The Anniversary

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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]

Dead Cool, Macho Man

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Overheard on a bus:

TEENAGER 1: It’s all very well for people to say don’t carry a knife or a gun, but what do they know, yeah? It’s dead cool, right? Besides, you gotta protect yourself. F**k the do-gooders. What kind of world do they think we live in? You gotta get real, yeah?

TEENAGER 2: What if someone gets hurt, killed even?

TEENAGER 1: So it ain’t gonna be me, right?

TEENAGER 2: I dunno…

TEENAGER 1: (Rising to leave as bus stops) You dunno know f**k all.

An elderly lady sitting next to me shook her head, "He’s right about one thing. What do we know about the world they live in? And whose fault is that, I wonder...?"

I said nothing. What could I say?

There is nothing either cool or macho about carrying a knife or a gun even if (potentially) in self-defence, and who's going to care anyways if you end up dead?

This poem is a villanelle.

DEAD COOL, MACHO MAN

Finally, managed to get me a gun

and spreading the word,

didn’t ask who’ll carry my coffin

At first, life was a buzz, good fun,

but all that disappeared;

finally, managed to get me a gun,

Needed to prove I was someone,

get me some street cred;

didn’t ask who’ll carry my coffin

Shouting at just about everyone,

but no one ever heard;

finally, managed to get me a gun,

Joined a gang, mustn't let 'em down,

show I was shit scared;

didn’t ask who’ll carry my coffin

Got into a street fight, shot down
dripping with blood...

Finally, managed to get me a gun,

didn’t ask who’ll carry my coffin

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2015

New Kids on the Block

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A slightly different version of today’s poem was published in various anthologies and poetry magazines (1997-2001) before appearing in my first major collection.

I have made numerous revisions to various poems over the years, some minor others major. While most revisions appear on the blogs, I hope (eventually) to publish revised editions of each collection in e-format.

Now, at first glance, nothing seems to have changed much in 20+ years, especially in the sense that a significant proportion of children and young people seem to be having as raw a deal as ever. (Oh, but haven't I said that before once, twice, maybe even a thousand times?) We must encourage our young people to believe in themselves and trust their own judgement a learning curve some young people miss out on altogether ... and whose fault is that ... partly their own, yes, but society needs must accept its fair share of the blame also, and society is you-me-us.

Could it be perhaps that if we all try harder to keep our own little piece of the world clean, safe, and a good place to be, all the other pieces may yet come together in a more bearable, worthwhile  whole…for everyone? 

So many people, rather than act on what their inner self is telling them, prefer to take their cue from the Scarlett O'Hara character in Margaret Mitchell's epic novel, Gone With the Wind. The heroine is always telling herself, 'I'll think about that tomorrow.' It is a common human tragedy that, for some of us tomorrow, never comes...

NEW KIDS ON THE BLOCK 

Gone shopping,

kids left running wild,

trolley rage mums

all smiles (dad’s at the pub);

dog mess everywhere,

kids busy shooting pool

at late-night venues

when not hanging out

on street corners

On the pavement,

collide with some kid

on a bike (my fault

of course, forgot to look);

knives out

in the playground,

acid in the park,

kids chasing death

for a lark

Cops in their stride

(‘Come on, let’s get even.’);

kids on a joyride

to Heaven, street siren

screaming, ‘Amen’;

Mum’s off her trolley,

Dad’s on the booze,

angel on the sideboard,

yesterday’s news …

Copyright R. N. Taber 1997; 2015

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001.]

Macho, Losing the Plot

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I have written about street crime in a number of poems. Tragically, it persists. At the same time, I feel very encouraged by feedback from readers of all ages and socio-cultural-religious backgrounds. Hopefully, some (especially young people) may read this post and think on...

Overheard on a bus:

1^st YOUTH (boasts): Any fool can get hold of a gun or a knife if they really want. It’s easy.

2^nd YOUTH (grins): I carry a knife. Anyone crosses me, and I’ll do ’em. It’s just so easy, yeah? (Laughs)

GIRL: (unimpressed): Yeah, yeah, easy come, easy go. Here today, dead tomorrow, you mean. So what’s that all about then?

2^nd YOUTH: We’re talking self-defence here, girl. No one’s saying anybody needs to get killed, for crying out loud.

GIRL: (shrugs) No one ever does until it happens. A bit late then, don’t you think?

1^st YOUTH: (aggressively) You don’t understand.  Being a neet ain’t street cred enough any more. You have to show you mean business. You gotta get real or go down.

2^nd YOUTH: Give her a break, bro. She’s a girl. Girls haven’t a clue. They don’t understand what we guys are up against.

.

GIRL: Too right, I don’t understand...

At which point the bus arrived at my destination and I had to leave them to it.

Like many of us, I worry a lot about street crime, especially the naïve attitude of some young people towards it. Thankfully, most young people have the good sense to steer clear of guns and knives. Tragically, a significant minority (especially among a growing number of so-called NEETS) continue to see either or both as trendy as designer gear; a very sad, sick, and dangerous trend. Let's be clear, ... there is nothing macho about street crime, especially when it involves acts of acts of violence, even murder.

Every society needs to believe in all its young people - and reach out to them in every way it can  - or it cannot expect all those young people to believe in that society.

[Note: NEET is an acronym (a derogatory and inflammatory one in my opinion) bandied about by politicians here in the UK and in some other countries that refers to young people not in education, employment or training.]

This poem is a villanelle.

MACHO, LOSING THE PLOT

Swapped my knife for a loaded gun,

spread the word...

Never asked who'll carry my coffin

Shouting at just about everyone,
no one heard...

Swapped my knife for a loaded gun

Felt the need to prove I'm 'someone'
(must have been mad)

Never asked who'll carry my coffin

Life was a buzz, a big bundle of fun,

but all that disappeared...

Swapped my knife for a loaded gun

Peers were always putting me down,

suggesting I was scared,

never asked who'll carry my coffin

First mistake, second chance blown
(among worms interred);

swapped my knife for a loaded gun,

never asked who’ll carry my coffin

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[

Extracts From A Prison Diary

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Listening to a group of youths chatting amongst themselves on a bus, I was appalled to hear how they all but revered one of their friends who had recently been jailed for a knife attack on someone. 

I bet they wouldn’t think prison was so good for street cred if they were there, locked up for much if not most of the time and deprived of their freedom all the time...

The majority of young people are decent, hard working, good people. The tragic irony is that the relatively few bad apples in the proverbial barrel have the same potential if only they would acknowledge the common sense in getting their priorities right, the courage to resist peer pressure from the wrong parties and make the most of that potential instead of whining about how the better opportunities never come their way.

Prevention is better than cure. True, luck can play a part in whether or not opportunity knocks at our door, but mostly we have to take a good look around, see what there is to be had that we want and is worth wanting, and ... 

GO FOR IT.

Did I say it was easy ...?

EXTRACTS FROM A PRISON DIARY

A neighbour slipped out to buy bread

and…was shot dead;

Hoodies cheered, one waving a gun;

(Who’s next? Could be anyone...)

I thought I knew that hood inside-out

till I heard a devil yell, “Shoot!”

A face in shadow, but I knew the voice;

what happened next, my choice

Mates say guns are a must (gang culture),

a necessary feel-good factor;

suddenly, blood on my designer shoes;

heads cops win, tails I lose

Emergency sirens blasting at my head,

(Like it was me shot someone dead?)

I knelt by the body and called out a name;

the only answer, howls of shame

I was told to wear a white shirt, black tie

for the funeral, but it was a lie;

what difference if I’m dressed up smart?

Better jeans, hood, a caring heart

Later (crying in cuffs) taken back to prison,

old mates, some hoodies, looking on;

Drugs, booze, skipping school, what matter?

It was my finger on the trigger

The idea of prison hadn’t bothered me

(I’d seen cool shows on TV);

the reality? I am as meat in a lion’s den

only…torn to pieces by men

Oh, to be a schoolkid again, a wiser one,

who would never carry a gun…

nor would I mistake everyday life for dull,

but get an education, enjoy to the full

Like bile on the tongue, every word written

for tears and fears I keep well hidden

or drown in each lonely day’s angry swell

crashing down on this, my life, my cell

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

How long Before the Next Bus? OR Fear on the Streets

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Although this poem was not written until 2003, Stephen Lawrence loomed largely in my thoughts as the death toll among young people subjected to violent, sometimes fatal attacks in London continued to rise; it is still rising. The awful irony is that all the while knife crime remains prevalent, the more young people feel it is necessary for their own protection to carry a knife. 

Stephen Lawrence was an 18-year-old sixth form student. The black British teenager from Eltham, South-East London was stabbed to death while waiting for a bus on the evening of 22 April 1993. It is only recently that two people have finally been convicted of a murder believed to have been racially motivated.

Racism, like homophobia and all hate crime is invariably fuelled by a prevailing gang culture and/or those less discerning socio-cultural-religious bigots among us without whom societies worldwide would far better served. Education is the key; in  schools, colleges and universities, but first and foremost in the home. Tragically, it is far too often the case that education is found wanting in all of these.

As a gay man, I cannot help but get the feeling that homophobic crime is rarely afforded the same high profile as racism among the press, police, politicians or parents. Oh, and why is that?  Does a person’s sexuality make him or her less of a human being than the colour of their skin? Whatever, discrimination in any shape or form is unacceptable in a civilised society.

HOW LONG BEFORE THE NEXT BUS? or FEAR ON THE STREETS

Blood on the pavement where a body lay

and later someone knelt to pray for the soul

of another youth struck down violently
long before his time; utterly senseless crime,
harsh indictment of a society as inclined
to pass by on the other side as rush to the aid

of anyone being attacked, since it could be
for the sake of not being able to buy some acid,
coke, crack, weed, designer gear, the colour
of their skin, a suspect sexuality or even simply
getting kicks out of attacking, maybe killing
someone, given the chances are some in-crowd
says it's 'cool' to look good, act big enough
give old ladies a heart attack, snatch a blind man's
stick for a (sick) joke. Why tempt fate. risk
pitting ourselves against wolves in sheep's clothing
for any of that?

Years on, the pain still tearing at modernity's 

flimsy fabric, as hate ripped a young man's jacket

whose blood at a bus stop tells its own story,

plaque meant as a memorial but also recalling
the vainglory of a fraternity never properly brought
to book, justice gone to ground so we'll never,
walk down any street without a fear shadowing us
that’s persistently perverting its course; no peace
in a sad world likely to stab us in the back any time,
no matter our ethnicity, creed, sex or sexuality,
(easy targets for the perversity of cowardly thugs)
on a street that could easily be mine or yours,
leaving yet another mother, father, sister, best mate
left grieving us, missing us, forever questioning
the ethos of contemporaneity, feeling abandoned
by a society, left watching anxiously for the next bus

that never comes

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2019

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