Mother, Mine (Alice Maud Taber, 1916-1976)

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

Hello again, folks, from London UK

I hope you all managed to enjoy the Christmas spirit in spite of the pandemic and its new Omicron variant raging all around us.

For many families who have lost a loved one to Covid-19 or for any other reason, Christmas, like birthdays and other family gatherings make us all the more aware that someone is missing; it can be a painful experience, but as time goes by, we learn to live with happy memories of that person, always with us in spirit if small compensation for their absence.

For example, I still miss my mother who died in 1976, but her indomitable spirit remains a part of me and has helped me through many a personal crisis. The poem below is the Dedication poem that precedes my collection, A Feeling for the Quickness of Time; it has been significantly revised since publication in 2005.

As regular readers will know, many of the poems in my collections have been revised in the course of appearing on my blogs and I am hoping to publish revised editions before the Grim Reaper comes calling; if not, a close friend has said he will see to, it if we can find a publisher. All my collections include a gay section and no UK publishers have showed any interest, so I self-published limited editions under my own imprint; many copies went to public libraries where I am pleased to say they issued well. As a poet, I am no household word nor ever likely to be, but this general poetry blog has passed 202,012 views and the gay-interest poetry blog has had nearly 170,000 views, so many thanks again, dear readers, for being regular visitors.

Sadly, we LGBT folks - from all walks of life - continue to be much maligned worldwide, but there is less hatred and prejudice than when I was growing up, except within certain religious groups who fail to see that sexuality is not a lifestyle choice, but simply who we are in mind-body-spirit. Their leaders speak of a God of Love and preach Goodwill to All...so, to exempt LGBT folks has always struck me as the height of hypocrisy. (Why can't we all simply agree to differ and respect each other for that, regardless?)As a gay pantheist, I refuse to believe that any God would deny me a sense of His ethereal presence any more than Earth Mother would deny me a sense of Hers; rightly or wrongly, I don’t believe any religious agenda has the right to exclude anyone on the grounds of sexuality alone. (Yes, I know I have said this many times, but, as my dear mother would often say, if something is worth saying, it is always worth repeating.)

We all owe much of what and who we are to one or both our parents or to whoever took responsibility for raising us. I count myself very fortunate, indeed, to have the likes of my late mother as a positive role model.  Although my father and I did not get along, I owe him, too, a debt of gratitude for providing a home for the family. Gratitude, though, is not the same as love.; if he loved me in his own way, he certainly never showed it, and no child can expected to be a mind-reader. As far as I am (still) concerned, he was a psychological bully towards me and , for this reason, could not bring myself to attend his funeral in the early 1980's..

I am working on a poem for New Year's Day, so hope you will join me again then. Meanwhile...

MOTHER MINE (ALICE MAUD TABER, 1916-1976)

Mother, you were always there for me,
always believing in me more than I believed
in myself, knowing me
better than I knew myself, always loving me
more than I loved myself,
although I could not give all you all you' had hoped
for me, live and love how you wanted for me
subscribe to your dream, sadly only ever a fantasy
of family unity...

We did our best by each other, endeavouring
to support one another through life’s cruel maze
of emotional twists, turns and dead-ends;
me, unable to grasp for years
how conflicting family loyalties were daily
tearing at your heart, divided so
by the very loved-ones to whom you gave your all,
never quite finding peace of mind for our making you
Love’s own dear thrall

Yet, years on since a cruel tumour took its toll,
you continue to comfort my very soul, feed into it
all that good about mind-body-spirit,
lamenting its mistakes while making sure it follows
a learning curve, finds inspiration
in the Poetry of Love, resists
rather than too easily caves in to darker life forces
likely to confound and confuse us until we lose any sight
of potential consequences

Mother dear, you will always be the first to whom
I turn, to help and guide me along kinder paths than some
I’ve inadvertently taken, for turning
deaf ears and blind eyes to that still, small voice within
that would urge me not err or sin
on the side of an inflated ego that cannot see woods
for trees nor will admit
any flaws in a mind-body-spirit, much to live for and learn
about what makes the world turn

A part of me now, as always, oh, wise and wonderful mother,
no distant memory, but a part of me forever 

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2005; rev. 2021

[Note: An earlier version of this poem first appears as a Dedication in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.]

 

 

 

 

Winds of the Day OR A Take on (Collective) Responsibility

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

There have been several suspected terrorist attacks in Europe within a week, the latest in Vienna which left three people dead. The jihadist group, Islamic State, is thought to be responsible.  Our thoughts and sympathies will invariably home in on the families and friends of the dead and anyone injured (physically and/ or mentally).

So, what provokes extremist views and/ or actions in any of us? It is not good enough to suggest, as some do, that provocation excuses responsibility in the sense that we are being manipulated by forces, emotions (or people) over which we have no control.

It happens, of course; from time to time circumstances may cause us to lose control, to some extent or another, but that doesn’t mean we are excused responsibility even in the most mitigating of circumstances.

The chances are, the worst punishment for anyone unable to control themselves at any point in time to the extent we say or do something regrettable, is a sense of guilt we will never quite be able to quite shrug off; however hard we try to justify certain actions to others, we know, at heart, we have to accept responsibility.

Jihadists may well believe they are justified in killing any person or institution that, as they see it, offends their religion, but all religions preach peace and love, whatever reservations they may have about other religions, so …?

As regular readers well know, I don’t subscribe to any mainstream religion; we must agree to differ, although I am neither atheist nor agnostic in so far as I consider myself something of a Pantheist at heart.

This poem is a kenning.

WINDS OF THE DAY or A TAKE ON (COLLECTIVE) RESPONSIBILITY

From birth to grave,
we infiltrate mind-body-spirit,
vulnerable to temptation,
strong on certain other life forces
anxious for unity,
calling for clarity where confusion,
reality over illusion;
logic, though certain to have its say,
losing out to winds of the day 

Life forces, colluding
to sustain the human condition
for better, for worse,
in its sickness and in health, for richer,
for poorer, no matter who
or where, regardless race, rank, politics
religion or sexuality
nor above engaging with such hypocrisy
as shames much of humanity 

Kin to genius, invention
and progress, but (as likely as not)
inclined to muddy
the waters of our motivation with pain
for paying attention
to certain critics jealous of any ambition
as may result in fame
and fortune, while determined to get a slice
whatever it takes, at any price

We are such thought processes as following
any instructions our host may be giving

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

 

 

 

 

A Word to the Wise

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

Some parents, especially mothers, so love their friends' children to be the best of friends. Mine was anxious to know why I had all but ignored a friend's son - a fellow pupil at my primary school - during a recent visit to their house, not far from where we lived. I recall shrugging and putting it to her that the other boy and I had nothing in common, unlike our respective parents. "I don't dislike him," I tried to explain, "... so much as, well, he's so different from me. We like different things and have little if anything in common so...what's the point?" "It's up to you, of course," my mother conceded, "...but there's a lot we can learn from each other's differences. Unfortunately, it's our differences that make the world the way it is rather than any willingness to learn from them." I shrugged off those words at the time, but they came back to haunt me at bedtime and have haunted me ever since.

Needless to say, we became good mates, that boy and me and, yes, we did learn a lot from each other even if it did take us awhile to agree to differ about (many) things without getting personal. We were never best friends, but always enjoyed each other's company. Indeed, when I finally came out to family and friends as a gay man, he was one of the first to say it made no difference, even quoting yours truly in so far as to suggest that our differences do not make us different, only human.

A WORD TO THE WISE

Where did they all go,
days of childhood, where freedom
kept its word, any concerns
easily distracted by an enthusiasm
for new thing, new people
new avenues of thought less littered
with a narrow-mindedness
all too often found characterising
adulthood found wanting?

Where did they all go,
those days of emerging maturity
less fettered by the cares
and concerns of everyday survival.
still in the welcome grip
of curiosity, a sense of adventure,
an idealism tested
and found increasingly vulnerable
in as so-changing world?

Whatever happened
to halcyon days of early adulthood,
few leftover laurels
seen floating floods of opposition,
rejection and humiliation
touching base with needy conscience
and self-awareness, inciting
a rebel consciousness to explore ways
to make itself felt and heard?

Whatever happened
to that rebel in me, thinking to change
a world whose imperfections
are glossed over by a well-meaning
global consciousness, yet out
of touch with a common humanity
increasingly sensitive
to its much-divided politics and religions
all claiming to have answers?

No prescribed wisdom ever made less sense
than in any Here-and-Now


Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

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

Metamorphoses, from Cradle to Grave

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

As we metamorphose from infant to adult, from birth through life to death, who’s to say what will happen to us along the way?  We can but hope to meet life’s challenges head-on and come through them a better person.

Ah, but do we ever, at heart, leave childhood behind completely? I suspect the good, the bad and the ugly affect our behaviour in later years. Some of us will have enjoyed an idyllic childhood, but life is no idyll and that can be a tough lesson to learn. Others will have been less fortunate during their formative years; we can but do our best to shrug off unwanted baggage, and turn it into something positive; for as start, looking for the good in people instead of rushing to judge the bad and the ugly. (Who knows what baggage they may be struggling to but unable to shrug off?)  

For me, this nursery rhyme invokes ghosts of childhood and beyond that represent the various stages of ‘me’; a ‘me’ visible only to the inner eye, and one - that had a BAD relationship with my father - I wish, would go away, but of course, it never will, any more than a significant part of the damage it caused. Even so, life - for most of us - is a positive learning curve, and the children we were are a far cry from the adults finally put to rest.

‘Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish, I wish he’d go away...’

Perhaps you know the feeling?

This poem is a villanelle.

METAMORPHOSES, FROM CRADLE TO GRAVE

Days of nursery rhyme
maturing, breaking free;
haunting mists of time

Let’s walk, talk, climb
singing) up an apple tree;
days of nursery rhyme

This gene, that enzyme
maturing, breaking free;
haunting mists of time

First summits to climb,
marathons run to victory;
days of nursery rhyme

Graduating to prime,
wandering thoughtfully;
haunting mists of time

Charged with a crime
for each lost opportunity;
days of nursery rhyme,
haunting mists of time

Copyright R. N.Taber 2007; 2012

[NB This poem has been slightly revised (2012) from the original as it appears in  Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

[Please Note: My collections are only on sale in the UK but anyone can order (signed) copies from me at a generous blogger discount. For details, contact rogertab@aol.com with ‘Blog reader’ or Poetry collection’ in the subject field.]