Hi, Everyone, from London UK

Hi, Everyone, from London UK,

Sorry, no poem today as I am trying to load as many of my poems to a memory stick as I can, just in case the blog ever disappears.

In the past, UK poetry publishers have shown no interest in me because I make it clear that any published collection must include a gay section. My self-published collections proved popular, but the last one appeared in 2021' since then, I have been diagnosed with prostate cancer, had a bad fall that has left me with  mobility problems and have been having to cope while living on my own. I cope OK(ish), so no worries, but nothing gets easier as we grow older and I'm in my late 70's now.

As I have said on the blog before, in latter years, writing poetry has been as much by way of creative therapy than for pleasure; it helps me  manage thought processes and memory problems as a direct result of years of hormone therapy for my prostate cancer. So, I feel a need to write what I can, while I can and keep my poems in a safe place in case any publishers eventually show any real interest once I have passed away.

No one has ever appreciated just how much my poetry means to me and, yet again, a BIG thank you to you all, dear readers, for encouraging me by viewing my poems and sending emails from time to time.

Reader H H asks how many views this blog has had in total since I started writing it up about ten years ago. Currently, blogger statistics show 213,149 views; for a poetry blog, this is VERY encouraging, so you can understand why continuing it is so important to an oldie like me, from both a psychological and health point of view. The gay poetry blog statistics show a total of 160, 987 views, again, very encouraging.

Feedback suggests that more LGBT viewers dip into both blogs these days and I like to think it is because they are coming round to the point of view that poetry is for everyone, has something to say to everyone, intent on voicing a perspective on which the reader is invited to consider his or her own take. Whatever, food for thought is important; sadly, the pace of life these days means fewer people can make time enough for even that. 

When I stared blogging, I had been warned that a gay poetry blog would be unlikely to attract many readers and I was unable to find anything similar online, so...G-AY in the Subject Field took to pc screens worldwide. My having been sexually inactive for some years now, it may have  lost its initial momentum, but feedback suggests LGBT readers appreciate the encouragement my poems try to offer. (I spent too many years in a lonely closet to want the same for anyone who is led to believe there is something shameful, even sinful about sexual/ gender identity; neither is a choice, but who we are. 

It is a tragedy of our times that some family members, friends and religious communities continue to be guided by many misleading stereotypes propagated by the less enlightened. 

Nor is the sense of spirituality I have always felt any the less for my being gay. Encouragingly, most young people are more prepared to take others as they find them, without prejudging them for what they may have heard on this or that grapevine. (I suspect political correctness means well, but has proven far less effective than intended;. You cannot effectively legislate for a person's perspectives on life and people; it simply creates closets for any that need to be aired, challenged and modified. 

As for poetry, whether people like a poem or not is less important than they should consider how and why they feel about what it it has to say to the voice in which the poem speaks. (As regular readers well know, I have always championed the right to agree to differ...] RT 😉 

We are barely into 2023, yet violent criminal acts on the streets and behind closed doors are hitting the headlines already .Let us hope that Peace, Love and Understanding will eventually prevail worldwide, the darker side of human nature notwithstanding....!

Oh, and on the subject if headlines, I have been asked what I think of Prince Harry's revelations in his book, Spare. Well, I have no interest in reading it, not least because it is unlikely that other members of the Royal Family will respond and there are always two sides to every story. So, to coin a popular phrase, "No comment." 😉

I am working on a new poem, but slowly as I am not too well and old age is catching up with me. No point in crying over spilt milk, though so, yes, I continue to do my best to keep looking on the bright(er) side of life... even though a fog sometimes.😉

Take care, folks, keep safe and stay positive,

Hopefully, back soon with a new poem,

Hugs,

Roger

Anthem Played on a Grass Harp

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

Some years ago, the children of friends of mine married without the blessing of their parents because both sets of parents disapproved of the match because is a lot older than her. Neither could accept their grown-up children’s choice of life partner. As it is, they have missed out on all the pleasures of being grandparents and seeing their grandchildren grow up.

Among all prejudices, ageism is often seen as the ‘poor relation’ but it can devastate lives as much and as needlessly as any other form of prejudice, whether it be based on the colour of a person’s skin, the nature of their sexuality or... whatever.

The couple in question had celebrated their silver wedding anniversary and were very happy until the younger partner died in a car accident. Only then did the families rally round and try to make peace “for the sake of the grandchildren...” Better late than never, I suppose, but so much time wasted, so many golden opportunities missed.

Prejudice in any shape or form doesn’t only eat away at a person’s mind-body-spirit, however much he or she may resist and rise above it, but can destroy families, even communities that are the chief losers in a human equation that will never quite add up until certain people see sense and recognise that all good people have a right to live their lives as they see fit, whether or not it quite adds up to what others might prefer.

I have seen prejudice drive people to crime, even suicide; such a waste of human potential. Whatever happened to respecting and making the best of our loved one’s choices for the good of everyone concerned? Driving home a point from a which misplaced pride refuses to let us budge can so easily make losers of us all.

ANTHEM PLAYED ON A GRASS HARP

Watery sun dripping through trees,
leaves sparkling like jewels in a crown
where we’d wander, my love and I,
ears pricking up at a chick’s first cry,
looking out for others flapping their way
on first flights through dawn rainbows
till gliding with ease as nature meant
for us all, although less so among humans,
a species well known for thinking they
know better than Earth Mother, wishing
them ill (and Hell) who resist straitjackets
and persist in walking tall

On a magic carpet of many colours,
among daisies passing for fairies
in a palace of dreams, we’d go free,
where all prejudices and bigotry
mean less than a fair breeze in the face,
Earth Mother’s caress in the hair,
reminding us how we are, one and all,
as nature intended, no one creature
any more or less precious than another,
each, in their own way, a ‘live’
testament to mind-body-spirit and a history
lending meaning to eternity

We arrived where the carpet
tuned into stone, where no sun shining,
only Shadows, a gathering of forces
preparing to take humanity on and win
any fight it may choose to pick,
no matter rights and wrongs (or alternative
points of view); for them, a certainty
that the world has no place for men, women
and young people whose sexuality
offends a majority choosing to make stand
on a Ship of Fools in a gale force wind, set on
making sense of humankind

Oh, but spring in our hair like jewels in a crown
Love takes for its own!

Copyright R.N. Taber 2010; rev.2021

Note: This poem has recently been significantly revised since first appearing in my collection On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Book, 2010.] 

Now & Then

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

Reader A. H. writes that his family disapprove of his choice of life-partner and says, “My family are everything to me, but so is the woman I love. What can I do?” 

The reader must make a choice, and I would not presume to advise. I would only say that if his family are as close as they would appear to be, the chances are they will come, sooner or later, to his choice of bride.  Sadly, it is a choice many LGBT men and women around the world also have to face. 

As I have often said on the blogs, in preambles and poems alike, love comes in many shapes and forms, but there is a common denominator – survival. Where strong and true, love can endure even the worst life throws at it, in life or death; where unacceptable to some, that is their loss. 

I have seen families split by life choices made by this or that member. Sometimes our choices prove to be at worst misguided, at best flawed, but all of us need to learn by our mistakes, and that works for everyone concerned. Closed doors can be re-opened, but there needs to be a clear will on both sides, not always there...so they remain closed, everyone left asking why, and expecting someone else to make the first move.  

Love never dies, but it is as capable of inflicting hurt and being hurt by human nature as any of us or nature itself. 

NOW & THEN

Once, I’d hide in an old tree
for an ages-old game of hide-and-seek
among peers grown young
with me, Apollo taking a peek
through leaves of spring
taking my side, a brisk south wind
up for playing its part,
while letting rip with a warning shout,
“Coming, ready or not...!” 

Once, I’d lie by that same tree,
feeling blessed for having you at my side
the two of us so happy
just to be together, no words needed
to express expectations
of a future to build, share and enjoy
in such ways as love brings
for letting rip to the world with a shout,
“Coming, ready or not...!” 

Now, returned to that old tree
to share treasured memories of you-me- us,
revisit the dreams we shared,
ask why we were able to fulfil so few,
parted as we were too soon,
yet thankful, indeed, we’d found
in each other such life-forces
as inclined to let rip to the world with a shout,
“Coming, ready or not...!” 

Among leaves of an old tree, hear Apollo shout,
“Coming, ready or not...!" 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021 

An Open Letter to Readers

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

Dear Readers,

No poem today as I live alone, am feeling very tired, and need to get on with some housework. However, still trying to keep one step ahead of tomorrow here... by writing a poem for New Year's Day; it is taking shape already, and I intend to finish it in time to publish on January 1st.

Writing poetry this year has been tough, given the effects of Covid-19 worldwide. More than one reader has complained that my poems "lack imagination, not least for being less concerned with poetry as an art form than with social commentary." and I have to concede that they may well have a point. However, with people losing hope and struggling to rise above that as well as the coronavirus itself, I have concentrated, for the most part, in trying to inject significant positive thinking into my poems. As I do so, it helps me, and I can only hope it helps some of you as well.

To be honest, I doubted whether I had another poem in me, having written nearly a thousand for this blog alone.  If some poems appear to lack imagination, I can only say that I have had to summon no small degree of that for every poem I have written during the pandemic; sifting through the tumult of my own emotions - from a growing sense of fear and despair to those old standbys love and hope - in I try reach out to readers in such a way that they can feel my reaching out to them, especially those who are feeling isolated and/ or lonely.

I cannot expect every reader to like every poem, and I often have second thoughts about a poem myself; as you may have noticed, I will significantly revise a poem and even replace titles from time to time. On the whole, though, I take your staying with me and the blog as an appreciation of my efforts for which I feel  both grateful and inspired. 

In the sense that I am, after all, just an ordinary Joe, trying to make the most of retirement in spite of various health issues, you, my readers, play as important a part in my well-being as the poems I write for the you-me-us that is the common multicultural and multinational humanity on which the world turns. For all its faults and flaws (and ours) it is a good world that, one way or another, will get the better of those criminal and bigoted elements that try to turn it (and us) upside down and inside out., not least by our joining forces against them whenever and wherever we can. 

Okay, no one is perfect, least of all yours truly, but personalities do clash, misunderstandings do occur and  neither bode well with regard to mending bridges. Perhaps if we talked to each other more instead of rushing to judgement and/ or being so cocksure that we are right and the other person is wrong...?

Communication  is a common theme in my poems. Too many of us don't talk to each other enough; talk, that is, to hear, to listen, and be prepared to see the other person's point of view. I write from personal experience; apart from my mother, few among my immediate or extended family were ever prepared to engage in a conversation which might not go completely in their favour, so now we are estranged, for which I'm sorry and not sorry; sorry because family should mean more than it has ever meant to me and not sorry because living without being able to engage in mutual communication as opposed to mere conversation is just too stressful. 

If I had been able to discuss my being gay with my family instead of their asking me and coming to their own stereotypical conclusions amongst themselves, I might well have made less of a mess of my younger years, and fewer mistakes. It was much the same with my deafness, at home and at work; both were a nightmare at times, not least because few people understand perceptive deafness; how much  a person hears depends not only on the pitch of another person's voice, but on local acoustics as well. As I did not see a specialist until I was twenty-one and had left home, my schooldays were a nightmare. I could not understand why I could hear a teacher in one classroom, but not in another, so would often sit at the back and hear/ learn very little. 

Even in later years, explanations would often be seen as excuses of which relatively few people took any notice, so my quality of life continued in much the same vein.

At 75, I can honestly say that, on balance, there have been more good times than bad in my life. Time . Time and again ,a flagging faith in myself and human nature generally has been restored by engaging with those such wonderful people as are not only willing to help and/or advise others, but listen to them as well; more often then not, the latter it is the best form of help one person can give another. 

Who knows? Maybe this year's having been so awful for so many of us, the true value of listening may yet be restored wherever, in the past, it has been woefully neglected; whenever it is taken on board and acted upon appropriately, may none of us take it for granted. 

A reader asks, only yesterday, how i can write about the human spirit when I do not subscribe to any of the world religions. As regular readers well know, I have never seen religion as having a monopoly on spirituality.  Where people take comfort and inspiration from their religion, I have every respect for that; it is with certain religious agendas that I have taken issue since childhood.

Back (with a poem) on New Year's Day, folks,

Hugs,

Roger

PS Enjoy the blog archives; see right hand side of any blog page.

. 

A Covid Christmas

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

Here in the UK and many homes around the world, people will be wondering how best to spend Christmas, where we should risk seeing family and friends, much as we would love to, while Covid-19 remains active.

No matter how we choose to celebrate Christmas, whether for religious reasons, being with family and friends, or both, it is, like any religious festival, a time for taking stock of any discrepancies between where we are in life and where we hoped or expected to be. 

Religion may well help us find answers, while many who follow another religion (or none at all) invariably face the same questions. 

Most of us are left to find our own answers in our own way, whether guided by Divine inspiration or not. Regular readers may recall the old aborigine I met in Australia; in so far as he pointed me in a direction I had always wanted to follow, but which had been closed to me for various reasons, he was a life-saver. It meant returning to the UK and many things (and people) I had been running away from, but, in time, I would find such peace of mind as I’d felt impossible since leaving school barely five years earlier. 

“I feel so alone,” I remember whingeing. 

“Well, you are not alone now,” he chuckled, “… and two heads are better than one, so let’s see if we can’t set you on the right track, yeah?” I nodded, and he did.  

Every Christmas, I drink a toast to that old man. He is probably long dead by now, but his presence is as real to me as it was all those years ago. That is the wonderful magic of memory; no one ever dies who has been meaningful in our lives. Better still, it allows us to pick and choose, reject unwelcome guests and join together with those who have brought light into our lives.

Many of us will be alone this Christmas, but the Gates of Memory are open 24/7. Besides, there is also telephone. zoom and other technologies to help us out as and when ….

A COVID CHRISTMAS 

Outside, world looking grey
even where sounds of children’s
laughter breaking through
weary faces and muted voices,
reliving such yesteryears
as mind and spirit better able
to redeem a host
more anxious to explore than exploit
Earth Mother 

Outside, a diversity of masks,
driving home the necessity to care
as much for the well-being
of others as any twinned selves
struggling to put caution
before desire rather than throw
either to the wind …
if only to be seen doing the right thing
by humankind 

Inside, a diversity of humanity
making its way down Memory Lane
among fairy lights
and Christmas trees, choir voices
singing songs of praise,
families and friends making merry,
putting aside any misery,
as only such togetherness has succeeded
in all its history 

Outside, Covid-19 hell bent on having a say;
inside, Christmas continues to have its way

Copyright R.N. Taber 2020

 [Note: This post-poem also appears on my gay-interest poetry blog.]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Anniversary

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

Today’s poem first appeared on the blog in 2015.

As the UK - along with the rest of the world - continues to cope with the Covid-19 coronavirus and the subsequent stresses and strains it imposes on our everyday lives (as if there aren't enough of those in modern times anyway) crime continues to flourish, not least on our streets where tensions boil over and express themselves in a terrible violence. 

There are no excuses; reasons, yes, but no excuses for allowing the kind of pressure most if not all of us are under to get the better of common sense, not to mention common decency and respect for human life. Killers ultimately destroy their own lives as well as their victim's. As for pleading 'justice'; it is not for any of us to play judge and jury to the extent of taking the law into our own hands, much as we may well be tempted.

[Update: January, 2020]: Official figures released in April 2019 reveal that knife crime has surged to the highest levels since records began in England and Wales; worse, it continues to rise.] RNT

Memories are precious and love never dies. But let’s face it; it can never compensate for not having our loved ones with us and watching them get on with their lives.

Today’s poem is for families and friends left behind when a loved one dies. It is especially for parents who have lost sons and daughter; no parent should have to bury their child. Whatever the circumstances, death is always a tragedy for those left behind, but what can be worse than to be left with the image of a loved one meeting a violent end or never even knowing what really happened or having no body to bury…?

All knife and gun crime, but especially hate crime, and particularly among young people must stop.

While many parents, teachers, social and youth workers take every opportunity to lead intelligent, sensitive, debate so these killers realise they are not just killing a person but amputating the limb of a vital, living network of family and friends that will never be quite the same again.

There is nothing ‘cool’ about street crime. Young people who think it takes carrying a weapon to achieve street cred or even as a means of self-defence should bear in mind that someone could get so easily killed or suffer serious injury…and it could well be them.

Nor is time spent in prison anything to boast about. I once spoke with a young man who had spent time in prison but chose to turn his life around. I asked how it was in prison. He said unhesitatingly, ‘There wasn’t a day I didn’t wish I was dead.’ Thankfully, he is alive and getting on with his life in a very positive way. 

Every killer has a choice. Tragically, victims killed in the course of violent crime on our streets have no choices left. (I read somewhere that most killers regret their actions, but as my mother used to say, regrets are cold comfort in any language...) Meanwhile. family and friends are left struggling with what-might-have-been...

THE ANNIVERSARY 

No grave to tend, but a street corner

to leave flowers, recall

how here it was where last we'd 

laugh off our being so much in love

as if it were child's play

Leaves, scattered over paving stones

where once we children

loved to play, I-n-n-o-c-e-n-c-e

like the tail of a kite in a feisty breeze

all but free to go its own way

Come twilight, more haunting shadows

marking time before darkness

effects its cover-up for humanity,

half the world sleeping, the other dying

for a chance to have its say

No grave to tend, but a street corner

where anniversary flowers

can but hope to message passers-by 

how sick minds think it could well be fun 

to stick a knife in someone...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2018     

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

Nature, Powerhouse of Secrets

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

We may like to think we live in an open society, yet behind closed doors thrive secrets of all kinds, not least the human kind.

Open or less open, the world’s societies (human and natural) along with all their various families and communities - have nurtured a whole world of secrets since the beginning of time, many to which any human mind-body-spirit may yet have access if it but cares to tap into itself while looking to see, listening to hear ... if not necessarily what it wants or expects to see-hear, given the native arrogance of human nature in supposing itself second to none.

For better or worse, appearances are often deceptive; no more or less true of nature than human nature ...

NATURE, POWERHOUSE OF SECRETS

I have heard a spring rain

cajole the world open up to us

a whole world of secrets

I have heard leafy sunshine

serenade flowers with summers

overflowing with secrets

I have heard autumnal hues
reassuring all the world’s lovers

of keeping their secrets

I have heard a wintry wind
express every intention to expose 

even the best kept secrets

Between its womb and tomb,

peace of mind needs must access

a whole world of secrets

Copyright R. N. Taber 2017

Winter On Civvy Street

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

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.]

File On a War Hero

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

Today's poem was inspired by a conversation with a homeless ex-serviceman begging on the streets of London.

We talk about victory and peace, but... peace of mind? Now, that's something else for many people, especially ex-service personnel. Although more is being done than ever before to help rehabilitate men and women in the armed forces returning from front line action, a significant minority continue to slip through the net.

Ironically, many people seem unable to tell the difference between the most graphic news items recorded by war correspondents and blockbuster war movies!

Meanwhile, family and friends of those who have mental illness issues as a result of witnessing the horrors of warfare have some insight and often, in their turn, suffer awful consequences.

Here in the UK, attitudes of the healthy majority towards mental illness still leave much to be desired.

Certainly, those who fight for us, are killed or injured and/or suffer post traumatic stress disorder in one form or another…deserve better.

FILE ON A WAR HERO

Mind closed down for spam,

like a dead computer;

any spare cash for a fall guy?

Heart, wounded and weeping

on loved-ones who left;

any spare cash for a fall guy?

Close my eyes and I can see

ghosts parading the street;

any spare cash for a fall guy?

Close my ears and I can hear

folks cheering us on;

any spare cash for a fall guy?

If God’s closed the file on me

He’s not the only one;

any spare cash for a fall guy?

Cops closing in to move me on

(no medals left to sell);

any spare cash for a fall guy?

Can’t open up for dying inside

among pals blown apart;

any spare cash for a fall guy?

[From: Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012]

  

Flesh And Blood

http://aspectsofagaymanslifeinverse.blogspot.com/

Today’s poem has been inspired by tales told me by young people whose Coming Out experience was no way as tough an experience as they expected. Me, I did not feel I could confide in my family and only told my mother a few years before she died.  I was in and out of the damn closet for years, trusting relatively few people with the knowledge that I am gay, before I finally came out to stay in the early 1980s. [Gay relationships ‘between consenting adults’ were decriminalised in the UK in 1967.]

The poem last appeared on the blog in 2010 and is repeated today for all those gay boys and girls, men and women who have found coming out to family and friends something of a traumatic experience. As my blogs are read worldwide, hopefully gay people whose socio-cultural-religious origins will not allow them to be openly gay, might take heart in the fact that no civilised person sees sexual identity as unnatural, criminal or sinful; it is simply part of our whole identity, albeit an integral part, but it is the whole that really counts. Picking on someone for their sexuality is like claiming to have completed a jigsaw puzzle with much of it still missing, and only a very foolish person does that...

It is easier to be openly gay if you are growing up in a gay-friendly environment, but many of us don’t so it is can be really tough on everyone concerned. Even so, it is well worth it if only for personal peace of mind. If it means having to move away from family and friends and getting a life while they mull things over, so be it.

Sadly, it can take some people a long time to shake off the worst of the outdated, misleading and often offensive stereotypes that continue to attach themselves to gay people in the minds of the less enlightened among the heterosexual majority. But if any family members or so-called ‘friends’ really can’t see that we’re still the same person for coming out of the damn closet they put us in ...well, maybe we are better off without them. 

Believe me. It gets easier for most people...family, friends, and us too! I guess it goes with the territory, learning to fit in to our sexuality like a hand to a glove, and then, before we know it, as a hand to the body with which nature has blessed us.

Oh, but if only those blinkered leaders in countries where gay relationships remain a criminal offence would accept that sexuality is as natural as each breath we take and we can make a valuable contribution to our native society, especially failing societies; invariably, these are hosted by repressive regimes and/or have the ear of religious fundamentalists. [So-called ‘Christian’ evangelical pastors around the world, especially those still relentlessly inciting hate crime across much of Africa, take note!]

Yes, I know I have said it all before. But as my dear late mother used to say, if something is worth saying, it is always worth repeating. Mind you, the old adage is so true; there are none so deaf as will not hear or so blind that will not see. I guess we just have to try and make them...

Did I say it would be easy?

FLESH AND BLOOD

When we told my parents

we are gay and in love,

the looks they flung us said it all

their words fraught

with anger, pain and distress,

urging us to think again

about just what it would mean

to fly in the face of religion,

insult God - and for what?

Desires of the flesh

overriding all human decency

(unnatural at that)

When we told your parents

we are gay and in love,

the looks they flung us said it all,

tumbling over words

conveying their happiness,

hopes that we will

know the same joys of love

that had been theirs

for years - and for what?

Desires of the flesh

mindful of all human decency

playing its part

When my parents met yours

over dinner one night,

the looks they flung each other

did not augur well

for an entertaining evening

but yours won mine over

with their no-nonsense talking

about living, loving,

sharing - and for what?

Desires of the flesh

with all that’s good and decent

at its heart

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: This poem appears in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]

Answering Leviticus

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

Yesterday was D-Day (Decision Day) for me. My bowels would not co-operate in preparation for a CT scan late morning and subsequent radiotherapy; my bladder isn’t exactly behaving itself either. [I am supposed to clear the bowels and hold my water after drinking three cups of water for a good half an hour prior to a scan; it is the same for radiotherapy.]

I have therefore decided to withdraw from the radiotherapy programme scheduled to start mid-August and take my chances with hormone therapy. [If you keyword 'prostate cancer' in the blog's search field you will find (positive thinking) poems I have written on the subject.

[Update (April 2016): Today’s poem first appeared on the blogs in April 2010. The villanelle was originally repeated especially for ‘Harry’, Kurt’,’ Jean-Paul’ and ‘Anne-Marie’ who had been in touch (separately) to express their anguish at being from Christian families who ‘cannot cope’ with their being gay and/or HIV+. All say their religion is important to them and ask what has their sexuality and/or being HIV+ to do with Faith? Kurt has recently been in touch to say that he is very happy living with his partner, and their respective families have come round to the idea that they are gay. Others readers around the world have experienced similar family estrangement. We can but hope that love and common sense will prevail. Love should be unconditional and the idea that anyone chooses to be gay is pure fantasy' it has to be in the genes or how else so many of us worldwide from all manner of social, cultural and religious backgrounds?]

Now, regular readers will know that I am not a religious person, but that doesn’t mean I don’t respect various religious beliefs. Moreover, having been raised in a Christian home, and regularly attended Sunday school as a child, I know my Bible. It is personal experience of the sheer hypocrisy of some religious-minded people (of all faiths) that led me to reject religion and put my trust in nature long before I acknowledged even to myself that I am gay. Yet, each to his or her own, and I would defend anyone’s right to subscribe to any religion against any narrow-minded, ignorant bigot who says gay people forfeit that right because of their sexuality.

I have read this poem on the 4th plinth in Trafalgar Square in 2008 as my contribution to sculptor Antony Gormley's One and Other 'live' sculpture project that ran 24/7 over 2,400 days in the summer of 2009. (Some readers may be interested, but be warned the whole clip lasts an hour.):

https://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223131109/http://www.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

Feedback suggests some people have difficulty accessing You Tube so I have also posted that video here: it lasts about two minutes:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrTjc2373IU

[For my other videos - all shot by Graham: https://www.youtube.com/user/rogerNtaber/videos ]


Never let anyone tell you religion and being gay or transsexual are mutually exclusive.

The poem is a villanelle.

Leviticus 18:22
'You shall not lie with a male as one lies with a female; it is an abomination.'

ANSWERING LEVITICUS

Old Testament embodies dread
of a God slow to love, quick to rage;
listen instead to what Jesus said

Life, hanging by a fragile thread
like a half-finished poem on a page;
Old Testament embodies dread

Let blood be on the sinner’s head,
freeing the lion of love from its cage?
Listen instead to what Jesus said

Religious bigots would see us dead
(directing Leviticus to centre-stage);
Old Testament embodies dread

Deplore how same sex lovers tread
on humankind’s God-approved rage?
Listen instead to what Jesus said

Let no child hide under the bed,
nature allow all its poems a full page;
Old Testament embodies dread;
listen instead to what Jesus said

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

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

A Christmas Truce

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

Religious festivals should bring people together. Yet, so often they follow the age-old tradition of religions worldwide and, in the end, but cause division among family, friends, neighbours....

Christmas is no exception for many of us.

Even where people are brought together for a day or two, it is often no more than calling a truce. Before we know it, we are divided; fighting, insulting, demanding more than we deserve, failing to enter into each other’s points of view...or simply ignoring each other again.

Even so, calling a truce can be a new beginning ... if we let it, always bearing in mind that it takes two to tango' there has to be the will to get together, albeit often absent for all kinds of reasons it is not for any of us to judge.

A CHRISTMAS TRUCE?

Sought, a safe haven on Christmas Day
from family stuff, presents round a tree,
giving the rein to how things should be,
denying what stares in each tinsel face;
A stranger in red mentioned such a place
where I might escape, find sanctuary,
even peace - away from all pretence
at burying home truths under layers of truce,
letting sweet carols on the ear replace
a harsher cacophony of lies, more lies,
accusation (and retribution?) for crimes
against the ego (never mind humanity)
in the daily round of sheer hypocrisy
and petty discrimination against whatever
points of view that can’t, won’t, shouldn’t
always go with the flow in case we tread
on Someone’s feelings, trigger into motion
a tedious, even violent chain reaction,
that might go on for years, spill more tears
than for Judas or lied about Christmas

So, where to go? I asked a jolly man in red
who started laughing, said to use some
common sense and moved on, leaving me
for dead among piles of pretty wrapping,
more calls for a truce, plates of mince pies
and sausage rolls blind to a soul’s fears,
deaf to its prayers

[From: A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]

Leaves From A Journal

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

[Update (March 2016): A German reader has been in touch to ask if my poetry collections are available in German.  Sadly, no. Eventually, revised editions of my books (published and unpublished in print form) will be available in e-format.]

For many if not most people - in whatever walk of life, and wherever - family is always at the heart of their consciousness and daily lives. Not so for all of us though. Apart from my mother, I have never felt as connected, in terms of mind-body spirit, to my family as to close friends; they are my family. Some of those to whom I relate and identify as soulmates have died, but stay with me still; invariably, I hear them whisper words of wisdom, comfort and moral support in my ear whenever I need any or all of those things the most. Moreover, over the years, I have met many people in the same boat, estranged from their families over differences in religion, sexuality, politics...whatever.

When, oh, when will more people realise and accept that our differences do not make us different, only human?

Meanwhile...

‘Jenny and Alan’ readers from Birmingham asked me to include this poem in a collection after reading it on the blog back in 2007. I was delighted to oblige and hope you and they will find lots to enjoy in whole collection.

Family Group (in bronze) by Henry Moore (1950). [Photo from Internet]

This poem is a kenning.

LEAVES FROM A JOURNAL

I am a mother, keeping things together
even as they are seen to be falling apart
at the seams, nothing as it seems to eyes
homing in from this street, that fence…
failing to see through slats in blinds down
for the duration (a ritual celebration?)
Mother love, putting out feelers for ways
to end wars between brothers and sisters,
in-laws and neighbours

I am a father, home owner, mortgage
repayments having to take priority over
designer gear, latest PlayStation,
school trips, not to mention new cars
smarter, faster, than the one before,
sure to put theirs next door in the shade
and, no, we can’t just pile more credit
on cards unless you feel like explaining
bankruptcy to the neighbours

I am a child, weary of the rows between
Mum and Dad, sibling rivalry that’s not
half as bad as everyone’s making out…
and who cares if the neighbours have cash
to flash for vacations in prime locations,
digitals galore telling tales sure to have us
wagging tongues, scaling rungs...?
Sure, it’s okay to have this ‘n’ that, but not
if it means we keep scaring the cat

As spring to a branch, autumn to its tree,
I make, I take, I am family 

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