First Symphony, Play On ...

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Who can ever forget the first time they made love, and discovered that religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality...? 

'If music be the food of love, play on...' [Shakespeare, Twelfth Night]

FIRST SYMPHONY, PLAY ON ....

Our very first lovemaking 
saw me nervous, shy,

and very unsure of myself,

scared you might

feel let down, disappointed

in me, that I wouldn’t

send the same electric shocks

through your whole body

as you were passing into mine

with every deft caress,

each lingering kiss on my lips,

gently tongued apart

for strawberries and cream

on as glorious a summer’s day
as to waken the dead

My fears, they melted away

the more I felt at ease 
and safe with you, learning 
how best to respond 
to the all-inspiring rhythm 
of a your nakedness
teaching me that same symphony

of sex as composed

by the twin spirits of Passion
and Desire, worshipped 
by lovers across all time and space;
fine men and women 
creating brave new worlds
for future generations to explore, 
and leave their mark

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2019

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

In Praise of Lacework

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Regular readers will also know that it is now more than three years since an MRI scan revealed a growth in my prostate. A biopsy revealed it was cancerous. However, the cancer was diagnosed as non-aggressive and regular hormone therapy continues (so far) to keep it from becoming so.  Meanwhile, I can only do what I have done since early childhood and trust nature to do its best by me.

I take great pleasure and reassurance from gentle strolls on nearby Hampstead Heath; its quiet grassy slopes and lively pockets of trees; signs and sounds of the seasons as they come and go; glittering ponds alive with the chatter of ducks, swans, and moorhens...

Since I came to live in the Kentish Town area of London nearly 30 years ago, I have often gone to the Heath with a view to letting its sensual beauty invade my senses, experience that ‘Oh, but it’s so good to be alive!’ feeling with which Earth Mother has sustained me through just about every crisis in my life; even when I attempted suicide during an extended period of severe mental breakdown some 30 years ago, she brought me back from the brink.

My late mother used to urge me to ‘listen for, watch and learn from nature.’ Moreover, ‘Far better,’ she’d say. ‘...to retreat into nature than into yourself.’ That was many years ago and her words ring as true to me now (at 68) as they did when I was a child.

In the language of flowers, the yellow rose is for remembrance.  (See also my poem, The Zen of Yellow Roses) Yes, I often look back at happier times in my life and those who made it so, and feel inspired to make the most of each day left to me rather than nurse regrets for what might have been…

This poem is a villanelle.

IN PRAISE OF LACEWORK 

Go where the wind blows

(across time and space)

fair petals of a yellow rose

See how each cloud shows

a non-judgmental face;

go where the wind blows

Be as the fallen seed grows

risen to beauty and grace,

fair petals of a yellow rose

See how Earth Mother sews

dreams into wintry lace;

go where the wind blows

Ghosts of a time that knows

and keeps safe our place,

fair petals of a yellow rose

Hear a lark in its last throes,

pass on its plea for peace;

go where the wind blows

fair petals of a yellow rose

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

A Predilection For Road Movies

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Readers ‘Glen and Sara' have been in touch to say they love this poem because it reminds them of when they were students and ‘...we used to take off’ here, there and just about everywhere in an old banger we called Genevieve after the movie of the same name.’

Metaphorically speaking, life on the open road took on a whole new meaning when I finally came out years ago after far too long in a cold, dark closet that eventually resulted in my having a severe nervous breakdown some 30+ years ago.

Openness is everything, and bottling things up is never a good idea. As far as gay men and women are concerned, some feel they have no choice but to keep their sexuality secret, but it is not only gay people, of course, who find themselves hugging years of frustration close to their chest. Many of us fall victim to at least one family member, friend or colleague who simply refuses to listen to any point of view that takes issue with their own. Since there is no talking to these people, we say nothing, sometimes for years. Suddenly, we can bear their selfishness, self-centredness and generally tunnel vision no longer, and we snap, often over something so trivial they probably have no idea where the flood of our hostility is coming from.  Oh, they are nice enough people, which is probably why we put up with them for so long. It is much easier to tell a nasty person to f**k off. 

I call it closed-mind syndrome; a sickness that is prevalent in many socio-cultural-religious areas of society. It runs in my family so it will come as no surprise to new readers that I am estranged from most of my relatives. Yet, I envy people who belong to a close-knit family, and always encourage others to try and work through any differences they may have with their own even if it means venturing where I promised myself years ago that I would never go again. [Maybe that makes me a hypocrite?]

As I have said many times, our differences do not make us different, only human. We are not a race of clones (yet) thank goodness.

Oh, but love the open road. [Did I say it was easy?]

A PREDILECTION FOR ROAD MOVIES

Now and then, the road ahead

seems to stretch forever

and a weary heart seeks in vain

for the strength to carry on;

lost sight of any meaningful goal,

loneliness invading the soul,

the poetry of life but dull prose,

beauty fading like memories

once held dear, now but straws

in the wind, falling, drifting…

like autumn leaves from a tree

that has the look of a body

resolved to die. Ah, but look again

and see that Earth Mother

is not done with us yet, for all we

fret and moan like winter,

unable to comprehend that spring

might come again and the tree

come into its own though it feed

on acid rain

Look again, where the road ahead

seems to stretch forever;

glimpse patches of blue where dark

clouds part to let light through,

as good a goal as any to keep in view,

give a weary heart the strength

to carry on, though why we bother

as unclear as why we feel

the soul respond to some heavenly

goal we cannot begin to express

except to permit a fragile happiness

find its way back into us

on the backs of dearest memories

we pushed away in pain,

now conspiring yet again to make us

whole and set us free - to enjoy

the journey, inspiring our senses

to indulge us life’s finer poetry,

discover in its beauty the meaning

of eternity

Meaning, purpose, prose and poetry,

all chief players in a road movie

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

Among Slaves

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Here in the West, we often take our freedom for granted; (relative) freedom of speech, (relative) freedom of movement, the (relative) freedom to protest and more all come under the general heading, Democracy.

We have only to look at recent events in the Far East and North Africa to understand that we should never take any freedoms for granted.

The poem is a kenning. It last appeared on the blog in 2009, and if anyone is interested in hearing me read it, just click on the link below which will take you to my (very) informal poetry reading on the 4^th plinth in London’s Trafalgar Square, July 14^th 2009. I included Among Slaves (without alternative title) among other poems as my contribution to sculptor Antony Gormley’s One and Other ‘living sculpture’ project. However, I should warn you that it lasts an hour. [The entire web stream showing all 2,400 people doing their ‘own thing’ for an hour (each) on the plinth is now archived in the British Library; to access all 100 days 24/7  simply remove Roger_T from the end of the link.]:

http://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223121732/oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T [NB.Sept 19, 2019: Today, the British Library confirmed that the link blow to the 4th plinth reading in 1999 is no longer available as the video is incompatible with an updated IT system. However, I am assured that the video still exists, and B L hope to make it available to the public again one day. Fingers crossed, and watch this space.] RNT

AMONG SLAVES

I am that breath of wind in the hair

inviting the human spirit to confess

its foibles, rise above its troubles,

show the world what it’s made of

though its back forced against a wall,

those vultures, prejudice and fear,

homing in to pick clean the bones of

fathers, mothers, sisters and brothers

lured by false witness here

I am that first kiss of rain on the face,

drawing on the human spirit to open

its heart as a flower its petals to the sky,

lend its beauty to the eye so we do not

pass by but pause to reflect on the how

and why of its being, and ours, reasons

to deny the vultures a victory, let nature

tell a story bitter-sweet of humanity’s

attempts to compete

I am that first angry tug at the sleeve

urging the human spirit to turn away

from its prejudices and fears, confront

our lesser selves head-on and expose

them for what they are, though it test us

the more by far...take people as we find,

respecting their privacy, acknowledging

their integrity, learning from a natural

ingenuity to survive

Among slaves of time, I am eyes and ears

who call me Freedom and wipe my tears

[From: Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]