Poetry Live

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'There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
 There is society where none intrudes,
  By the deep Sea, and music in its roar;
  I love not Man the less, but Nature more…’ - Lord Byron [Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage]

“Beauty awakens the soul to act.” - Dante Alighieri

“Equality is the soul of liberty; there is, in fact, no liberty without it.” - Frances ‘Fanny’ Wright

“Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.” - Carl Sandburg

Now, yet another a reader asks why I write poetry “…in a world where, let’s face it, poetry is considered ‘old hat’ by most people?”  Most people, perhaps, but certainly  not everyone , given that blogger stats confirm this blog alone has had 212.000+ views since I started writing it up about 10 years ago; my gay-interest poetry blog, too, has had 160, 000+ views.

Nor is poetry 'old hat' in schools, as some people suggest, including a good many schoolchildren; it has its place, among all the arts, on the learning curve that is life

If just one reader enjoys a poem and it gets them thinking about, not necessarily agreeing with its contents… well, that is reward enough for any poet.

For me, all nature is’ live’ poetry; the more people enjoying it and thinking about its contents, I suspect the chances are the more likely they will want to play their part in keeping it alive for generations to come. Combating climate change, for example, is more than a rescue mission for the survival of humankind, but for a natural world that existed long before us and deserves better from us. Even the most indefatigable resilience  can be worn down over time, especially by circumstances (and people) working just as indefatigably against it, knowingly or otherwise.

POETRY LIVE

Sunlight creeping through my window
roused my eyes to a far cheerful awakening
than an unhappy dreaming had led me
to expect, a welcome surprise after a night
of mind-body-spirit’s being tossed about
on such feisty, restless waves of broken sleep
as left heart-and-soul crying out for rescue,
growing more fearful of no help ever happening 
until it heard a skylark singing

Encouraged and inspired by Apollo’s
first kiss on the grassland where it nested,
it rose to greet the morning on wings
of a song bringing a sense of love and peace
forever crying out to be found
among shadows silenced by human fears,
left chasing the sun by day, moon
by night, invariably made to make do with echoes
of wishful thinking for centuries

Ah, but the Here-and-Now can see me
through whatever, if I will only but let it catch
a shadow or two, give the echoes
haunting mind-body-spirit substance enough
to make even half a dream come true,
much as the arts endeavour to do in music, 
poetry and painting, a creative therapy
inspiring such kinder life forces as it always will
an all-embracing heart-and-soul

For every human shadow, may its silences be heard
as pleas for peace around the world

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

In Love and War

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

“Who else speaks for the Family of Man? They are in tune and step with constellations of universal law.“ - Carl Sandberg 

“The same spirits which make a white man drunk, make a black man drunk too.  Indeed, in this I can find proof of my identity with the Family of Man.” – Frederick Douglass

“We all carry inside us people who came before us.” – Liam Callanan

“[On speaking of family secrets:] I don’t know how you heal a wound and not let it get some air.”- Barbara Neely

“There’s always another story. There’s more than meets the eye.” – W. H. Auden

The poem below relates to  a friend's  complaining about an elderly maiden aunt’s dour disposition. “She has as much sensibility as a cadaver,” he would say. A few days after the same maiden aunt’s funeral some years ago, my friend visited me to share the contents of a bundle of letters found tucked away at the bottom of a trunk in the old lady’s attic. They inspired an insatiable interest in genealogy that led my friend, several years later, to track down and surrender the letters to the very love child to which they refer.

Now, I loved my maternal grandparents, but never thought of them as extraordinary in any way until my mother told me how her father had deserted the Royal Navy during the war and joined the army under another name. A family secret, indeed, only revealed when my parents decided to marry. Only then were they told that they were not only the offspring of old family friends, but also first cousins...

IN LOVE AND WAR

Clearing out the attic
after a maiden aunt’s funeral,
found a cardboard box,
tied with string, under a pile
of old newspapers,
a bunch of letters inside,
a war diary of sorts, glanced 
at one, soon reading on more attentively,
reworking my family history

Love letters, exchanged
between a dour, but near relation 
and Joe, an army private;
outpourings of passion and desire
addressing such fears
as have accompanied wars 
for centuries, all the tenderness 
and poetry of lovers among war’s horrors,
dreaming of kinder tomorrows

One letter revealed
a pregnancy, the language of love
excelling, shared hopes
shining through every war-torn page,
littered with crossings-out,
and underlines highly charged
with mixed feelings,
every heartbeat, a near-miss bomb exploding,
love’s defences notwithstanding

Later letters voiced
a birth and death, victims of war, 
messengers of love, hope 
and peace, meaningless to a mother
made to give up her daughter
to a better life than she could offer,
give mind-body-spirit
a fighting chance to discover Happy-ever-After
amongst the aftermath of war

Finally, a faded photo 
of a woman to whom her family
only rarely referred,
a family of which both she and I share
a past-present-future 
beyond a dusty death among archives
testifying to the lives 
of ill-fated lovers this mad, mad, mad world over,
Family of Man, deserving better

Copyright R. N. Taber 2022 

[Note: Useful UK) websites:  https://www.sog.org.uk (Society of Genealogists)   https://www.cityoflondon.gov.uk/things-to-do/history-and-heritage/london-metropolitan-archives  (London Metropolitan Archives]

Battle Royal

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

“As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being.” – Carl Jung

“Faraway there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see their beauty, believe in them and try to follow where they lead.” Louisa May Alcott

 Vladimir Putin’s denials of ill-intent towards Ukraine, prior to authorising its invasion by Russian troops, must surely place him among the ranks of the worst dictators – and war criminals - in history; ironic, indeed, his argument that Ukraine deserves to be ‘liberated’ from the grip of what he defines as ‘pro-Nazi’ forces within it.

While the tragedy of human nature, at home and abroad, has always been its vulnerability to lies, its salvation - sooner or later -  lies in the power of mind-body-spirit to expose and rise above such lies, even if it cannot (ever) undo or truly compensate for any damage already done...

BATTLE ROYAL

There is a darkness
that will gobble us up if we let it,
fail to fight back,
let a lightness in again, sunshine
and just a little rain
from time to time, enough to nurture
a stale soul, starved
of care, left to whatever neglect has in mind
to repay in kind

There is a darkness,
capable of gripping mind-body-spirit
in a stranglehold
we may resist, as kinder forces
would have their say,
but any such light determinedly stalled
by mixed feelings, now throwing
a native wisdom out in the cold, now begging it
return to the fold

There is a darkness
refusing to surrender to the resilience
of mind-body-spirit
to any corruption of heart-and-soul
likely to but score
an own goal once it entertains such ideas
as fighting its battles
in no-win situations. contrived by poor life choices,
and lost opportunities

There is a darkness,
in loneliness that, try as it may, cannot
halt the dawning of days
of love and friendship, as sure to flower
and bring to all landscapes
of mind-body-spirit such light as only they
can return us whole,
less fearful just for knowing they are there, no matter
our past-present-future 

Beware, in darkness, political resources to such devilry
as may yet lull humanity into a false sense of security...

 Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

 

 

 

 

 

 

Empathy with a Camel

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"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

 

Sealed with a Kiss

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Love does not discriminate, can be found in all walks of life and means different things to different people.  

Just as people may well change as time passes, so too may the love that binds them; it will either accept and adapt to any changes, or not. In the latter case, it does not entirely deaden the spirit of that love which first brought lovers together, but lets it pass into a dreamless sleep from which there is no waking, leaving both parties free to find love again if they can and so choose. I once knew a woman who married for a second time late in life; it was his second marriage too. Each loved both partners dearly. “They were both very different,” she once told me, “...but so was I, that second time, and love fitted us like a glove, just as it had for each of us the first time around...”

A loneliness of the heart can be filled in many ways, not least by finding that special someone who can help fulfil our needs, share our passions and generally be looking for much the same in a life companion as we are ourselves. That’s as near as I can get to defining ‘true’ love’ while not to say its various imitations are any the less meaningful or honest at any given moment in time.

Two people can enjoy sex with each other, for example, without wanting the kind of commitment that being ‘in love’ involves sooner or later. ‘Casual’ sex is a misnomer; there is nothing casual about two adults agreeing to sex simply because a mutual attraction also satisfies a deep-seated need, whether or not those needs are quite the same.

A reader asks if I have anyone in mind when I write love poems. Yes, I do, but only for having felt the power in all its shapes and forms, though having been ‘in love’ for only a short time. My potential partner was killed in a car accident long ago, before we’d had time to come out of our respective closets and tell friends and family we were in a relationship. I never met anyone again who saw me as a potential life partner.  Even so, as I deal with living alone on a physical level, I am never alone on an emotional one.

Loved-ones, living or passed away, whether family, friends or lovers... they never die, but pass into our consciousness and will continue loving and supporting us if we let them. Yes, it is a sentiment at which some may well scoff, but it works for me and can work for them too if they will only give it a go...

SEALED WITH A KISS

We met at a dance,
soon got into romancing
under a moon as misty
as a priest’s glass eye,
voices in the wind making us
laugh, making us cry

We wished on stars,
felt the world cease to turn,
pause, as if eager
to share our first kiss,
voices in the wind sighing
“Yes, yes, yes...”

So began, a fairy tale
that would see us hitching
rides across landscapes
of such joy and tears
as any lifetime sure to bring
true lovers

That first kiss, a blessing
as of Earth Mother
to Her children, lending us
a spirituality
to rise above the many failings
of Society

Through thick and thin,
up against walls
or dancing other nights away
wherever we may be,
we bonded with that very first kiss
into eternity

Come other nights, dawns,
wherever life chanced
to take us, be we awake or asleep
together or apart
a life force would always sustain us,
,our shared heart

If all good things must end,
memory grow dim
and time wing its way to eternity,
be sure of this;
true love lives on forever, once sealed
with a kiss

Copyright R. N. Taber 2022

[Note: This poem is loosely based on an earlier poem that appears under the title ‘Hold the Dream’ in my collection First Person Plural, Assembly Books, 2002.]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hello from London, UK (Yes, it's the old codger-poet again!)

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

Hello again from London UK

No poem to day, but soon... if my messed-up thought processes can rise to the occasion.  My prostate cancer isn't painful, but...oh, I have such fond (if distant!) memories of getting a decent night's sleep!

Straight people, all ages, sometimes ask what it's like to be gay and "not in the swim of everyday life." A silly question, if only for assuming that LGBT folks are not in the swim  of everyday life. We are, after all, human beings and, as such, no less a part of a common humanity than anyone else.

Sometimes people, all ages, also ask me how I cope, not just with the prostate cancer, but also with growing old in general. To be honest, I'm not sure, but on the whole, I just do... I suspect it's down to Mind-Body-Spirit pulling together as good friends will during hard times. 😉 Body is likely to prove the weaker link at any moment in time, but especially after it has been around long enough for a good many years to leave their mark, but - more often than not - Mind and Spirit act as pacemakers, and Body feels encouraged to press on...

Ah, but what if Mind falls foul of the darker of human temptations and  gets too close to The Edge of it all, cannot find the will to draw back, prevent freefalling into that same darkness? It is at such times that the human Spirit comes into its own, encouraging native willpower to see the trees in the wood for the beautiful species they are, find a way through to a place of such potential reassurance as to offer a good chance of our being able to enjoy the flowers and birdsong that the inner ear is pleading with us to  hear and take heart...

That's all very well, but what if the human Spirit, too, has lost its way, become confused, unable to see any wood for its damn trees that seem to be closing in on it, their motives unclear although an encroaching darkness s a sure threat, no comfort there, no sleep to rescue us from despair with sweet dreams and memories of how things were before... whatever. Mind may well  struggle to restore Spirit to its senses, Body too, but what chance of success, Spirit being by far the stronger of the trinity?

Ah, but let's not forget the power of  life forces from which Mind-Body-Spirit engages all the time, whether we are aware of it or not; the sheer Poetry of Love; family, friendship, images of  the natural world that have made such an impression on our sensibilities that we hear them calling to us through time and space . True, we may yet play deaf to the call and teeter over The Edge, but Mind-Body-Spirit, will inevitably pull together and do its best to persuade us otherwise... if we will but pause just a moment from  feeling sorry for ourselves, engaging with the politics of blame long enough to listen . Yes, finding our way through the woods may well be  a hard slog, maybe even impossible...BUT...worth a try, surely?

So much for life forces concerned only with our well-being, whether we choose to engage with them or not, but what of Death's lack of concern for our survival, able to  take us away from the Poetry of Life and Love at the blink of an eye? Well, there is a Poetry of Faith that may or may not be related to any religion that assures us of a place in an all-embracing Mind-Body-Spirit that defies even life itself, sure to carry us into the hearts of any with whom we have shared the Poetry of Love in whatever form it may have taken; it is called Remembrance or Personal Space (Memory) in it more intimate form; sense of spirituality denied no one. I suspect that Personal Space archives memories of it own that even dementia patients are able to take heart and comfort from. even though they may not be consciously aware of their evergreen presence within the deeper, inner self, able to select happy times and leave any bad times to fade like autumn leaves.; such, too is the Poetry pf Spirituality...

"Stuff and nonsense," do I hear some readers say? Possibly so, but there is a life-force within even  of  certain 'Stuff and 'Nonsense' wherein even the most troubled heart can find a degree of peace... if it chooses to look for it; easily enough done if we choose to freely and frankly engage with Mind-Body-Spirit whenever we find ourselves at the end of our tether... for whatever reason.

Take care, folks, stay safe and many thanks for dropping by,

Hugs,

Roger 

Past-Present-Future, Chameleon on the Doorstep

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I well recall the father of a friend, way back in my childhood, relating how much satisfaction he took from giving local puppet show, “not only in making kids happy, but being in control, manipulating his puppets towards that very end. Sometimes,” he added with a wry grin, I feel like a god out there, pulling the strings..."

The tragedy is that the attraction of power and the potential opportunity to ‘play God’ attracts too many in the adult world for all the wrong reasons...

Terrorists are probably the best examples of such people, convinced they are acting with the best intentions, albeit (literally) as a devil in them drives, but they appear in all shapes and sizes in most if not all areas of modern life, wherever the better part of human nature is inclined to lose its way, often without even realising it.

PAST-PRESENT-FUTURE, CHAMELEON ON THE DOORSTEP

I come in peace, a force for good,
yet am often abused, ill-used by those
unable to channel the full force
for better rather than worse, opening
personal space to private ambition,
Time left to make of what it will,
if not any final say, given all history’s
various ways with words, not to mention
measured invention

I bring hope where weaker forces
sure to fail, yet so easily misunderstood,
misled even into enemy territory,
where mixed feeling would threaten
to confuse issues, take control
for illicit purposes harbouring agendas
comprising a measured tissue
of lies that will, to all intents and purposes
tick all the right boxes

I offer stability wherever promising
enterprises are in danger of foundering
along with all invested interests;
at the same time, I am easily tempted
to play the hero, persuaded even
by my own convictions that any potential
for universal gain has to come
before settling a lasting peace and happiness
upon my personal space

I dress the bones of history with flair,
who am that old chameleon, Power

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2012; rev. 2021

[Note: The original version of this poem was written in 2009 and was first published under the title ‘The Designer’ in my collection, Tracking the Torchbearer, Assembly Books, 2012.] RT

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Enough is Enough

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Why is it, I wonder, that many world leaders are only just waking up to the threat of climate change and facing up to their responsibilities, at least as far as gathering material for speeches intended to impress the electorate is concerned; sadly, much of that same electorate remains under the illusion that global warming is some kind of capitalist conspiracy propagated by those most likely to gain from it.

 If it is a rule of thumb never to underestimate one’s adversary, never was it more of a truism than in the context of humankind v nature; in the longer term, at least, and – let’s face it – as far as our time here on Earth is concerned, it’s the longer term that really matters. 

How can those of us who so love to engage with the natural world excuse years of  failing to speak up in its defence... albeit, until now, any protests have fallen on deaf ears and/or justify such in the name of 'progress' or (worse) leisure interests? Yes, that's human nature and better to progress than regress...but  we can hardly expect nature to keep paying the price it is expected to pay without making any protest.  

There comes a time when, for any of us, enough is enough; for Earth Mother, I suspect that time is now;  humankind needs must to make reparation before it is too late.... if it is not too late already. Hope, though, springs eternal and they do say "Better late than never." 😉

ENOUGH IS ENOUGH

Oh, world of love and beauty,
nature’s glory all around;
sadly, a devil’s cruelty in Man’s
own story found

Oh, world, such creatures in it
of every shape and colour;
Man, bent on killing off the planet
for an easy dollar

Oh, Eden, long since abandoned,
History repeating its mistakes;
lion kings in eco-zoos, mercenaries
raising the stakes

Oh, world, defying an ozone crack,
beware! Nature’s fighting back...

Earth Mother, inclined to cut up rough,
"Enough is enough...!"

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; rev. 2021

[Note: This poem has been slightly but significantly revised since it first appeared under the title 'Global Warning' in an anthology – A Celebration of Verse, Anchor Books, 2001 - and subsequently in my collection, First Person Plural, Assembly Books, 2001.]

 

The Times, they are A-Changing

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It was January 1964. I had just left school, still living at home and contemplating my future the first time I heard Bob Dylan singing The Times, They Are A-Changin’ on the family radiogram in the comfort of an armchair. 

A violent storm was raging outside. 

Maybe it was the poet in me that started me thinking along much the same lines as I do now, 50+ years later, that nature and humanity are at risk... not least from each other?

THE TIMES, THEY ARE A-CHANGING

Sun glaring down
with the ferocity of a Greek god
at humankind’s
insistence upon pitting itself
against nature
in the name of progress,
any capital gains notwithstanding,
climate change but an incidental factor
in a universal picture? 

Forest fires, freak floods,
forcing whole families to take flight,
come day or night,
since nature has little respect
for those in denial
of meaning it harm by providing
greater elbow room 
as and when the need, any justification
met with regeneration                                          

Does the natural world
not deserve better that such Reserves
and Zoos as humankind
feels inclined to allow, if only to teach
its past and present
to students of world order, its future
looking as bleak
as theirs, its own life forces whittled down
by matters human? 

A worldwide pandemic,
regarded by many as beyond coincidence,
but Earth Mother’s way
of protesting at humanity’s inclination
to see wildlife as sport,
green spaces expendable wherever
developers see potential
in arguing for public as well as private gains,
so “Everyone wins...” 

Come a 21^st Century virus,
targeting the human race as indiscriminately
as it has seen fit
to target birds, beasts, fishes and habitats
in the name of self-preservation,
humanity deserving the greater share
for its sheer superiority
and monopoly on matters cognitive-spiritual
engaging with its soul? 

Who’s to say the natural world
is incompatible with a universal spirituality
when grief and loss
as well as celebration are plain to see
in species other than human?
Who’s to say, too,
that were humanity fail to survive
its own demands and prejudices, there would be
no new Dawn of History? 

Human mind-body-spirit, at risk for being in denial
of the natural world’s being part of its whole...

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

 

 

 

Dotting I's and Crossing T's

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)I recall various classmates of 1961 becoming very feisty and argumentative when asked to comment on certain lines in T. S. Eliot’s Murder in the Cathedral. 

When asked to explain so many different arguments and points of view, the class became feistier still and even more argumentative. 

Everyone was clearly enjoying themselves, possibly because most of us hadn’t expected to enjoy the poem, not least for having had to read it for homework over the previous school holidays. 

No less aware then now as to how differences of personal opinion and interpretation can touch base with passions in us with which we may or may be overly familiar, it was my first major experience of seriously thinking about it. 

We need to hear and respect different points of view if only to help us formulate a critical response to them.   

DOTTING I’s AND CROSSING T’S

World, all but falling apart
seemingly losing heart, its peoples
coming together
now and then, but only in times
of crises, personal space
and sensitive global consciousness
then left to divide again,
crying over potential healing undone,
dying to review Square One 

World, looking all but dead
on its feet, weary of its weepy days,
anxious to revive kinder ways,
bridge chasms widening, deepening,
invariably by courtesy
of a global consciousness dead set
on reaping the better part
of nature-nurture in the sowing, reaping,
and saving of its own future 

Humanity, playing the world
with its demand for new technologies,
would have us tell tales
on each other, create such histories
of one-upmanship as embrace
all the politics of progress ever needed
to take credit where it’s to be had,
while any getting too close to home truths
dubbed vulnerable to fake news 

No matter how we dot its ‘i’ or cross its ‘t’,
it only takes one ‘y’ to redefine humanity

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

L-I-F-E, Poems for every Occasion

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For many years, I tried to think of myself as an agnostic because I could not get my head around the idea of a personified God. At the same time, I found myself developing a very close relationship with the natural world that was of a very spiritual nature. 

In (much) later years, I would discover and identify with Pantheism. In my early 60’s by now, I was finally able to relate to the sheer poetry of a spirituality in me that I never found in either the Christianity in which I was raised of any other of the world’s religions. 

At long last, I feel comfortable with a sense of spirituality, less of an outsider for subscribing to no religion, while continuing to nurture a sense of purpose in life that, for many years, had eluded me except in so far as to put it down to poetic whim. 

As to whether or not I am a good poet is less relevant than how poetry brings me closer and closer to nature even though I rarely even get to its glorious landscapes now due to mobility problems. On my wall, I have a painting of woodlands I used to explore as a child growing up in Kent.  I often take imaginary strolls in that painting, recapture a spirit of halcyon days that has never (quite) left me even during the worst moments in my life. 

Pantheists believe that God is nature rather than its creator, which may well explain a Poetry of Spirituality that has always seen me through good and bad times, taken me to the proverbial Edge and back time and again. 

I reason not the need; that a spiritual need in me is answered in this way is enough to keep me looking on the bright(er) side of life, its pitfalls notwithstanding.. 

The words of a vicar's wife, a work colleague who told me she enjoyed working with me and was sorry I would go to hell (for being gay, I presume?) lost the power to hurt me long ago. 

If God is nature, could that be why nature does not discriminate in the way many humans (still) do?

L-I-F-E, POEMS FOR EVERY OCCASION 

There are trees whose leaves
speak with the voices of poets, reciting summers,
autumns, even lonely winters
when only robins likely to linger long enough
to promise such regeneration as may yet get to see
its poets live and let live 

There are birds come to nest
and teach their young such poetry of their home-tree
as will see them through its seasons,
encourage them to explore both heavens above,
and earth below, get to know what it takes for kith, kin
and poetry to survive 

There are poets whose hearts
are given freely to an Earth Mother, anxious to be
put through the very motions 
of each season as it comes, share the joys
we take in life, and such sorrow as sure to follow death
as birdsong on human ears 

There has always been poetry
as close to nature as human nature, anxious to see
them working in such harmony
as gives conservation and preservation of species
due priority, whatever it takes to be sure Earth’s poetry
is more than a rehearsal 

Rehearsal for what, who knows? A good start may well be
to listen and learn more from (all) life-poetry...?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

 

 

The Defiant Ones

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

Now, feedback suggests that some readers are offended by my posting poems from my gay-interest poetry blog here, so if you are likely to feel offended by this entry, no apologies, just ignore it...

Unfortunately, Blogger does not change the date of post-poems published as and when I (often) revise them.  Several readers have emailed to say they find this frustrating as they may well not chance to view the blog archives and read any revisions for themselves. I have therefore deleted the original post on which the poem below was first published (on my other poetry blog) and am reworking it as a ‘new’ post together with the revised poem (the second one below) so readers can compare, may even feel it’s worth browsing the blog archives sometime after all...? I am posting it here because I have probably revised more general poems, but little feedback suggests that the thinking behind this is, as one reader puts it "What's the point of browsing archives...?"

As it happens, I chose a gay-interest poem to make my point, and as I am not well these days, it took me ages to re-word and explain what I am trying to do, and I don't feel up to repeating the process with what some readers might consider a more appropriate poem for a general blog. Besides, in 2012, while I felt the same way about being gay as the revised poem suggests, feedback at the time suggested that it would not be welcomed by the majority of readers here. I am delighted, therefore,  to say that later feedback suggests a good many readers of this blog now dip into both, as much out of curiosity as a feeling for poetry. Hopefully, at the same time, it may even change certain stereotypical perspectives in the minds of bigoted heterosexuals that continue to pursue LGBT folks worldwide to this day. 

The 2012 post included a link to a video on my YouTube channel relating to a poem about Oscar Wilde: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VxcbIozftcE&list=UUSdhLgPQOsng2Xz8n5m0ViQ

[To go directly to my YouTube channel for other videos:

https://www.youtube.com/user/rogerNtaber/videos

As regular readers will know, I publish my collections under my own imprint because it would appear that poetry publishers are not happy with poems on a gay theme appearing alongside poems on other themes. Yet, poetry does not discriminate so why should we (or they?) Besides, I feel it would be hypocritical for a gay man to publish a collection of poems and ignore his sexuality. As I have often said on the blogs, as far as I’m  concerned, a poem is a poem is a poem and no theme is or should be taboo.  

Now, some readers may be interested to know that the original post in 2012 was published especially for ‘Enrique and Salvo’ who had been in touch to say they recently came out as partners to friends and family and ‘despite a few problems to start with, everything had settled down and they are “very happy.” I have heard from them again since; they are still together and “deliriously” happy.

THE DEFIANT ONES (first version, 2010)

When I enter you and we are joined as one,
a fine spirituality embraces us,
centres us in a womb-tomb of earth, fire
and water, where we become as nature
intended, taking us into a vast eternal NOW
we feared until our sexuality confirmed
its identity

No longer afraid but glimpsing those ends
where new beginnings are made
to answer to the ghosts of childhood with wisdom,
where ignorance would prey on lovers
expected to lie down and die for each other

just as we lie here, you and I, chancing
a power of love far greater than the dictates
of religions, promises of politicians,
rhetoric of personal ambitions citing the prose
and poetry of a common humanity taken
from a a well-thumbed page in its history, praising
colour creed, sexuality and age,
coffin makers worldwide anxious to spread
the word that you and I would die for each other
than surrender to a lesser power whose lessons 
in glory but give the lie to our love story

If our bed be a coffin, better to die here and now
than with a lie on these twin lips we’ll kiss,
this flesh we’ll devour, its blood turned to wine,
our bodies as one

willing the world move on
and leave us alone

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: This earlier version of the poem below first appeared in my 6th collection, On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010 and subsequentlyo0n the blog in 2012 only to be significantly revised (see below) June 2021,]

THE DEFIANT ONES (Revised version, 2021)

It's as we make love and are joined as one,
a fine spirituality embraces us,
centres us in a womb-tomb of earth, fire
and water, where we become as nature
intended, taking us into a Here-and-Now
that we feared - until (finally) sexuality
confirms its spirituality, showing us a love
that is our eternity 

No longer afraid but glimpsing those ends
where new beginnings are made
to answer ghosts of childhood with wisdom,
where ignorance would prey on lovers
expected to lie down and die for each other
just as we lie here, you and I, chancing
a power of love far greater than the dictates
of religions, promises of politicians,
rhetoric of personal ambitions citing the prose
and poetry of a common humanity taken
from well-thumbed pages in history, praising
colour, creed, sexuality, gender and age,
coffin makers (worldwide) anxious to spread
the news that we would die for each other
before caving in to worldly powers whose bigotry
but gives the lie to our love story 

If our bed be a coffin, better to die here and now
than with a lie on these twin lips we’ll kiss,
this flesh we’ll devour, its blood turned to wine,
our bodies as one, the world embracing us
as of its own, not as stereotypes would cast us,
(‘freaks’ of nature but one) LGBT folks 
but asking to see the world move on in its time
end (all) hate crime

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010, rev. 2021 

[Note: Another reader asks why I post poems here only to revise them at a later date? I will try and answer that by way of a prose entry tomorrow.] RNT

Home Games, Own Goals

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

It is not uncommon for many if not most of us to rail against fate when life doesn’t work out as we had planned/ hoped it would; a train of thought that can prey on the mind with even greater force as we grow old. Whatever manner in which we choose to contemplate dying, there is no getting away from the fact that it involves departing the known for the unknown, leaving those closest to us, hoping and/ or praying that their love which has sustained us in life will continue to do so in death. 

Those who subscribe to a religion tell me that this is where Faith comes into its own. Now, that well may be, but - as regular readers know - I subscribe to no contemporary world religion and see myself as a pantheist rather than either atheist or agnostic. It doesn’t matter who’s right or wrong; what matters is whatever leaves mind-body-spirit feeling at ease rather than fearful. 

An old schoolfriend, the last time I visited him before he died, confided that he was less scared of dying than full of regrets for being, as he saw it, one of life’s losers. He had been a closet gay person all his life, having grown up, as I had, in the grip of a society that was essentially homophobic. Hopefully, I managed to convince him that his life as a teacher had touched many young lives for the better, cause for celebrating a life rather than regretting it. 

Oh, how I empathised, though. While I had eventually emerged from that particular closet myself, and doing so had brought a welcome relief from years of loneliness, it would always fall short of the stuff of which dreams are made. Never had I envisaged growing old alone, for example, as I do now. Yet, I don’t think of myself as one of life’s so-called ‘losers’ albeit no ‘winner either… 

So, how do we measure our losses and gains? Not in material terms if we have any sense (no disrespect to the ethos of legitimate wealth intended.) Suffice to say, perhaps, there is far more to the idiom ‘to each one’s own’ than any dictionary can supply. 

I once read life being described as a ‘beautiful game’. Certainly, it can be… sometimes.  I guess it depends on whatever motivates the player/s. Such is the complexity of human nature, it is always worth remembering that ‘Beauty is in the eye of the beholder; yet another idiom to bear in mind, of course, is that ‘One man’s meat is another man’s poison.’ Whatever, while our mind-body-spirit may well let close family members and friends access certain parts, its whole remains ourselves to know (for better, for worse) and no one else. (True, there are many among us who will argue that God sees and judges us for all that we are, but these are the same people who may well also argue that we are His creation…) 

To err may well be human, but all we human beings are vulnerable, no more so than to the various pressures imposed on us by our own hopes and dreams, nor any less so by such expectations of those who matter most to us others as persistently haunt mind-body-spirit. We can but let mind-body-spirit find its own way in life, remind ourselves that we are loved and do our best to let that love be its greater driving force while remaining true to ourselves.

HOME GAMES, OWN GOALS 

Fate, all things to all people,
often the butt of games we choose
to play rather than lose face
by accepting our share of any blame
for whatever fault it may take
to make a loser of any one of us, have us
fall or give us a break

Fate, at whose whim some argue
the world turns, for better or worse
as the case may be, no telling
how a dice may fall, Lady Luck mistress
to creatures great and small,
as likely as any deity in time’s watchful eye
to have us rise or fall 

Fate, all things to all consciousness,
any excuse better than none as it mulls
past-present-future, warts ‘n’ all,
leaning on its strengths to put any failings
aside, encouraging the world
to see it for such potential as supplies history
with all but the last word 

Fate, cat-and-mouse games teasing us
to make the most (or least) of humanity’s
common quest for purpose
and meaning enough to let mind-body-spirit,
wherever, whomsoever,
(and whatever form it takes) have the measure
of its own joie de vivre 

Win some, lose some, the games people play
come what may…

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Challenge

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

The UK, not unlike other parts of the world, is in crisis. Here in London, the mayor has declared a State of Emergency with coronavirus - to all intents and purposes – seemingly out of control and hospitals barely able to cope with rapidly rising cases. Sadly, the more cases, the more deaths, and the devastating effects of both on families and friends. 

Once, at the height of despair on a very personal level, I confided in a complete stranger I got chatting to on a bus while we were stuck in a traffic jam. He could see I was upset and agitated and asked if I was okay. The question unleashed floodgates. 

It transpired that my confidante was a member of the clergy, and I felt obliged to admit that I subscribe to no religion; not even pantheism in those days. I was half-expecting a kindly rebuke or at least a mini-sermon of sorts, but was pleasantly surprised. Instead, he squeezed my arm and told me to ally myself with Hope and – win or lose – I will have found the strength to deal with either. I was sceptical, to say the least. What can be more likely to send us into free fall than to have hope, only for it to come to nothing? “Nothing comes of nothing,” he assured me, “and never underestimate the empowering nature of hope.” 

As is the case with so many of the challenges we face as we go through life, we win some and we lose some. The trick is not to see losing as missing out, rather drawing on that same inner strength that gave us hope in the first place as we move from challenge to challenge. The law of averages alone suggests that the chances are we’ll win more than we lose. Small comfort perhaps, as we face up to losing, but the very act of facing up to it calls on much the same inner strengths as we’ve had to find to be where we were. 

“I take my strength from my Faith, “the stranger told me, “…but I’m only human and have to deal with life’s negatives as well as its positives. Never easy, but I choose go from positive to positive rather than dwell on the negatives.” 

I am probably paraphrasing as it was years ago, but an old aboriginal man would tell me much the same thing as I faced another personal crisis some years later. On both (and other) occasions, they were proved to be right. So, here I am, 75 years old and having to deal with various health issues BUT… so far, so good as far as the coronavirus us concerned. 

Take care, folks, keep well and be sure to nurture a positive mindset that will see us through our darkest hours, and keep the mind-body-spirit engaging with light, albeit dim at times...

Hugs, 

Roger 

THE CHALLENGE 

Landscape, bleak;
skyscape, as if colluding
with a dual sense
of doom and gloom spreading
with the speed
and purpose of such prophecies
as instil as much denial
in us as fear that there just might be
some truth in it all

Outlook, bleak;
inner eye, defying reason
to get to grips
with a personal space posing
more questions
than suggesting solutions to a crisis
of consciousness,
empathy with fate or faith, whatever
brings us here 

Here, where we are,
unable to quite see for bleak
passages of time
beckoning first this way, then that:
nothing for it,
but to grasp much the same lifeline
as has made history
for centuries, though it be thrown down
as a challenge 

No finer challenge can humanity choose
than to ally with hope, win or lose 

Copyright R.N. Taber, 2021

 

Caveman

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

Several people have told me they are dreading Christmas this year because they have chosen to play safe and stay at home rather than risk the usual Christmas get-togethers with family and friends; it is, of course, a choice millions of people around the world are facing all the time this year, whether or not they celebrate Christmas. Other religious festivals have come and gone and there has been no talk of easing safety precautions, but left to celebrants to use their own judgement and common sense in what continues to be hard times for everyone, regardless of gender, age, ethnicity or religion. 

Now, this short poem has been revised since it was written 1974 and appeared first in my collection in 2001 and later on the blog. Somehow, I suspect even a Stone Age man or woman would have been able to relate to it.  Certainly, many people facing varying degrees of self-isolation and/ or living alone will know how it feels, especially this year, given changes - often at short notice - regarding the various safely regulations and advice issued by Governments. 

Even without a pandemic to contend with, the ups and downs of life can easily give us a false sense of security for a while, only to plunge us into a gloomy reality sooner rather than later. 

That’s life, I guess. We can but put our best foot forward and carry on with hope and resolve in our hearts that, somehow, we will weather whatever storm threatens and things can only get better; keeping an eye on the brighter side of life has to be as good an inspiration as any to motivate us, surely? 

Many of us will be spending Christmas alone this year rather than risk Covd-19 striking our more vulnerable loved-ones and friends. Some of us may be able to get together on line via video links, while others can look back on happier times, invite their favourite ghosts to nestle in the heart and make merry in the ear; not a perfect Christmas, but not so sad a one, either, and now that a vaccine is on its way, we can at least start looking forward to a much happier 2021 … eventually.

 CAVEMAN

In a damp gloom
I wander sometimes, stumble, 
bang my head 
on sudden stone, hear a thrash
of bats’ wings;
though thoughts take flight
to that sunny world 
from which they came, chances are,
that (much like bats)
they are left groping for the truth 
of things, if only
to rediscover history, colonies
of bats in other caves

Now, face to the sun, 
back to the wind, caressing long grass
and  - free...!

Till, suddenly, bats’ wings

[From: Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001.]

 

Configuring the Archives OR Placing the 'I' in History

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

Every day, we make a little history by whatever we say and do or choose not to say and do, or simply forget to say and do, whatever the case may be. 

Come tomorrow, today’s Here-and-Now is already history, a an essential part in the history of our personal space if but a miniscule cog in the rolling wheel that is Earth’s past-present-future …

CONFIGURING THE ARCHIVES or PLACING THE 'I' IN HISTORY

One early spring,
I spotted swallows returning,
and before long,
chicks were feeding in a nest
by my window,
and in no time at all, I'm thrilling
to watching them winging
April skies, bringing such songs of cheer
as the human heart holds dear 

Summer, it came,
and mind-body-spirit on a roll
for taking its cue
from Earth Mother’s delight
in seeing nature
and human nature taking on such
joie de vivre as humanity
chooses for cover, if only to shield its lies
(for fears?) from prying eyes  

Autumn shed leaves,
such as humanity lets tears fall
as wintry days threaten
any winning ways the world
may care to invent
by way of its keeping any falls from grace
out of sight, out of mind,
while few of us as fooled as it likes to believe,
making the most of any reprieve 

Swallows flown south,
a wintry world in mourning for seasons
come and gone,
human nature taking its cue
from a barn owl
last spotted following such instincts
for survival as humankind
feeding on whatever likely prey happens by,
nor excluding the likes of you and I 

Such beginnings, endings, and in-between lives
as configuring all Earth’s archives... 

Copyright R.N. Taber, 2020

 

All our Tomorrows OR A Coat of many Colours

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

As the world waits with bated breath to see who will win the US presidential election, it continues turn - for better, for worse - on the ups and downs of everyday life.

Me, I just try to keep looking on the bright-(er) side of life and make the most of any ups while I still can.  The downs? Well, most of those involve age-related health issues. Along with the rest of the world’s ageing population, I can only do my best to rise above them, kid myself I am in control, and try to imagine as many good things waiting for me as far forward as I find myself regularly looking back.

"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, · Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, · To the last syllable of recorded time; · And all our yesterdays have lighted fools." - Macbeth

ALL OUR TOMORROWS or A COAT OF MANY COLOURS

Shadows,
so gracing some gently flowing river,
like iconic dancers
treating us all to the music and poetry
of life

Sunlight,
now peeping through autumn leaves
like a child at a letterbox
watching grandma struggling to reach
to the door

Rainbows,
reminding the human race of its own
promises to communities
worldwide to engage with and be proud
of its diversity

Sunsets,
dressing clouds in patches of yellow
and red over misty greys, 
reminding us it’s a coat of many colours
civilisation wears 

Darkness,
striving to take possession of dreams
called upon by those among us
left trusting that mind-body-sprit may yet
keep its promises

Shrill cries 
of a cockerel echoing our frustrations
with all humanity’s wrestling 
with a hurt for its finer, greater part's missing
the boat …

Copyright R N Taber 2020

(Note: This post-poem also appears on my gay-interest blog today. Although feedback suggests more readers are dipping into both blogs than when I started them up ten years ago, it also confirms that many gay readers still don't.  A poem of course, is for everyone.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Covid Autumn

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

A child at a bus stop asked its mother, “Why do so many leaves fall in autumn?” A woman in the queue answered for the perplexed mum, “They cry a saint’s tears for all of us so we can be spared too much crying, “What’s a saint?” the child wanted to know. “Your ma, for a one,” the woman chuckled, “… if only for raising you up to ask questions.” 

Everyone laughed, just as the bus arrived, but plenty of food for thought there, yeah?

That was years ago. I was the child, aged about five years, tugging at my mother’s hand in a bus queue. Later, I asked my mother if she thought the woman was rude for butting in. She  laughed, a twinkle in each eye, “Well, maybe she shouldn’t have butted in, but she certainly made my day, and you would do well to remember what she said about asking questions.” I promptly took my cue and asked, “Can I have an ice-cream?” Whereupon I learned something else that day; not every question supplies the answer you are hoping for …

Seventy years on, I am still asking questions such as the one on everybody’s lips at the moment, “Why this coronavirus, and for how long?” No easy answers to that one nor quick fixes either although I would suggest those selfish people letting their masks slip and/ or refusing to wear one as and when required simply because they don’t want to, ask themselves what gives them the right to put others at risk … ?

COVID AUTUMN

Winter closing in fast,
Earth Mother weeping as always 
for Her sleeping beauties,
yet taking comfort in a reawakening
come another spring,
while tears, too, for all Earth’s children,
no matter who or where,
having to live with pain, anxiety, fear,
as never (quite) felt before 

Winter, calling on all nature
to be sure and make due preparation
for whatever it takes;
separation, hibernation, skeletal trees
echoing hopeful springs,
glorious summers, evergreen cousins
egging on any ghosts nesting
where not so long ago sounds of birthing,
singing, true joie de vivre 

Winter, a forbidding season,
yet able to not only summon such ghosts
of universal significance,
but bring them together, lend them a finer
magnificence then any diary
of personal or global consciousness,
even its horrors redeemed
by heroes of war and peace destined to prove
the tragi-wisdom of sacrifice 

Falling leaves, such tears
as nature and human nature needs must
let fall in remembrance
and gratitude for natural and personal
histories at the heart
of all things bright and beautiful, all creatures
great and small, long before
natural and human waste began to haunt a sleepy
global consciousness 

Nothing changes, everything changes, such is the turn
of the screw that is a Covid-19 autumn

 Copyright R N. Taber 2020