sometimes. mind-body-spirit
needs must force itself to rise and dance
to the music of such times past
as heart and soul would celebrate happy days,
enough as would wake the dead
if they could, but the dead prefer to sleep
in perfect peace,
the music stopped with such devilish suddenness
as gives innocence its cue for endurance

In no time at all, heart and soul,
plunged into an ultra-surreal a scenario,
like characters in a classic tragedy, played out
for all the world to watch,
moved to almost as great a despair as its players,
no end in view from which
to walk away into the nearest comfort zone,
enjoy whatever pleasures can usually be relied upon
to thrust us into a more agreeable fiction

No such comforting reality on hand
to those so caught up in the savagery of war,
as natural thought processes
temporarily on hold while struggling to make sense
of it all, no end in sight,
personal space spoiled for choice; see it through
and hope to survive – or flee,
endeavour to restore a balance of well-being in pieces,
left shell-shocked by invader-neighbours

A sense of reason, even under duress,
needs must make it way through any fog of war,
steel itself to walk a tightrope
of fear, struggle to ignore such irretrievable losses
as the simple pleasures of life
in the company of family, friends, peers.
guaranteeing the kind of tomorrows
likely to let us sleep soundly, hopeful of yet another day
to see us and loved ones safely on our way

No safety here, danger in every step taken,
dashing for cover at the sound of every air raid siren,
conscious of the enemy’s disrespect
for old and young alike, an indiscriminate bombing
and shelling, no hospital safe,
nor even a theatre, refuge for many hundreds,
only to be destroyed, few survivors
to tell their terrible tales, inflict yet more anguish and pain
on already exhausted fellow countrymen

Fathers, grandfathers and older teenage sons,
having to stay behind, face the rising crescendo of war
knowing they well may never see
and feel the comfort and joy of family togetherness
ever again, heart and soul alone
unable to quite compensate for the reality of being one,
rather than in bits and pieces
like the human jigsaw puzzle that can never be completed
though mind-body-spirits left undefeated

Time passes, but no hiding place for authors of human misery
among the pages of its history

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

 

Subject to Circumstances...

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Here in England, we will hear from Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, later today whether or not all remaining safety restrictions due to the coronavirus outbreak will be lifted on June 21^st. 

Sadly, he is expected to announce a further delay, given the spread of the Delta variant and growing number of infections. 

Yet again, many personal and business plans will need to be put on hold. We can but hope businesses will survive and personal hopes are not entirely dashed. 

Many people, at the end of their tether after more then a year of Covid tensions adversely affecting their everyday lives will be tearful when the expected announcement comes. Yet again, it is down to human nature’s innate powers of endurance to press on regardless, still looking at the brighter side of life... albeit through a misty landscape. 

SUBJECT TO CIRCUMSTANCES... 

We shed and partly shed
the tears of a world left giving
and partly giving - while
(mostly) hell bent on taking more
than its fair share or what's said to be
on offer 

We bleed and partly bleed
for the ills of a world left fighting
and partly fighting - for justice,
peace and love on which it thrives
or partly thrives, duly obliged to keep up
appearances 

We resist and partly resist
all prejudice, hate crime, stereotypes
on which societies - turn
or partly turn, if only for running
this or that everyday gamut of its wishing
and hoping 

We dream and partly dream
of a world where kindness has the edge
on its nemeses - humanity’s
innate sense of right and wrong
putting it to the test, by having us jumping
through hoops 

We believe and partly believe
that mind-body-spirit will see us through,
for better, for worse - richer
or poorer, keep us safe or partly safe
wherever inner eyes focus on the better part
of human vision 

We are the rains that fall to feed
and partly feed a natural world on which
humanity, in turn - feeds
and partly feeds, reasoning its needs,
makes such excuses as keep it any which way
but (quite) loose 

Winds, blowing or partly blowing
such seeds of change as past times so love
to tell, retell - reworking
lives and part-lives, keep us on our toes
just long enough to have capital gains saving
and partly saving faces 

Such is the power of circumstances
letting us live and partly live, ever listening 
and partly listening - heartbeats
that would now have us running straight
and narrow, now only partly so for You-Me-Us
thinking we are in control

Copyright R.N. Taber 2021

 

 

 

 

Lockdown OR Mind-Body-Spirit, left Licking its Wounds

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Overheard in a supermarket only yesterday:

1^st Man: I feel as if I’ve been waiting in this queue for ages.

2^nd Man: Yes, it’s like waiting for the coronavirus to go away.

Old Lady: Ah, but all good things are worth waiting for,. All it takes is patience, as anyone in love will tell you.

1^st Man: Easier said than done.

2^nd Man: That’s right.

Old Lady: No, dear, that’s life.

LOCKDOWN or MIND-BODY-SPIRIT LEFT LICKING ITS WOUNDS

Feeling as downcast as heavy cloud
in a sky where sunshine might never have shone
for all the light it spreads,
left wondering why bother to get up each morning
when doom and gloom
order of the day, radio and tv trying to paste over
the cracks in everyday life,
distracting any audiences with but minimal success
from the Covid-19 coronavirus

Selective DVDs, Talking Books
and movies with which even an audience of one can
engage and be distracted
from wondering if and when lockdown restrictions
will ease sufficiently
to let family and friends meet as often as they need
without having to fret
about people obsessed with wild conspiracy theories
and refusing to cover their faces

Suddenly, a hole in the clouds appears,
enough to expose a patch of blue, enough to encourage
a weary sun to shine through,
restore a glimmer of light in the eyes of passers-by
sufficient to raise a smile,
encourage cheerful chat, masks and social distancing
notwithstanding…
half-forgotten sounds of laughter, if muffled by necessity,
lightening the load on humanity 

Cloud, closing in on Old Man Sun again all too quickly;
Sun, winking as if to say, “Back soon, you’ll see …”

 Copyright R. N. Taber, 2020

Rites of Spring

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This poem first appeared on the blog in 2016.

Since the onset of the Covid-19 coronavirus, many people around the world - both sexes, all ages, especially those living alone  - are now experiencing loneliness for the first time in the lives; the need to self-isolate, social distancing, the loss of loved ones to the virus … all are impacting on our lives to some degree or another. Some of us feel supported by friends, family and neighbours while others are made to feel they do not even have that reassurance and comfort to draw upon. Whatever, we are all having to get used to living in a changed world … and change, itself, can be a tough nut to crack, even for the most resilient among us.

Loneliness is not only a sad condition but can also make a person bitter if he or she is not careful to keep a balanced perspective. We poets write about it, but it’s every lonely person’s private hell and there’s nothing poetic about it all; the poetry comes with hindsight after finding that someone special, often when and where we least expect it.

Thankfully there are many ‘special’ people in this world; those who care enough to lend a helping hand (without being asked) or even just make contact by letter, email or much appreciated phone call where they sense it may well be needed. Far too many people either wait to be approached or take offence because someone hasn’t approached them; invariably, there are reasons behind human behaviour, about which many of us don’t think to ask or even consider before taking offence … and not the least of these reasons can be loneliness, a feeling that too few of us are willing to admit.

How long two lonely people having found each other will stay together may be anyone’s guess, but it’s a sure bet they will enjoy a taste of their own private heaven. Needless to say, the heart, too, has its seasons, of which the most joyful (at any age) has to be spring.

Ah, yes, I remember it well ...

RITES OF SPRING

It was a winter of the heart,

craving spring, hungry for summer,

wondering where they’ve gone,

those sounds of laughter haunting

the ear? Why a pillow by mine

and no one there? I’m walking down

a street and all I see is feet,

protesting about being on their own

too long, falling in with others,

insisting it is where they belong

Seasons passed, cycle of pain

turning me, clockwork clown, going

through the same old motions

of getting by (fixed smile, dry eye);

till one night during Happy Hour,

there you were. For a while we took

comfort in drowning together,

letting our glasses relate the way

life's meant to be, you and me

against the world till... (maybe?)

True to say, in each other’s arms

we agreed to stay a while, no weeds

deceiving passers-by but flowers

bright as daffodils after April showers,

tail of a comet on the Milky Way,

favourite songs played over and over

by a late DJ till everyone’s running

for cover but us, left savouring dreams

to share, richer for richer, no poorer

for chancing our luck then and there

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2020

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.]

Nature and Human Nature, a Collage

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Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2013.

A reader asks if I have found a publisher for my next volume of poems, especially given that I have had to self-publish in the past because no publishers wanted the gay input. Well,no, I haven't, but am not really looking at the moment, as I still have not made up my mind whether or not to just self-publish a few hundred volumes and put the collection on-line at a later date. The same reader asks, "Why bother as your poems are on the blogs anyway?"  While not apprehensive about the possibility of dying (it has to happen sometime, after all)  I have to be pragmatic about life expectancy given that I will be 75 later this year and have been living with prostate cancer, along with other health issues, since 2011. I doubt whether Google will keep my blogs for long after my demise, and I want people to be able to continue accessing my poems. Should the Grim Reaper come calling before I am ready, a close friend has said he will see to it that my poetry collections go online. 

Meanwhile ...

Life is frequently inclined to behave like a rush hour commuter, shoving us this way and that until we are confused, angry, despairing to the point of giving up the daily struggle to survive on the best terms available to us; especially true for many if not most of us, I suspect, as we continue to do battle with mixed social and personal circumstances imposed as a direct consequence of Covid-19.

We may well seek some respite with nature.  Indeed, and why not?  For it is nature’s way more often than not to offer peace of mind, comfort, reassurance and hope as well as putting everyday human crises in perspective.

Ah, but neither does nature shirk from putting us mortals in our place any more than we mortals, each other.

NATURE AND HUMAN NATURE, A COLLAGE

Dogma, missiles homing in

on the most vulnerable

Heavens, healing wounds,

all God pundits divided

By dawn, subtle birdsong

calling out for a kinder world

Clouds, weary foot soldiers

haunting political stirrers

High noon, tears of the sun

(for all humanity's prejudices)

Dead leaves, Earth Mother

close to giving up on us all?

Twilight, wrapping-up time

if only to hide humanity's mess

Sunsets, Apollo’s blushes

(for humanity's mistakes?)

Stars, all eyes on our 'betters'

ever negotiating new moral highs

Darkness, mind over matter;

(pause-for-thought heroics)

Sleep, rescue from human freefall

(if only a temporary measure)

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2020

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

You-Me-Us, a Love for All Seasons

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I am sometimes asked, especially at poetry readings, why I revise poems, usually at a (much) later date, even if it has been published in its original form. What is the point of having a poem published only to revise it later? I have no definitive answer to that other than I haven’t a clue. I suspect that sometimes a published poem is as good as it gets at the time, but (and the poet has no way of knowing) it is only a first draft.

Poems have a life of their own; some persist in growing within mind-body-spirit as time goes by, nurtured by various moods, thoughts, emerging philosophies and responses to this, that, and whatever in a subconscious that is an extension of that same consciousness in which the poem was originally shaped. Time, the ultimate mischief-maker, will latch on to a trigger years later and confront the poet with either acknowledging and/ or for compensating for any shortcomings in the original poem; shortcomings of which neither poet nor reader may have been aware at the time although some authoritative critics may have hinted at them without quite understanding at what, precisely, they were hinting.

Now, life doesn’t always go as smoothly as we would like. Trust love to be on hand to help relieve the stress ... although it has to be said that love can also be the cause of stress., especially when found wanting, for whatever reason and/or life tests it (and us) to the limits of endurance, such as when a loved one or close friend dies ...

Oh, and lovers have no monopoly on love, either; as I have enthused before, and dare say will again, it comes in all shapes and sizes; places and animals, as well as people. Nor, where any of these are concerned does our relationship with love end in death given that remembrance, too, is always on hand to stir the spirit and lift the heart whenever it gets the call.

My mother once told me not to be sad when someone we care for dies, but “Only shed tears of joy for joy will always get the better of sorrow. Why people think it’s respectful to wear black at funerals is beyond me. Funerals should be a celebration of happy memories, and we all have our share of those or it’s a poor sod who doesn’t … so don’t you wear black at my funeral,” she added with a typical twinkle (or tear?) in each eye. I had no way of knowing at the time that she had a cancer that would find me recalling those words within months.

YOU-ME-US, LOVE FOR ALL SEASONS

In the eyes of whom I love, a feisty light;

memories of flowers come springtime,

birds nesting, badgers mating, a celebration

of mind-body-spirit’s timely reawakening

from a winter of the heart ever listening out

to take its cue from Earth Mother

In the eyes of whom I love, a bright light;

memories of sandcastles come summer,

laughter, ice creams, buckets and spades, 

shrieking gulls in concert with children

letting rip with lungs applauding joie de vivre,

for its magic, ignorant of illusion

In the eyes of whom I love, as pale a light

as of snowfalls come autumn’s wake,

cosy fires of remembrance spreading love

and peace across landscapes less lonely

for Earth Mother’s harvesting of time and space,

its enduring echoes of you-me-us

On the face of whom I love, a guiding light,

its sun-moon-stars, my every day and night

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005, 2020

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in under the title ‘On the Face of whom I Love’ in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005; alternative title added later.]

The Line Manager

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I never expected growing old(er)t to be easy, but events conspired to make it even worse, although I (usually) manage to keep looking on the bright side of life and get the better of my demons; among the latter, I count prostate cancer and arthritis. As well as certain prescription drugs, I have discovered several herbal remedies that also help a lot, but always ask my GP or cancer consultant before trying any. Whether or not they really help or it is a case of mind over matter...well, who cares if they help improve quality of life??

An old acquaintance commented only recently on how well I looked; this was after my getting precious little sleep and subsequently feeling awful, but it was nice to hear, not least because he had avoided asking me how I am, and saved me having to either lie or bore the pants off him. No one loves a whinger. Confiding with close friends and family is different; you can share a laugh at the same time. An acquaintance is a different beast altogether; for a start, they can rarely tell when you’re joking or being seriously funny in the true spirit of wry, bottom line humour.

Illness can make a person very moody, and I am no exception. On a bad day, I seek out the company of an old and close friend who will waste no time putting me down for being a miserable old git, to which I will eventually come up with a lively denial which might even pass for humorous riposte, and … Hey presto, mood is on the mend already! Oh, how I miss that as COVID-19 continues to make itself felt around the world and social interaction remains strictly limited.

No excuses, though, as there is always the telephone and other devices we can turn to for for much the same result. Not the same, I know, but any positive communication with others is better than none, and we all need to stay positive during these difficult times.

Now and then, people ask how I’m coping with the prostate cancer. Hormone therapy and a positive attitude, I invariably reply with wry grin. Oh, but doesn’t the hormone therapy make you pee a lot, and keep you up half the night? True, I agree, but I can live with that so long as I can go back to sleep quickly. Oh, but doesn’t the pain of your arthritis keep you awake? Yes, I have to agree, but much less so since I discovered when to take  the right dose of painkillers at the right time, along with an antidepressant capsule, I add, with a cheeky wink,  which goes a long way towards keeping me sane, especially at the moment when I seem to be losing a steady stream of what marbles I can still count in my 75th year....

Unable to lament the state of my mind-body-spirit to the extent they had hoped, and wallow in their own sympathy, people will usually  either change the subject (thank goodness!) or move on with a weak smile that speaks volumes … 😉

“There comes a time when one must take a position that is neither safe, nor politic, nor popular, but he must take it because conscience tells him it is right.” - ― Martin Luther King Jr., A Testament of Hope: The Essential Writings and Speeches

This poem is (yes, another) kenning.

THE LINE MANAGER 

Ignore me, and you will feel regret,

abuse me, and you’ll discover vengeance

is mine (and that’s no idle threat);

treat me well and discover a friend indeed

when mind-body-spirit in pieces,

even a native optimism fast losing heart,

positive thinking in free fall,

and the will to live, but for family and friends

inspiring life forces

I come in all shapes and forms,

demand you consider certain options well,

and never hold back in asking

for help in identifying whatever life forces

need nurturing before feeding

on ego and alter ego until precious little left

for human nature to regenerate,

although never too late to bring self-preservation

into play, and win the day

Such are the ways of human nature

that what helps the goose may kill the gander

despite over-the-fence advice;

knowledge is wisdom, so seek it out, tackle

that hardest of all learning curves,

be sure to bring mind-body-spirit to heel, 
fewer distractions from purpose;

rise above all that’s dragging you down, not least

by addressing me by name

Call me Instinct, line manager for all life’s crises;
together, we may yet get the better of its nemeses

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

Inspiratonal

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I love to watch and hear birds. For me, though, (yes, even after the skylark) the robin has to be the most inspirational.

Most if not all of us of us discover at some time or another that parting is, indeed, a sweet sorrow; the sweeter for happy memories that continue to sustain us.

I first read this poem by Emily Dickinson while reading English and American Literature at the University of Kent in Canterbury way back in 1971; it has been one of my favourite poems ever since, also inspiring some of my own, not least the one below.

“If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.” 

Emily Dickinson

INSPIRATIONAL

In a field of snow, I thought I saw

red berries on the branches of a tree,

but homing in, I discovered

it was but the breast of a lone robin

calling out to me

Robin, living in the hope of spring,

where love grows in a field of dreams,

though snow lay on the ground,

Earth Mother’s way of preserving

any kinder options

I stumbled, watching the robin fly

all but blindly, nor was I even looking

for hope to kindle my soul;

you took that with you when you left

along with spring

How my legs found the will to move

I can only guess was to honour the bird

as it returned, its bitter-sweet song

at a twilight in shreds for winter’s claws,

the loneliest ever heard

It was then you put your hand in mine,

and I lay my weary head on your shoulder,

as against all odds we staggered home

together, just as we had sworn ever to stay

through growing older

At the door of our house, we parted,

a glorious light in your eyes like a rainbow

among my tears you wiped dry

with the same hand that still wore my ring,

a guiding light in the snow

I thought I heard you speak my name

then saw it was but the wings of my robin

vanishing where yet I dare not go

but would, in time, just as those same tears

had followed your coffin

If a robin can see the cruelty of winter through,

be sure we lovers, though parted, can too

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2020

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

In the Face of One--eyed Jacks

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Since the early days of the so-called Arab Spring, civil war has caused untold suffering to the Syrian population. Anti-government protests had been ongoing in the Syrian city of Hama since March 2011, when large protests broke out in the city, similar to others elsewhere. In July, the Government sent the Syrian Army into Hama to control protests on the eve of Ramadan, often referred to as the ‘Ramadan Massacre.’

Ever since, both security forces and “rebels” have carried out numerous large-scale operations, resulting in mass executions, killings, arrests, kidnappings and torture across Syria. Many families and elderly people are suffering above all from the shortage of electricity, water and lack of food/ medical supplies; frequently they no longer have a home. There are blackouts several times during the day, and gasoline is rationed. No one knows when or where the next bomb will fall.

There has to be a diplomatic solution although the neutral observer may well feel prompted to ask  whether - in the murky world of politics - that old saying, ‘where there’s a will there’s a way’ is not more aptly applied to expediency than to will … on anyone’s part? If inhumanity is a vicious circle, it is one that's drawn and expanded by human beings.

This poem is a villanelle.

IN THE FACE OF ONE-EYED JACKS

Watch inhumanity boxing clever

as the toll of dead and injured grows;

world’s cyclopean eye on Syria

As face-saving excuses endeavour

to explain away as its politics allows,

watch inhumanity boxing clever

Freedom, a dirty word, all the surer

for (ever) wiping its poor bloody nose;

world’s cyclopean eye on Syria

A century’s children living in terror,

all innocence cheated of its tomorrows,

watch inhumanity boxing clever

No stranger to either war or massacre,

(cue for United Nations to strike a pose)

world’s cyclopean eye on Syria

May humanity yet endure, be the leader

sheer common sense alone sure to choose;

watch inhumanity boxing clever,

world’s cyclopean eye on Syria …

London: April 2018

Copyright R N. Taber 2018 

[Note: A cyclops is described in ancient Greek and Roman mythology as from a primordial race of giants, each with a single eye in the centre of the forehead; the word "cyclops" literally means "round-eyed" or "circle-eyed".  – Wikipedia]

Back to School OR Rediscovering Letters on Building Bricks, Learning Tools for Grown-Ups

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While I will always refute the notion that schooldays see us through the best years of our lives, I will always be grateful for a less than happy learning experience that has brought me to where I am now; one which, for better or worse, has more yet in store for me. For just how much longer, only time will tell; no life experience teaches us all the answers although there never was any harm in speculating and trusting that a few, at least, will filter through.

I was like a fish out of water at school for all kinds of reasons, not least because no one picked up on my partial deafness so I missed much of what was being said. Moreover, I am not a very practical person and hopeless at subjects like woodwork, metalwork and technical drawing, which, it being a Technical School, were primary subjects. I learned a lot, though, if only by way of survival skills that would see me through the rest of my life.

Although a ‘low to medium’ achiever’ at school, I had some great teachers and learned a lot; e.g. how to compensate for my deafness by developing a wacky sense of humour that would get me out of all kinds of scrapes; feeding my imagination on classic children’s poetry and literature that would soon find me devouring adult works that, in turn, would serve me well as a mature student at university;  enjoying my ups by coming through my downs with a real sense of having learned something although (of course) I hadn’t thought of it as a learning process at the time; discovering at first hand that self-pity is a waste of any potential for mind, body and spirit left waiting in the wings, demonstrating (only too well) the futility of going nowhere fast.

Oh, and last but not least, those less-than-happy-but-worth-every-minute schooldays taught me to live with myself, warts ‘n’ all. (Rarely a flattering image, but, what the heck…? Sure, escapism by whatever means is all very well, so long as we can get real - with ourselves if not always with each other - whenever needs must.)

Yes, 71 now and still discovering what letters make what words on what building bricks used to make a world...

BACK TO SCHOOL or REDISCOVERING LETTERS ON BUILDING BRICKS, LEARNING TOOLS FOR GROWN-UPS

Old building,
groaning for developers
knocking it down

Empty rooms,
full of jeering ghosts
putting me down

Nightmares,
haunting my every step,
bringing me down

Old school tie,
noose around my neck,
dropping me down

Formative years,
lessons but half learned
letting me down

T-I-M-E, choices
breaking us in, schoolkids
on a joyride

L-I-F-E, a half-ruin
waiting upon developers
to reconstruct us

N-A-T-U-R-E,
kinder ghosts, ready to lend
a helping hand

L-O-V-E,
better teachers, overriding
lesser mortals

P-E-A-C-E
but graffiti on a blackboard
till we can spell

Copyright R. N. Taber 2017

Spring Fields, the Poetry of Anticipation

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We are constantly reminded of the resilience of nature and human nature to rise above even the worst winter may throw at it. So, too, we see evidence of that enduring penchant of human mind, body and spirit for the kind of creative therapy that lifts us out of despair and carries us into spring. What happens then, of course, is no secret where nature is concerned; new life, indeed. As for mind, body, and spirit, these can but reunite and do their best to rise above the worst and wing us along with the skylark, perennial metaphor for hope renewed and dreams reworked…that never (quite) went away.

SPRING FIELDS, THE POETRY OF ANTICIPATION

When winter comes,

its days so long, cold, and dark

where do dreams fly

that once rose with the lark,

kept us company

in spring fields bringing new life

to each flower, each tree?

When winter comes,

dimming even the brightest spirit,

what happens to hopes

that once nested in the heart,

kept the mind company

in spring fields bringing new life

to each flower, each tree?

When winter comes,

poverty sure to leave its mark,

to whom do they turn,

faced with life choices as stark

as keeping the heating on,

putting food on the table, buying

clothes for the children?

When winter comes,

snowflakes like failing heartbeats,

how do they survive,

forced to beg on busy streets

for the right to be free

of winter’s worst, a helping hand

from everyday humanity

When winter comes,

its days so long, cold and dark,

drive mind, body and spirit

to image wings of the same skylark

that kept us company

in spring fields bringing new life

to each flower, each tree

Where winter comes,

companion north wind blowing,

sparing no one,

find hopes and dreams creating

a bold new tapestry

of spring fields bringing new life

and hope to ailing humanity

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013; 2016

Humanity, a Self-Portrait in Shades of Light and Dark

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Now and then, readers get in touch to say they will be visiting London and ask to meet up for a chat over a coffee, beer, or perhaps a meal. I have met people from all over the world, male and female, gay and straight, and it has always been a delightful experience. 

It is not only very encouraging but also fulfilling for a poet to meet his readers, and I hope more of you will feel free to meet up with me. Oh, and fear not, I appreciate plain speaking and don’t expect everyone to like or even agree with everything I write. Needless to say, I always enjoy a friendly argument…

Feel free to email me any time: rogertab@aol.com

Meanwhile…

On wintry days (not necessarily of the seasonal variety) it can sometimes seem as if darkness must inevitably get the better of us, such is the nature of things, that we human beings will never shrug off its nightmares for long and any light of day revisited but a cold one.

Ah, but never, never, say ‘never’ or underestimate the capacity of the human spirit for love and light in all its shapes and shades…or the enduring power of either. While there is no greater power of remembrance than love, there are aspects of character and personality in all of us that are likely to make an impression on others to form part of a posthumous consciousness that lends us a sense of immortality, passed on from person to person, generation to generation, ad infinitum ...

Photo: from the Internet

This poem is a villanelle.

HUMANITY, A SELF-PORTRAIT IN SHADES OF LIGHT AND DARK

Though death’s dark canopy,

our lives may obscure,

to light, the final victory

Along thorny paths of history

let us tread with care,

though death’s dark canopy

If few life choices made easy,

consciences left clear,

to light, the final victory

Among triumphs over misery,

to light, the greater share,

though death’s dark canopy

Where shades of inhumanity

feed on hate and fear,

to light, the final victory

Let self, its own worst enemy,

love’s true colours wear;

though death’s dark canopy,

to light, the final victory 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2015

[Note: An earlier version of this poem first appeared under the title Darkness and Light in  Expressions from London and Home Counties, Anchor Books [Forward Press] 2004 and subsequently in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.]

Getting the Better of Rock and Hard Place

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It often strikes me as one of life's more bitter-sweet ironies that it's the heart in winter that focuses most on spring...

Me, I have never been as happy as the too few years I shared with my late partner a long time ago. Even so, I learned to be happy again. Oh, I have never met anyone else with whom I wanted to share my life, but I have made some good friends, found a curious peace, comfort and joy in my poetry as well as being blessed with a natural optimism to see me through. I may not be a very successful writer, but success has never meant as much to me as enjoying life in my own way.  [Yes, I have prostate cancer, but have all I need to see me through that too.]

Love comes to each and every one of us in all shapes and forms; its effect on us never (quite) fades even though sometimes it may be but a visitor, passing through. The past, too, is a part of us and never forgotten, whether or not it needs to be tempered by forgiveness, nor should it ever be where it has made us happy. Ah, but it's building on that happiness, making the most of the present, each of us in our own way, and looking forward to the future that counts…no matter what. As for various socio-cultural-religious dogma/conventions refusing to take our side for one reason or another, the human spirit knows better; religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality any more than conventions have rights or dictatorship.

GETTING THE BETTER OF ROCK AND HARD PLACE

I walked in a wood one winter

as I had with my true love one spring,

promising ourselves to each other;
the trees were bare, yet so splendid,

whose leaves happy enough to perform

the music of life just for us

Heavens, near empty and grey,

whose wings of light once, our spring,

gaily affirmed Earth Mother’s love;

world, a spread of snow where flowers

(all kinds and colours) created an ocean

of brave dreams just for us

I let my heart fall to the ground

where you lay your raincoat one spring,

our first lovemaking blessed;

yet, my heart refused to stay long,

but spread wings (just as it had before)

meant to survive all weathers

I’ll not let it grieve me that nature

should liken its life force to a graveyard,

and we among the fallen;

life goes on, poor humanity caught

between its rocks and hard places save

for the enduring power of love

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2015

The Music Makers

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[Update, 26/9/2019: Aware that I do not use social media myself, readers often ask if they can post a link to any of my poems on social media or simply recommend any of my blogs by title. No, I don’t mind at all.  If you want to recommend, go ahead, and many thanks; the more readers, the more feedback. The only reason I do not use social media myself is because I am in my 70’s now and not well these days so simply do not have the time as everything takes so much longer; working on a poem can take days anyway, and there is always shopping and housework to be done besides regular visits to my GP surgery or the Macmillan Cancer Centre (for my prostate cancer) and replying to any feedback that gives an email address and has 'Poetry' in the subject field. (I ignore spam.)]

This poem, a kenning, has mysteriously vanished from the blog and I am reinstating it today by popular request.

THE MUSIC MAKERS

I am the lovesick composer at the keys

of a Stradivarius, the man or woman

swimming against the tide in a splendid

sea of laughter, wondering if maybe

he or she who taught them how to play

will come after them today, tomorrow,

or another time, sing a love song as old

as the sea in the ear of one who longs

for even more

I am the lark soaring to welcome the sun,

bringing hope to sleepyheads stirring

on tearstained pillows, man or woman

daring to trust in another, demanding

answers to questions haunting the mind

like ghosts striving to clear a pathway

to love for the living, lift the last obstacles

remaining, sing among larks and rise

into clear skies

I am the nocturne sent to lure us along

the Milky Way, leaving trails

few astronomers will rush to identify

for fear of exposing such secrets

as men and women have found in stars

reading like notes of a love song

since Creation, inspiration for generation

upon generation, signatures of nature

to love’s endeavour

I bring to the spirit of music and dance,

an expertise called Endurance

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

Listening Out for a Love Song

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Only fools take little or no care to create and store happy memories as they go through life or on wintry days, when a north wind blows, they will have little or nothing by which to warm themselves, take hope, and feel inspired. 

Be sure, second hand memories won’t do the trick.

I have said much the same thing before and a reader got in touch to say that his partner has Alzheimer’s so what use are their happy memories?

Well, I believe that a person does not have to articulate on happy memories to enjoy them; the spirit of that happiness never dies and will sustain us through just about anything. In my experience, where that spirit is weak or absent, the human heart tells a very different story. 

I have known people with Alzheimer's and other forms of  dementia  Carers  have related experiences about loved ones with the illness as it progresses; many of those who have it seem able to convey and live (for much if not all the time) in the spirit of a happy past even though they cannot recall it in much or any detail. Perhaps this is wishful thinking of my part, but an overwhelming impression all the same.

A time may well come for ny of us when we forget the life we've had in the sense that we cannot articulate on it in any detail, but it will have left a trail of felt experiences that never quite leave us; our feelings can take us anywhere we want to be, and we do not need to choose as we are guaranteed a happy ending, if only because mind-body-spirit will be immune to anything less. 

A husband and devoted carer once said much the same thing to me so it isn’t just a poet’s rhetoric. ‘It keeps me sane,” he told me, “knowing that the spirit of the love we have shared for the best part of a lifetime is still there, intact. True, its human container is outwardly more than a shade battered, bruised and all but beyond recognition, but its contents will remain as fresh, pure and precious as ever for as long as at least one of us continues to draw breath. After that…who knows?”

Who, indeed  ...?

LISTENING OUT FOR A LOVE SONG

A north wind, penetrating within,

purging the soul, tearing skin

from a body staring ruin in the face,

and no way back to how it was.

(hope but a leaf or flower away)

swept along the wrong track,

hope fading, fear rising of losing

all mind-body-spirit that makes me 

who I am ... 

Blows a cruel wind, tears freezing,

faces turned heavenwards

seeking aid, mercy, grace, forgiveness

for the error of our ways,

judgments cast in stone to boost egos

begging their superiority
over minorities, teeth showing

like the smile on the face of a tiger

selecting priorities

We persevere. Let fear do its worst,

we shall endure, see the sun shine

in our faces again, belie the damage

of acid rain, camouflage our pain

under slick, blank sheets of copy paper

signifying nothing, signing us up

for whatever the world cares

to have us say we feel, no matter

what’s just or real

Listen. Above a howling of wolves,

a love song making itself felt ...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'When the Wind Blows' in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.]