Where the Heart Is...

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"Battles are lost in the same spirit in which they are won.” Walt Whitman

"In war, whichever side may call itself the victor, there are no winners, only losers." – Neville Chamberlain

"Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed." – Martin Luther King Jr.

As an embattled Ukraine fights on and tens of thousands seek safe haven in neighbouring countries, so the rest of the world pat themselves on the back for supporting Ukraine in every way but meaningful enough to make Putin’s troops withdraw. Supplying arms, sanctuary and applying sanctions are welcome moves, but it is not difficult to imagine the agony of those in Ukraine fighting for their own and their country’s very survival.

Inspirational resistance by Ukraine notwithstanding, it is looking increasingly inevitable that Russian forces will eventually take control. One cannot help but wonder what or who will be next in Putin’s sights? He would not, after all, be the first person - world leader or otherwise - to let one success go to his head...

Meanwhile, as a friend recently commented, we should never underestimate either ourselves or human nature  in general, there being no such thing the 'ordinary' man and woman in the street. We are all of us, each in his and her own way, capable of the most extraordinary acts, not least by taking on various  life forces threatening us; winners all, whether or not we are perceived as losers.

WHERE THE HEART IS...

North, South, East West,
I am that place where I feel safest,
for being able to talk
laugh, engage with loved ones,
friends and good neighbours,
shut out dire thoughts
of being anywhere else but here,
where I can dream in peace of sunnier tomorrows
sure to greet you-me-us

Few dreamers dare to go
where roads ahead grow dark and long,
love needing an outlet,
for such prejudices and hate that invade
my life and personal space
without my consent, yet unable to prevent
their presence in me,
supposedly a passing distraction, even as homing in
on potential self-destruction

Yet, beneath appearances
inviting such comments as ‘but ordinary’
dwell an extraordinary
treasure of life forces, such as bravery
in the face of hard times,
love and compassion able to take a lead,
despite all but surrounded
by conditions even angels may well be wary of treading
for dread of human suffering

Call me’ Home’ wherever I be,
mind-body-spirit in like company, no ordinary
force for living,
but giving as well as taking, fighting its enemies,
defending its rights,
yet unity and friendship always in its sights
no matter such ways of a world
where division is almost second nature where Finance rules,
mistaking ‘ordinary’ folks for fools

They are the fools, though, devils
invading human anxiety, divining their flaws
for strengths by such vanity
as sometimes possesses powers that be, crossing
red lines, the length and breadth
of all walks of humanity,
making out it is in potentially in their interests
while pursuing their own, ever preening themselves in mirrors,
feeding media sources but half-truths

I, though, have its measure, the human heart with such love in it
that alien forces can neither win over nor defeat

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

Keeping Company with Ghosts

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

Those who condemn gay people simply for our sexuality would do well to remember that many gay men and women have risked and given their lives - and continue to do so - to preserve the peace and freedom we all desire.  

World War 1 was meant to be a war to end all wars. Yet, it remains one of humankind’s greater tragedies that its history is inclined to repeat itself. 

Since World War 2 there have been numerous conflicts around the world, its various peoples suffering immeasurable heartbreak. At the root of it all, an unwillingness of certain politicians to take a common sense let alone humanitarian or democratic view, and others in the business of selling arms (directly or indirectly) who have no wish to see this or that particular gravy train come to a premature halt...and many people around the world continue to think ill of those of us in the LGBT community, I ask you!

If you enjoyed the poem, you may like 'A Poet's Shrewsbury' about World War 1 (closet) gay poet Wilfred Owen. [See blog archives- on the right hand side - October 2012.].

KEEPING COMPANY WITH GHOSTS 2012]

They fought so we may live

(to fight another day?)

among them, men, women 

who were gay

World wars over, although

the world still at war,

for such is humankind’s way,

(the politics of power)

Middle East a battleground,

Africa tearing itself apart;

Iraq, Afghanistan, ripping out

poor humanity’s heart

Gay men (and, yes, women)

risk their lives daily, yet

we hear their praises sung

but, oh, so rarely

Oh, and just what has sexuality 
to do with a fierce courage

writing up history and daring

to sign each page...?

What, too, of Earth Mother

and peace with one another?


Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2017

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

Circumnavigating Homer OR Engaging with James Joyce

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At University, in the early 1970’s, I studied James Joyce’s Ulysses. The novel left a deep, lasting impression on me, something of which this poem attempts to convey. Make of it (and 'Ulysses') what you will ...

CIRCUMNAVIGATING HOMER or ENGAGING WITH JAMES JOYCE

Charybdis, blood-sucking history;

myth, reaching out to nourish our fictions

at the breast. Eyes of the navigator...

Burning, like twin saints

Whose lips next to pluck a kiss from me?

I will suck the life from them, spew out the taste

of them - and Pallas won’t care,

my brave Ulysses, (save Mr Joyce put in a plea

for the sheer passion of absurdity)

I'll not be cheated of immortality

or heroes to wrestle the world’s straitjacket

while tin gods debate what’s right...

and what's aesthetic…

Copyright R. N. Taber 1972; 2010

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in  Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]

Stretcher Bearer

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A boy at my school was being taunted about his grandfather being a 'cowardly conchie' during the First World War. 

When I asked my mum about this she told me that the lad's grandfather had not fought in the war but acted as a stretcher bearer, frequently on the front line of battle, and was no coward. 

She also explained to boy Roger (I would have been about 10 years old at the time) that people who hold fast to their convictions rather than surrender to demands to the contrary are no cowards anyway.

(Image taken from the Internet)

STRETCHER BEARER

I wear a badge of courage

few can see who look for medals

on the chest

or a victory sign to oblige the press

anxious for a story,

but less interested in mine;

I’m no hero, not me,

shooting holes in the glory

of a devotion to duty

I wear a badge of courage

few can see who look for scars

won in battle

or, better still, a crippling injury

that will treat me

to free beers at local bars;

for me, only looks

and words drawn like swords,

politics of all wars

I wear a badge of courage,

will join heads bowed in gratitude

and pride at the finest marble

monuments to its tears, the price

(no choice?) of freedom,

so many would have us believe,

if not the likes of me

left stitching up the glory

of a devotion to duty

Under fire, I, the stretcher bearer,

Front Line conscientious objector

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

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

Real-Life Heroes and Popcorn Soldiers

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I know I have said this before but it never ceases to amaze me how, when terrible clips of deaths and injuries suffered during the war in Afghanistan are shown on TV News, some people - especially children and young people - instead of being appalled, become excited, as if they were watching a war movie!

Oh, but it’s a sad reflection on our times if we cannot get across to everyone how to discriminate between fact and fiction.

REAL-LIFE HEROES AND POPCORN SOLDIERS

Dust, sand and blood

on his boots;

dust, sand and blood

on his uniform;

blood, sweat and tears

on his face;

blood, sweat and tears

in his eyes;

only a quiet heart kept

clean if not safe;

as for more of the same,

bags of them

No dust, sand or blood

on designer shoes;

no dust, sand or blood

on custom tee shirts;

no blood, sweat or tears

in high places;

no blood, sweat or tears

in eyes glued to TV,

only the armchair soldier

biting popcorn bullets;

as for more of the same,

bags of them

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2010

Nightmare on Civvy Street

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I was against the war in Iraq and have never been any too happy with the presence of our troops in Afghanistan. However, both are down to our politicians. Our servicemen and women are doing a fantastic job and deserve nothing less than our 100% support. (M.O.D. please note).

While I fully support anti-war demonstrations, I have nothing but respect and admiration for those front-line men and women who risk their lives daily in the name of peace. Many pay the ultimate price. Others do not receive the 100% support to which they are (surely?) entitled. The dead invariably make headline news, but what about the injured?

There are, of course, two sides to every war. Both genuinely believe they are in the right. We should not be too quick to condemn an enemy comprising many ordinary men and women who, too, risk their lives in a common cause...however much other may deplore that cause.

Whatever, politics fights a dirty war with precious little thought (if any) for those in the front line other than its own [The Israeli-Palestinian conflict is a prime example.]

There are various charities available to help serving and ex-serving armed services personnel. The w
former wife of one told me that her husband was ashamed to ask for help, but the stress on their marriage contributory factor in their divorce.

No one but no one should ever feel ashamed to ask for help as and when they need it; it takes courage, but that first step is, in fact, a giant leap for common sense, not to mention a slap in the face for local gossips who know f**k all.

NIGHTMARE ON CIVVY STREET

A soldier, an arm and leg in traction
(truck blown up by a mine)
reassuring us he feels fine, just fine…
while half-listening to pulp fiction;
no regrets, he says, well worth
any price he’d known he might pay
for the thrills and kills every soldier
sees but as Hobson’s choice

As the audio story starts to spread
dark mischief in his one good ear,
he leans forward as if trying to peer
into shadow lands of the dead;
war’s is mother’s milk, he explains,
to those with subtle convictions
like its paymasters and those politicians
floating victory on the wind

The audio voice ducking and diving
the whistle of a sniper’s bullet,
the blind young soldier ducks a hit;
beads of sweat, waking nightmare
without end, need help but ashamed
to ask, need to brave it out in case
anyone guesses there's a human being
behind the hero's smiley mask

Honourable discharge, fighting off tears
for all the world's nightmares

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: This poem first appeared under the title 'Sweating it Out' in On the Battlefields of Love by R N Taber, Assembly Books, 2010; rev. ed. in e-format in preparation.]]

File On a War Hero

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Today's poem was inspired by a conversation with a homeless ex-serviceman begging on the streets of London.

We talk about victory and peace, but... peace of mind? Now, that's something else for many people, especially ex-service personnel. Although more is being done than ever before to help rehabilitate men and women in the armed forces returning from front line action, a significant minority continue to slip through the net.

Ironically, many people seem unable to tell the difference between the most graphic news items recorded by war correspondents and blockbuster war movies!

Meanwhile, family and friends of those who have mental illness issues as a result of witnessing the horrors of warfare have some insight and often, in their turn, suffer awful consequences.

Here in the UK, attitudes of the healthy majority towards mental illness still leave much to be desired.

Certainly, those who fight for us, are killed or injured and/or suffer post traumatic stress disorder in one form or another…deserve better.

FILE ON A WAR HERO

Mind closed down for spam,

like a dead computer;

any spare cash for a fall guy?

Heart, wounded and weeping

on loved-ones who left;

any spare cash for a fall guy?

Close my eyes and I can see

ghosts parading the street;

any spare cash for a fall guy?

Close my ears and I can hear

folks cheering us on;

any spare cash for a fall guy?

If God’s closed the file on me

He’s not the only one;

any spare cash for a fall guy?

Cops closing in to move me on

(no medals left to sell);

any spare cash for a fall guy?

Can’t open up for dying inside

among pals blown apart;

any spare cash for a fall guy?

[From: Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012]

  

Fallen Heroes

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[Update (July 24 2016): A report recently published by the McLaren investigation offers damning evidence of State sponsored doping among Russian athletes. However, the International Olympic Committee (IOC) has ruled today that the entire Russian team should not be banned from the Olympic Games in Rio de Janeiro; any decision should be taken by individual Sports Federations. World opinion is divided as to whether or not this was a good decision. Is the IOC simply passing the buck? Whatever, one cannot help but have huge sympathy for the many ‘clean’ members of the Russian team who will have trained hard over the past four years; they may well win events, but given the extensive publicity given to the report worldwide, there will be those who will wonder if that success is only down due to four years of hard training or…. No one doubts that Russia is not the only nation whose sports authorities - even at Government level - are inclined to encourage or turn a blind eye to certain athletes doping to win events on the world stage. It is SO unfair on those who would never take performance enhancing drugs. Sadly, though, that is the kind of world we live in; it is always the innocent who suffer, one way or another, while the guilty all too often appear to get away with ...whatever.]RT

Now, every generation has its share of fallen heroes; they come in all shapes and both sexes. It is invariably a very human tragedy for everyone, not least those directly concerned.

Only recently, a definitive report has upheld allegations that seven times Tour de France winner Lance Armstrong took performance enhancing drugs.

Here in the UK, admirers of the late Sir Jimmy Savile, a popular DJ with millions and much admired for his charity work, are having to deal with the appalling fact that his jovial mask appears to have concealed a serial paedophile; it is all the more horrific that allegations by his victims span several decades. The BBC and other organisations closely associated with Savile clearly have many questions to answer.

This poem is a villanelle.

FALLEN HEROES

Among those we place on pedestals
(custom made saints and heroes)
too few proven worthy role models

Children, especially, create portals
where the willing acolyte goes
among those we place on pedestals

Among adults, too, where little rivals
a need to rise above their fellows,
too few proven worthy role models

No fine aspiration immune to perils
(the heart vulnerable to blows)
among those we place on pedestals

Though we mortals create new idols
(where a media halo glows)
too few proven worthy role models

Sad to say, but true, when a hero falls,
hindsight quickly follows;
among those we place on pedestals,
too few proven worthy role models

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Heroes OR Imagination, a (Free) Ticket to Ride

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Now, I  dare say we are all heroes, each in our own way, if only for just for getting on with the business of everyday living. 

We all need heroes to inspire us, and where we can’t find any to tick our particular boxes, the chances are we'll invent them.

HEROES or  IMAGINATION, A (FREE) TICKET TO RIDE

Every morning I’d watch them

run for the train,

catch it with seconds to spare

then relax in my seat,

wondering just who they were

and if they were lovers

or friends, maybe neighbours

but, no, there was more

to the way they ran for the train

than met the eye,

the reason why easy to tell

because their faces

were alive, not like those others

I saw every morning

on the 6.15 to a bread factory

that could even have given

bodies in a mortuary a good run

for their money

Always late, never out of breath,

leaping aboard,

straight into fantasies I’d weave

around them;

no ordinary pair (yes, definitely

a pair, I was sure)

they would be living the high life,

burning the candle

at both ends, night after night,

(so always late)

then they’d fall into bed, take sex

for a heady trip…

heading for the surreal, shades

of a looking-glass war

while ordinary folks like me just

don’t have the bottle

(or the money) it takes for drugs

so we’ll play safe

Divine looks, designer gear, it was

too much to bear

each morning on the way to work

where I don’t want to be

so all the more reason to enjoy

my little fantasy…

about heroes of the 6.15 who were

always late,

their brief (like gods) to make

their own fate,

have the world turn on such beauty

it did not deserve,

making an open declaration of sorts

about a politics of heart,

body and soul that even the worst

of temporal measures

fail to have put down, rogue traders

going for the jugular

One day, they just missed the train;

no heroes after all, only human

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