Empathy with a Camel

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

"Lives of great men all remind us, we can make our lives sublime, and, departing, leave behind us, footprints in the sand." A Psalm of Life - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

The key to Longfellow’s often repeated quotation has to lie in the words ‘remind us’; for better or worse, we all leave our footprints in the sands of time, not only the famous (and infamous).

EMPATHY WITH A CAMEL 

Crossing a desert,
hump on the back, sniffing
out oasis and shade,
penetrating mirage on mirage
enough to attack
a hopeful visage, angry pricks
of sand, graffiti
on a human soul, left to the mercy
of fingers on a rag doll 

Crossing a desert,
hump on the back, sniffing
out oasis and shade
under the spell of a culture
of adventure,
needing to explore Dante’s inferno,
no matter vultures
invariably homing in like drug dealers
at a local disco 

Crossing a desert,
hump on the back,
sniffing out oasis and shade,
compensating for delusion
with illusion...
Lords of Misrule taking the blame
for any blisters
on the soul, although (trick or treat?)
it’s our call 

Making our way
across the sands of time, leaving
our mark, one way
or another, inspiring a generation
of hopefuls
with no intention of becoming food
for vultures to leave
misleading messages while raking over
bones of history? 

Humanity, making
what it will of its ever shifting
landscapes of sea,
sand, earth and sky, each to its own,
whether a camel
at home in a desert or human being
intending to flower,
last seen counting rings on a tree stump
and getting the hump

Whoever we are,
whether travelling on a train, bus,
sailing boat, private jet
or taking a camel ride into an inferno,
so will the Winds of Time
have us set out on yet another journey,
for better or worse,,
the richer or poorer, across multifarious
landscapes of memory 

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2002, rev.2022

[Note: This poem takes its cue from an earlier poem that appears under the title 'Riddle of the Sands' in my collection, First Person Plural, Assembly Books, 2002; it is a complete re-working of the original poem to the extent that I hesitate to call it a revision.] RT

 

The House of Many Rooms

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

“On the whole, human beings want to be good, but not too good, and not quite all the time.” – George Orwell in All Art is Propaganda: Critical Essays

As the pandemic pursues its relentless course around the world, many of us are taking refuge in kinder, happier times, albeit often tailored to kinder, happier needs; there is a lot to be said for and against the selective power of Memory.

On the whole, though, I would suggest that, for many if not most of us, Memory draws on the finer points of mind-body-spirit, sweeping any darker aspects aside; some specks, though, will inevitably remain, like flaws of human nature best forgotten, but which have a nasty habit of resurfacing now and then, invariably in some unseemly manner as likely as not to cause offence, even where none intended.

Arguably, there are elements of that consciousness we call ‘Memory’ which are genetic, a part of us that has its roots in a family history that can be so persuasive as to plant itself in our subconscious, visit us in dreams so ‘real’ that we may well carry them as ‘memories’ which, in turn, may well have behavioural consequences, for better or worse.

A gay poet, I am very much aware that many people believe that sexuality is a lifestyle choice; it is, of course, in the genes if selective in whom it manifests itself.

THE HOUSE OF MANY ROOMS

I go there often, to an old house
of many rooms,
each one different, yet oddly familiar,
but nothing ever quite
the same, it seems, from one visit
to another

I love to explore the old house
of many rooms,
now playing games of hide-and-seek
with childhood friends,
now discovering home truths
and heartbreak

I often shelter in the old house
of many rooms,
seek comfort from cold, mist and rain,
or so I tell myself
despite an inner voice insisting
I’m on the run

Ghosts, too, in the old house
of many rooms
and only so many games we can play,
its doors opening
and closing on shadowy masks
of “live” clay

Dusty corners, in the old house
of many rooms,
I do my best to sweep clear and clean,
but always a residue
left behind that I’ll pretend
I’ve never seen

A guardian of sorts, the old house
of many rooms,
a store of life forces, good, bad and ugly,
reminders of a life
lived for love and its pitfalls;
such is humanity

Everyone knows an old house
of many rooms,
best approached with mixed expectations,
much of a muchness
the world over, despite universal
mutations

Many and varied are such houses
of many rooms,
nor bricks and mortar can we expect to see,
but a consciousness
of personal-posthumous-collective
family history

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

 

 

 

 

 

 

R-O-O-T-S, Species of Moss Uncovered OR History, Cause and Effect

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2012.

Many of us are fascinated by our family history, and have been very frustrated by the closure of research libraries and archives due to the Covid-19 coronavirus pandemic.

Our predecessors carry the secrets of our genes which, in turn, help to shape who we are and what we make of our lives; a posthumous consciousness to which I often refer in my poems. Hopefully, more will be opening up as C-16 restrictions are gradually lifted ... so long as a second wave doesn't hit sooner rather than later.

Fingers (and toes) crossed; crossed, too for the re-opening of public libraries, of course.

But, oh, to be on the family history trail...!

This poem is a villanelle.

R-O-O-T-S, SPECIES OF MOSS UNCOVERED or HISTORY, CAUSE AND EFFECT

Challenging history,

moss on graveyard stone defies

what we call, identity

Traits of a personality

but a strategy ancestors devise,

challenging history

Shades of mystery

conspiring to spring surprise;

what we call, identity

A cliff-hanging story

of hope and glory, love and lies

challenging history

An affinity with mortality

drawn from family archives;

what we call, identity

A feeling for eternity,

whatever its ends may comprise;

challenging history,

what we call, identity

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

Human Spirit, the Making of Us (All)

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

This poem can also be found in my gay-interest blog archives for May 2012.

There will always be some who refuse to get their heads around the fact that there are millions of us gay people amongst all humankind making as equally valuable a contribution to its humanity as our heterosexual neighbours. The trouble is, humankind comprises multiple closed shops marketing multiple closed hearts under various socio-cultural-religious and political umbrellas. Fortunately, the human spirit is an open house and will yet see the  greater part of humanity prove itself the better for that.

Spirituality emanates from a person's mind-body-spirit; no religion has a monopoly on it. It has always struck me as absurd to suggest that a non-religious person cannot, by default, experience a sense of spirituality; bonding with nature is no less of a spiritual experience than embracing God as defined by whatever dogma. Yes, people will argue for one concept or another, but is it not agreeing to differ that makes us human?

HUMAN SPIRIT, THE MAKING OF US (ALL)

When folks ask why I’m gay,
I tell them I was born this way

Some will say it can’t be true,
any God has better things to do
than create distorted images
to blot humankind’s copybook,
rewrite history’s pages,
make religions take a long look
at themselves, leave cultures
to those power-hungry vultures
that love to preach and lead,
assuming their authority as read

Some suggest my sexuality
is irreconcilable with spirituality;
they, so blessedly taken in
by interpretations of Holy Books,
a case for eternity that brooks
no argument among those afraid
of condoning, let alone trying
to understand bigotry they’re sold
by those we’re told know better
how best we live with one another

People accuse me of blasphemy
(at best, a penchant for immorality)
thus putting me on the defensive
for what has to be a clear distortion
of what Holy Books have in mind
for each person (Oh, so what am I?);
Ah, but taking issue asks we see
how and why there is a place for each
and every one of us, regardless
of ethnicity, creed, sex or sexuality

Those folks who ask why I am as I am
might well ask the same of themselves

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012; 2016

[Note: An earlier draft of this poem under the title ‘Found Wanting' appears in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Book, 2012]

Taking the 'y' Out of Gay

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

I often receive emails from gay-friendly as well as straight readers who point out that it was my 'choice' to be gay, and as with any choice we make there are invariably  'consequences'.

LGBT folks do not have a choice, except in so far as we either choose to look the world in the eye or remain in the proverbial closet; we are as nature intended, and nature, unlike some human beings, does not discriminate.

The poem below was posted on both blogs in 2014, but I removed it from this one after a nasty, threatening email. I ignore abuse, but threats are another matter entirely, although I have to say that most feedback was very supportive. Three years on, I am repeating it here, not least because a reader has asked me to, but also because latter feedback suggests that my intention to continue posting gay-interest poems on this general blog from time to time, has not only been far more kindly received that  I could have hoped or expected given the response in 2014.(Fingers crossed...)

Incidentally, readers often ask why I write fiction as well as poetry. Well, why not? Regular readers will know that I've suffered regular bouts of depression all my life; writing in any genre is not only an enjoyable pursuit, but also a lifeline by way of creative therapy. Having anyone read what I write is a nice bonus:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/

The first novel I serialised on my fiction blog was Dog Roses, a gay-interest story about a young man and his family coming to terms with his being gay; another, Like There’s No Tomorrow is about a woman who returns every year to the hotel in Brighton where her daughter disappeared without trace some 20+ years earlier.

Meanwhile...

Yes, when I was young, I’d frequently ask myself why I was gay… until I realised it did not matter. All that mattered was that I got on with my life and learned to let my sexuality play its part. It’s my life, after all. My lasting regret is that I only came to this conclusion in my 30's following a severe nervous breakdown for which agonising over my sexuality since a teenager must take its fair share of the blame. The penny finally dropped, though, and I saw that my sexuality is no more up for being dictated to than my sense of spirituality although, as regular readers know, I do not subscribe to any religion, preferring to see myself as something of a pantheist. I feel fortunate to have learned in time how to relate to both with a passion I try to convey in many of my poems. In this respect, I owe little or nothing to the so-called 'education for life' I received in the classroom. Sadly, even these days, gay issues are rarely if ever discussed in British schools; indeed, across the world, although here in the UK  new legislation due to come into effect next year will (hopefully) address LGBT issues head-on. in both primary and secondary schools. (Oh, and why not, especially given that children and young people are among the least prejudice people in the world... until or unless persuaded otherwise?

If ever anyone needed support and reassurance regarding their sexuality, it is during our teenage years.

Sexuality is universal. We all have a gene that identifies our sexuality, thereby partly identifying who we are. Nor is sexual identity any less an integral part of the whole person that his or her social, cultural, religious or political identity. It is a mystery to me, therefore, how even the less enlightened among the heterosexual majority really believe there are no young gay boys and girls out there who will develop and grow into their sexuality as responsible adults with no less integrity or capacity for love and compassion than anyone else?

There are homophobes in all echelons of all societies, and of all socio-cultural-religious persuasions; some are out, others prefer to stay in their stuffy closets for fear of being called  'politically incorrect'. I have marginally more respect for the former, although it’s anyone’s guess why these foolish people insist on displaying their ignorance of the human condition for everyone to see. I guess we can but do our best to encourage them to overcome this blindness of the inner eye in respect to LGBT men and women worldwide before more lives and societies are made to suffer for it.

This poem is a villanelle.

TAKING THE ‘Y’ OUT OF GAY

We’d meet after school every day,

go to our secret place

learning to take the ‘y’ out of gay

We took our time, found our way

through love’s maze;

we’d meet after school every day

Two teenagers with plenty to say

about spots on society’s face;

learning to take the ‘y’ out of gay

A brave maturity, come what may

(some say gay is but a phase);

we’d meet after school every day

At each parting, so longing to stay,

but homework setting the pace,

learning to take the ‘y’ out of gay

Years on, we came true to our clay,

where others taking our place;

we’d meet after school every day,

learning to take the ‘y’ out of gay

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: I am often accused of being 'too personal'; in my poems. Well, I do often write from personal experience, although in my use of the first person singular, I attempt to embrace a third person plural to which anyone is invited to relate if they so choose.]