L-I-F-E, Seasons in Time and (Personal) Space

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A reader writes, how can you write poetry when the world is being devastated and left bereft by COVID-19? I am not sure if this is meant as criticism or compliment so will take it as both. Well, it 

isn’t easy, even at the best of times, to compose a poem that attempts to strike a balance between a celebration of nature and human nature while also acknowledging their flaws. 

Given that the Here-and-Now in the shape of COVID-19 is probably among the worst of times ever for many of us, the task has felt all but Herculean; it has taken several days of writing and rewriting to arrive at the poem below. Hopefully, most readers will get a sense of the spirit of optimism in which it was written, but as we all know, you can please some of the people some of the time but never all the people all the time …

Whatever, fingers crossed …

Another reader comments, “… it feels like we are heading for Armageddon.”  Well, I take his or her point, but beg to differ. I have had my fair share of ups and downs in life, and if the experience has taught me nothing else, it has shown me the power of positive thinking.

Never underestimate the human spirit, neither its natural resourcefulness nor its compassion; we may well find ourselves at the edge of some transcendental abyss from time to time, but the human spirit will always lend us the strength to resist diving into it if we can but touch base. Never easy, and sometimes we fail; it has worked, for me - albeit more subconsciously than consciously - more than once, but especially when I had a bad nervous breakdown in my early 30’s and attempted suicide.  (I will be 75 later this year.)

To date, I know of only one friend who has died of a COVID-19 related illness; we played together as children, lost touch for years and found each other again online a few years ago. Every death is a tragedy for family and friends left behind.  At the same time, I am reminded of something a teacher at my old school back in the 1950’s told the class: “Love and friendship never dies, not only for remaining a part of us all our lives, but also for that part of them in us being passed on in ways and to people we may never know … and so it goes on. A university lecturer would later refer to it as a posthumous consciousness to which, as regular readers will know, I often make reference in my blogs and poems.

Remembrance is no compensation for loss, but I have always found it a great comfort to sense that no one’s life has ever been in vain since we all make a positive contribution even if we don’t always realise it. [Some readers may get a greater sense of my mindset here from my reading of my poem,  ‘The Enchanted Wood’ @  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lGCv54LM4yo ]

I am not a religious person, and consider myself a pantheist. Nor do I believe that religion has a monopoly on spirituality. In the sense that I try to give the human spirit a voice in my poems, hopefully they express something of the spirituality with which I invariably engage as I write them.

Wishing you all love and peace, whoever and wherever you are in the world,

Hugs,

Roger

L-I-F-E, SEASONS IN TIME AND (PERSONAL) SPACE

Spring arrives, offering all nature

and human nature a time to nurture

and flower, making such promises

as it craves will see our lives spread joy

on our graves

Summer comes, offering all nature

and human nature a time to give senses

their head, deck humanity with love

and peace, see any living nemeses left

for dead

Autumn comes, reworking all nature

by winds and rain enough to blow away

its debris, imploring mind-body-spirit

remain free before winter dares impose

captivity

Winter comes, nature, so eerily quiet

but for redbreast, forever making the best

of the worst, coaxing the human heart

into the Spirit of Stoicism, living metaphor

for its heroism 

Nature and human nature, deserving

a time to come, go, rest, and come again

in light and dark, each in its turn,

a measure of life and death, come ultimate

Harvest Home

Copyright R N. Taber, 2020

[Note: As requested by several readers, this poem will appear in my next collection 'Addressing the Art of Being Human' that I am working on now.]

Behind Every Coffin, Another Question

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Here's another poem from one of my collections as I begin to compile editions that will include revised poems (already on the blogs) for posting as e-books; revised versions of my poems are already on the blogs, but not all my poems so, as requested by some readers, I am adding them now.

The the courage of armed forces around the world cannot be disputed nor their loyalty to the country they serve, but what of those responsible for deploying them wherever its politics dictates or rather, the politics of whatever party dominates its corridors of power...? Do men and women in the world's armed forces die for their country or to satisfy some hidden, even personal agenda creating a nasty draught in those same corridors.?

Political leaders often have a hidden agenda, that much emerges from their choice of words when called upon to explain or justify their actions, although proving it is invariably another matter...

Oh,  and what of all the innocent men, women and children caught up in conflicts over which they have precious little (if any) say or control? The media may well speculate and those directly affected by the consequences of conflicts around the world will debate in huddles on street corners or - more likely - behind closed doors, and so it goes on,...behind every coffin and injury, questions rarely answered to anyone's complete satisfaction.

BEHIND EVERY COFFIN, ANOTHER QUESTION

We salute the fine men and women

redeployed to fight in the safer interests

of their country, those not returning 

kept safer still in the vaults of memory

We salute the fine men and women

redeployed to fight in the safer interests

of their country, acts of friendly fire

but tragic accidents waiting to happen

We salute the fine men and women

redeployed to fight in the safer interests

of their country, trust any returning

shall feel no insult added to injuries

Who leads in the corridors of power,

redeploying troops in the safer interests

of their country, and by what criteria

does its politics prefer to define ‘safer'?

Who leads in the corridors of power,

redeploying troops in the safer interests

of their country to fight shadows

not into killing by any natural rules?

Who leads in the corridors of power,

redeploying troops in the safer interests

of their country, pledging solidarity

in its newspapers, on radio, and TV? 

What say we to the men and women

redeployed to hell in the safer interests

of their country since no politician

can tell anyone what is really going on?

Behind every question, another coffin

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

 [Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N Taber, Assembly Books, 2012]

[Note: Revised (2013) from the original as it appears in print  eds., 2012]

A Sense of Who We Are

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Life is what it is; we make the best (or worst) of things. Everyone is different and no one has the right to judge another simply because they appear to aspire to less than their potential suggests. Fame, fortune, travel…these are wonderful achievements if and where the cap fits but aspiring to be nothing more or less than a good parent/person is no less wonderful, even more so perhaps for its invariably being less obvious (or newsworthy).

Whatever, we can always fall back on imagination.

A SENSE OF WHO WE ARE

Home truths, like near dead lilies on a lake

running dry

Lifelines, like veins of a turning leaf

come autumn

Desire, taking comfort in homemade soup

in winter

Wisdom, taking its cue from the first

cuckoo of spring

Ambition,  Jack Frost’s tablecloth spread,

our places laid

Passion, saving water lilies from a lake

running dry

Love, preserving archives should humanity

need reminding

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2016

[Note: This poem first appeared in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007 and was subsequently published in CC&D v 270, Scars Publications, USA]

Running the Gauntlet OR The Undefeated

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As it deepens, despair takes us into the very heart of human darkness. There may well be a pinprick of light at the end of the proverbial tunnel, but sometimes it is no more than a blur. Yet, if we can manage to focus even for just an instant, the blur becomes a lantern that will guide us back into the daylight and sunshine of what we laughingly call ‘normal’ life. After so many years of being made to feel bad about being gay, ana subsequently in and out if the damn closet like a jack-in-the-box, I was finally close to enlightenment. Yes, being gay was OK.

I made tough bit inspiring this journey in my early 30’s (I am in my 70's now) and it is the closest I have ever come to experiencing an epiphany. Where I had once sought but never found any comfort or inspiration in religion, a drowning mind-body-spirit  sensed and reached out to a spirituality in the nature of all things reassuring me that Earth Mother had not given up on me, and I must not give up on myself.

 RUNNING THE GAUNTLET or THE UNDEFEATED

Eyes glowing in a premature darkness

like cat’s eyes on a loping highway in a storm,

padding its way with stealth and guile,

brushing giant leaf and fern in Brobdingnag

concrete jungle spread all around;

wings of steel pitted against natural instinct;

dirt tracks strewn with primeval litter,

secret paths to Earth Mother’s hand written

poetry and prose

Hear the lion roar, rearing and pawing

at the sky, unbowed by heaven’s wary eye;

flashes like daggers at Caesar’s back,

taking the Beast through its paces till it drops;

apes swinging here and there,

mock a weary lion but taking care to steer

well clear, avoiding confrontation

else a feast of claws devour even salvation,

torn pages of Darwin

Ah, but let the Beast rest while it may;

hunters and hunted will find each other out

soon enough, about to discover

what (if any) creature can match us

eye for eye, tooth for tooth,

and for whom the wind composes a eulogy

where darkest poetry and prose read,

old gods (and new) mocking our inability

to understand a word

Tunnel caving in, barely a pin-prick of light;

human spirit, running the gauntlet...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2016

[Note: Revised (2016) from an earlier version that appears under the title ‘Heart of Darkness’ in 1st eds of The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

Marking time, Sapling, Waiting On Its Seasons

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Today’s poem has not appeared on the blog since 2008 so I guess now is as good a time as any to give it a airing albeit a slightly revised version. 

I am in my late 60s now. Now and then I consider the discrepancy between what I have achieved and what I’d once hoped to achieve, and my heart sinks...until I consider various off-shoots of that ‘unfulfilled potential’ and then the tree doesn’t look half so bad after all.

MARKING TIME, SAPLING, WAITING ON ITS SEASONS

Youth, with dreamy eyes

and wind in the hair,

soaking up heaven’s store

of tears for cares

like leaves untimely fallen

on slim shoulders

Like a sapling in a breeze,

see it bend, never break;

watch leaves bud and grow;

now green, now red,

now gold for each mortal

breath it takes

Nor shall its season cease,

grown older, stronger,

a bold heart harbouring 

the finer seeds

of Creation for nature’s  

nurturing

Spirited tree, proud and free,

a living part of earth’s

finer tapestry, sheltering all

(no one’s enemy)

though they carve initials

on your body

Forever, tall and beautiful

in the mind’s eye;

where lashed to dark skies,

a freedom won

by egg cries sure to archive

its leafy passions

Potential in its prime, marking

time

  

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2011

[Note: An earlier version of this poem  appears in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2004; 2nd (revised) e-edition in preparation.] 

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.]

War Talk

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How often, I wonder do we really think about what we are saying or even mean what we say, bearing in mind that our choice of words may well leave us vulnerable to misinterpretation?

The world  owes much to the men and women in its armed forces wherever they may be. Nor should we ever forget that we owe as much if not more to their families and friends (along with everyone else) who, time and time again, are called upon to pick up the pieces of life, love and hope whenever and wherever lives fall apart; a time of peace, for some if not most of us can be another kind of war.

“Never think that war, no matter how necessary, nor how justified, is not a crime.”  - Ernest Hemingway

Yet, justify it, we invariably do if only by that old stand-by, rhetoric.

WAR TALK

What do people mean when they talk about

the 'integrity' of war?

Is it a comment on the neatness of body bags

laid out in a line?

Or maybe they are referring to injured people

rising above despair?

Can it be they mean the finer principles of war

have been upheld?

(Doesn’t everyone do their best to keep friendly

fire incidents to a minimum?)

Maybe its generals court integrity for strategies

of ‘win some, lose some’?

Can it be politicians promote their own integrity

to win elections?

Maybe it’s all about being polite, discreet, about

to whom the spoils of war?

I asked a soldier who lost an arm and a leg in Iraq,

but he just shrugged

Maybe (the soldier said) I should ask the orphans

and widows…on both sides?

Lots of questions and not nearly enough answers

or (any?) right ones

Poor humanity, ever caught in a cross-fire of words,
come worst of all worlds

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012; 2018



[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Next of Kin have been Informed, but should Refrain from Asking Questions' in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]

To The Lighthouse

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It isn't only sailors that need to watch out for a guardian light.

We all need to keep an eye on light at the end of whatever tunnel we may sometimes find ourselves in; it may dim sometimes, but will never go out...unless we let it.

The poem is a villanelle, its title inspired by a novel of the same name by Virginia Woolf. Even so, where her brilliant, deceptively simple tale might well be seen as a literary variation on the old adage, it is better to travel hopefully than to arrive, my poem could only ever aspire to be, at best, a distant echo. It is true, though, that all that goes into getting there counts even more than reaching (or not reaching) any goal.

Regrets? Yes, of course, we all have them, but we also deserve credit for trying...well, don't we?

TO THE LIGHTHOUSE

It’s a light that I will always see

wherever I go…

in spite of shadows crowding me

Day or night, it will constant be,

come rain or snow...

it’s a light that I will always see

I take heart that others can see,

be in the know…

in spite of shadows crowding me

On land or sea, a born sexuality

like a lighthouse glow...

it’s a light that I will always see

It lends me a sense of spirituality

as through this life I go…

in spite of shadows crowding me

Come a time we are but history,

let others follow...

it’s a light that I will always see,

in spite of shadows crowding me

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