Something to be said for Karma

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

It is only human nature to worry about life's unknown factors, especially when they directly concern us and we have little or no control over either their presence or potential development.  A few years ago, I started worrying about a lesion on my leg as to whether it might be skin cancer or a sign of diabetes or whatever…until I fancied I could hear my mother whispering one of her favourite sayings in my ear, ‘If you worry, you’ll die and if you don’t worry, you’ll still die one day so…why worry?’

My GP referred me to a dermatologist and a shot of liquid nitrogen did the trick. No cancer there.

I wrote this little poem at the time and returned to it when I first discovered I have prostate cancer in February 2011. It’s not a particularly good poem (what is a ‘good’ poem, anyway?) but has proven very therapeutic. I can still hear my mother’s voice in my ear expressing approval. (She died of cancer in 1976)

SOMETHING TO BE SAID FOR KARMA

Worry, worry, worry,

will get us nowhere at all;

worry, worry, worry,

and we’re heading for a fall;

positive thinking

is the only way to go

before worry, worry, worry,

hits an all-time low

Worry, worry, worry,

gets our knickers in a twist;

worry, worry, worry,

(far too many woes to list);

a positive thinker

is the only kind to be

since worry, worry, worry,

won’t ever set us free

Worry, worry, worry,

and life is sure to pass us by,

all the best things in life

between earth, sea and sky;

positive thinking

(easy enough to say)

unites mind, body and spirit,

brings each into play

Worry, worry, worry,

and we’ll surely die one day

(when, who’s to say?)

so come, let’s make hay…

A positive thinker

is the only kind to be

since worry, worry, worry

won’t ever set us free

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011; 2015

Monday, Monday...

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

Readers are always asking for the link to my informal poetry reading on the 4^th plinth in London’s Trafalgar Square in 2010 by way of being my contribution to Sir Antony Gormley’s One and Other ‘live sculpture’ project. Be warned, though; the whole thing lasts an hour:

http://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223121732/oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T  [NB: Sept 19, 2019 - The British Library confirmed today that he video is no longer available as it was incompatible with a new IT system, However, it still exists and BL hope to reinstate it and make it available to the public again at some future date.] RNT

Now, this tongue-in-cheek poem has been slightly revised since appearing in my collection and on the blog in 2007. I wrote it in 2003. Since then I have retired but…I still hate Mondays!

MONDAY, MONDAY...

Monday morning,

one eye on a glorious dawning

through paper thin curtains

covering us much like a shroud;

hearts stopping, a relentless

ticking of bedside clocks arousing it

to a semblance of beating, 

like a bored child tapping fingers

on whatsoever happens along

to distract from the business in hand

of having it knuckle down

to what’s expected, without so much

as any reward or time off

for good behavior from acting

the epitome of perfection,

if only to impress those who need

(or demand) to be impressed,

best impressions leaving the rest

struggling to keep up…

Oh, but that won’t do, have to show

who’s who, stand tall, be counted

as well worth our salt among so-called

‘betters’ - prove our daily stars

not so far out after all, even if night

skies are more likely to shoot us

in the back, leave us gibbering wrecks

after playing at sex, losing the game,

and waking up with a killer hangover,

contemplating going to work in terror,

more than likely to be gobbled up

by some mad 'n' mean gossip machine

playing you-can-tell-me-I-won’t-tell

that just may have something going for it,

beats an unholy devotion to overtime

no one gets paid or even a thank you so

by immaculate, swivel chairing gods

on six figure salaries and getting a kick

out of fiddling expenses…  

Oh, yes, and all for what? Get laid, 

(so drunk we forget anyway…)

Monday, Monday, GO AWAY

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2014

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in  A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.]

O, Cervantes

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

Since the 1970s, pressure of work on the average person has at least doubled; fewer staff and the common misconception by (too many) managers that just about anyone can be replaced by a computer has been a major contributory factor. Only ten years earlier, my teachers at school had been telling us how wonderful the 1980s would be once machines were doing the lion’s share of the work we were paid full-time wages for part-time hours. [Whatever happened to the Golden Age of Leisure we were promised?]

Oh, but show me a windmill!

O, CERVANTES

One commuter rises

at seven, has to run for the train

at eight after ritual peck

on doorstep, and warning the kids

not to be late for school

Arrives for work wearily,

re-sorts any post meticulously,

checks with a secretary

about what’s worth knowing

on the grapevine

Another day done,

breaks for tea well-deserved,

our hero heads home,

packed like a helpless veal calf

on the continental run

Turns a brassy yale

at about half-six most days,

picking at supper

by seven ten, sends screaming kids

to do their homework

Starts to tell the wife

about his own work, and then...

(Damn, the mobile again!)

A smoke, glass of red, some soap TV,

(pity about the ulcer, scary.)

No outstanding bills, and never

a thing about windmills

Copyright R. N. Taber 1999; 2013

[Note: An earlier but only slightly different version of today’s poem was written in 1972; it appeared in Poetry Monthly (1999) that has since closed down and in All in One Day, Poetry Now (Forward Press) 2001 prior to my first major collection,  Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001;]

Last One Home Is A Green Pig

Whatever happened to childhood? Given that we carry much of those early years into maturity, we may well ask why adulthood often resembles a green pig…


LAST ONE HOME IS A GREEN PIG

Spots of rain on the pavement
heading home, marked out
like hopscotch and whose turn
to throw the slate?
A hop, skip and jump, anxious
to land well clear, stay ahead,
aware that last one home
is a green pig;
Rain comes faster than an enemy
at the gate, wiping out all effort,
obliging someone - to
pocket the slate;
What next, computer games?
(No one at home likely
to insist we must
take turns);
For slate, read mouse, dying
to score (Oh, the lives little
people play and always
up for more!);
Sun’s out; pavement dries
to a smug grin, like
the face of a pig
coloured green

[From: The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004]