Oh, Christmas Tree...

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

December, and a new poem. Over the next few weeks I will be publishing archival posts (on and from both blogs) leading up to Christmas. No, I do not celebrate Christmas, but like many if not most religions and religious festivals, it brings out both the best and the worst in people, challenge enough for anyone, not least a pantheist poet.

I asked a friend whose family, like me, do not subscribe to any religion, why they celebrate Christmas, a Christian festival? "Apart from the religious aspect," he replied, "it is all about peace and goodwill to all humankind, isn't it? That has to be worth celebrating, surely?"  I could not agree more, but peace and goodwill to all humankind is not (or should not) be a seasonal aspiration; both belong to the evergreen family.

Well, hope springs eternal...

OH, CHRISTMAS TREE...

Oh, Christmas tree,
all tinsel, pretty baubles
and presents
for everyone on hand,
lead character
in a play for all the family,
meant to convey
a message of home comforts
and eternal love

Oh, Christmas tree,
tell me what it is you see
from the window
you face, curtains drawn
so rough sleepers
may yet dare to dream
of kinder days,
children playing in the sun,
laughing off the rain

Oh, Christmas tree,
do you even remember me,
one who dressed you
in between a mince pie here,
a sneaky sip
of homemade wine there,
and writing cards
meant to spread love and cheer
at least till New Year?

Oh, Christmas tree,
so soon abandoned, forgotten,
caste off as waste,
not even up for recycling,
your artistry
as artificial as the needles
messing the carpet
and pricking the eyes of all those
Santa Claus forgot

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

Anatomy of Chaos

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We may not be rich, but even those of us blessed with life’s simpler, everyday comforts need to count our blessings whenever, from time to time, they may seem somewhat thin on the ground. 

Millions of people worldwide are struggling to survive in appalling conditions; floods, drought, famine, lack of clean drinking water, overcrowded refugee camps, extreme poverty, war…We may catch glimpses of these on TV and spare them a thought, only to go on and watch a movie, fun quiz, chat show or whatever…

There is no point in feeling guilty, just very fortunate, and if awareness of the world’s ills does not help us keep a sense of proportion, it damn well should.

ANATOMY OF CHAOS 

Carpet stains
greeting the dawn,
yawning
away with bare feet,
flip-flops,
mouths dripping
coffee,
cornflakes, butter
on toast…
chair legs banging on
about
how chaos rules
OK

Carpet stains,
epitome of a life
enjoyed,
fibre heart strings
singing along
with garden birds,
grasshoppers,
teenage rock moves
and ma
performing a star
turn
at the kitchen
sink

Carpet stains,
alive, but only just;
sunset
soaking its fibres
with shades
of red and yellow,
like autumn
saying its goodbyes
to faces
at windows looking
for ways
to make the best 
of things

Carpet stains,
put to bed with wine
and candles,
left to soak up
evidence
of home comforts,
world politics
redirecting its refugees
via short-cuts
to Paradise Road,
splinters
of broken glass
overlooked

There will be blood...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Sometimes Dawn Is A Long Time Coming

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

In 2010, a set of unforeseen and unexpected circumstances once forced a close friend of mine to walk the streets of London all night. In my younger days, fate dealt me a similar hand. 

More than once, I have forgotten or lost my keys and been unable to contact friends who either kept my spare keys or would have gladly helped out in such an emergency. At first, I’d panic. In no time, however, I would become philosophical and resolve to make the best of a bad situation. Eventually, though, I confess I’d be past caring.

My friend said he’d felt much the same way. Even so, we agreed that the experience was a learning curve. Moreover, neither of us will ever observe people sleeping rough on park benches (or wherever) during the day, probably having walked the streets all night, in quite the same light again.

Every town and city has its share of homeless people. For my friend and me, it was really no big deal, but for homeless people it is a way of life. What kind of indictment is that on this 21st century of ours? These people need help, encouragement, and incentive to be integrated back into mainstream society albeit, it has to be said, the same society that let them down in the first place...Is it any wonder then that, vulnerable as they are, many are driven to alcoholism and other forms of drug addiction?

This poem is a villanelle.

SOMETIMES DAWN IS A LONG TIME COMING

No wanderer more alone than I,

heartbeat fading fast;

weary streets, indifferent sky

Tears cornered by the inner eye,

defiant to the last;

no wanderer more alone than I

Old Man smiles, asks not why

I look to the past;

weary streets, indifferent sky

Ghosts, anxious to probe and pry,

midsummer night’s die cast;

no wanderer more alone than I

Nature stirs, world reborn, a cry

and dark ghosts dispersed;

weary streets, indifferent sky

Lost and found, the will to try

my best nor fear the worst;

no wanderer more alone than I,

weary streets, indifferent sky

[London: August  2010]

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

Rough Sleeper OR A Thousand Cuts a Day and Counting

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[Update December 22, 1918: Almost 600 homeless people died in England and Wales last year, according to official figures only recently published for the first time. The figure represents a rise of 24% over five years, according to the Office for National Statistics; these are the first official estimates of the number of deaths of homeless people, which show 84% of those who died were men.]

It is snowing here in London today. In winter especially, but all year round, yoo, let us remember the homeless and do what we can for them; a little, really can go a long way.

In the current economic climate, more and more people are faced with the prospect of having their home repossessed so…there but for good fortune go you or I ...

Incidentally, this poem was written in 1990. As I look around at the homeless on the streets of London, it does not seem to me that anywhere near as much has changed as was promised by the politicians in those far-off days ...

There are, of course, 'career' beggars on the streets, but a discerning eye can usually tell who is genuine and who isn't. We all make mistakes, though. Here in London, I well recall a day I gave money to a street beggar only to spot him get into an impressive-looking car (parked several streets away) a few hours later and drive off! A former 'beggar' I met in a pub once confided that begging financed his drinking and drug addictions for years until he eventually got help to turn his life around.

So ... when in any doubt...don't. [There are other ways to support homeless and other deserving charities online.] Yet, there but for ... could be you or me.

ROUGH SLEEPER or A THOUSAND CUTS A DAY, AND COUNTING

‘Hungry – Homeless - No dole’

says a card beside a begging bowl

outside a busy supermarket;

red-rimmed eyes trying to read

the pavement for signs

of homeless-friendly footsteps

worth a pleading glance

for even half a chance of a cuppa

in some cosy café

A few coins here, a few coins there,

the odd note, a few euros,

or cents, whatever; just enough

to keep a scarecrow in bird seed,

and…

Oh, but what the heck…?

Chatty conversation, hacking

at the neck

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Ritual Slaughter' in my first collection, Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001]

Bed-Sit Lifer

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Every large town and city has its share of bed-sits or single person apartments comprising little more than a room with basic amenities. If you’re lucky, it’s en suite and you don’t have to share a bathroom / toilet.

I recently got chatting to a guy in a bar whose house had been repossessed because he could no longer afford the mortgage repayments. As it happens, he’s gay but he could have been anyone of any persuasion, man or woman. He lives in one room without a view and has to share a bathroom. “One you turn sixty,” he told me, “people stop caring, especially if you’re gay and you’ve lost your looks.”

He is a lonely, unhappy man, convinced his age and sexuality means he can’t get a life, and his living conditions don’t help.

Yes, well, gay men and women don’t have a monopoly on loneliness, that’s for sure, and there are many people in this world who don’t even have a roof over their heads.

It’s sad and, yes, the 21st century should be ashamed of itself for the degree of poverty in the world. But there is more to poverty than lack of money and resources. There is a poverty of the heart and spirit that gives up on life too soon.

We all want different things from life and few of us come even close to what we would like. But we can still enjoy life and make the best instead of the worst of things. It’s never easy, that’s for sure. But it’s true what they say…where there’s a will, there’s a way. I have met some of the poorest people who can honestly claim to be happy in their own way. They may not have much, materially speaking, but they love life and care about people and just being around them makes you glad to be alive.

I’m not poor but I definitely ain’t rich either. I would have liked my own house overlooking the sea. Instead, I rent a studio flat in London UK. Sure, I have regrets (who doesn’t?) but life is what we make it and we are what we let life make of us. Yes, I get lonely sometimes. Yes, I am unhappy sometimes. Who isn’t? Ah, but I don’t intend to become like the guy in that bar…and yes, I’m (well) past sixty too.

You have to be a friend to have friends and you have to think positive to be happy. It’s not always easy and can be hard work…but it’s always worth making the effort. Getting a life doesn’t just happen…we have to make it happen.

BED-SIT LIFER 

Dawn’s dust has scarcely

settled at the chin;

an eccentric clashing

of streets below

reminds that it’s time

to go at it

World’s dirt has scarcely

greased the hair;

a hyper-rhythmic rush

of leather gear

pants me here and there

at bald faces

An April dusk has scarcely

brushed a teary eye,

birds singing in whispers

like mourners
gathered at a gravestone

now trickle away

Only answerphone messages,

cat's in a funny mood,

more repeats on the telly,
forgot a take-away,

the pirate tape won’t play,

nothing else to say

Hear a knocking at the door,

(not expecting anyone)

maybe a neighbour wanting

to borrow something;

could it be we'd introduce

ourselves at long last?

Licking lips nervously, rising

with anticipation.

heart skips a beat like a lifer's

on visiting days, pausing 

at the door, gripping handle,

afraid of...what, me?

What impression will I make

on this stranger

who may well have had a day

like mine, be seeking

some company too, no harm

in trying to make a friend?

Too late. Footsteps, going away;

oh, well, maybe another day ...

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2000, 2018

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

Christmas At The Going Rate

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This poem was written in 1997 and first appeared in a poetry magazine based in Canterbury before I included it in my first poetry collection.  I wrote it after shopping in the West End of London and being shocked at seeing so many homeless people huddled in sleeping bags in shop doorways, on the steps of theatres, even churches and other religious institutions.

Years on, London, like so many big cities around the world, continues to be haunted by its homeless. It is a sad reflection on the 21^st century, in particular its finely rhetoric-tuned, comfortably-off world leaders in politics and religion/s world-wide. [Does anyone really believe they put the interests of the everyday man, woman and child in the street before their own?]

Although I am not a religious person, I have no problem with (any) religious celebrations although I have to say they often strike me as more than a shade hypocritical  where giving thanks to God often appears to play second fiddle to one-upmanship among family, friends, and neighbours who share the same religion.

Please give as generously as you can afford to charities that help homeless people. 

It has to be said that giving money to homeless people can be a mixed blessing as they will often just use it to buy drugs or alcohol. Most, though, appreciate someone to talk to who can not only sympathise with their plight without being patronising, but also offer constructive advice such as where to go for help. [The nearest public library, for example, will have a wealth of information. During my years as a librarian in public libraries, I often looked up useful addresses that I would then call and hand the phone to a homeless person seeking help.]

CHRISTMAS AT THE GOING RATE

Starling on the snowy bough,

where will you go now 
as you stir your weary wings to fly 

across this sorry sky?

Better off than I, stuck here,

sitting pretty enough

in a world dishing up pity

to its cardboard men…

I pause and you disappear, bells

ringing out Christmas cheer

to celebrate the Church's share

in a saviour for all seasons

who taught the heart needs not reasons

to care about another, rich or poor,

saint or sinner. A local tramp passes.

Good souls pause…

Wiping glasses, hedging bets

on Judgement Day,

doling out a sweet reprieve

of misery, and all for 50p.

Now, let's hurry, we'll be late;

carols at eight (or is it nine?)

Thinly drawn, a twenty-first century’s

cardboard line

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2012

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

Winter On Civvy Street

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Regular readers will know that I am a shameless Doris Day fan. The National Film Theatre on London’s South Bank is showing some of her movies throughout December and I have managed to catch a couple: Young Man with a Horn, based on the life of legendary Jazz trumpeter Bix Beiderbeck and my favourite Doris Day film, Love Me Or Leave Me. Oh, but it has been a real pre-Christmas treat!

Meanwhile…

Today’s poem is dedicated to less fortunate people everywhere, especially emotionally damaged ex-service personnel like the subject of the poem with whom I chatted one wintry night in London  several years ago. I bought him a hot meal and a few teas at a nearby café, as he relayed a stumbling, tumbling tale of family life blown apart all but as effectively as a roadside bomb had killed his best friend while serving in Afghanistan. I toyed with the idea of inviting him to share Christmas with me, but when I returned from the café’s toilet, he had gone. I looked, but there was no sign of him amongst a flurry of snow outside.

I tried several times to write a poem about that evening, but have only just completed one of which I like to think he would approve. He would not tell me his name, but I guess he could have been any one of many people returning from fighting this war or that anywhere in the world, unable to return to anything like the way things once were.

Was he gay, people ask? Oh, and what has sexuality to do with it?  True, gay men and women fight in wars, too. (Take the Great War poet, Wilfred Owen to name but one…) As it happens, though, I didn’t ask…and why should I?

One of life’s greater ironies is that peace can be just another war…something perhaps to bear in mind during Christmas or any religious festival calling for peace in our time?

WINTER ON CIVVY STREET

Icicles, dangling from a roof

like frozen tears in a homeless soldier’s beard

house cringing from all it has seen

and heard during years it has stood on the street,

watching war wives and widows struggling

to make frayed ends meet, keep up appearances 

for wishful thinking

Icicles, starting to melt, old house

unashamedly crying for the homeless soldier

walking its street in mid-winter, no place

to call home since returning from the Front Line,

haunted by dead friends, missing comrades,

walking wounded…all terrorising a mind’s eye

with wishful thinking

Icicles, smearing honest brickwork

with what has to be the saddest graffiti nature

ever left (if briefly) on the face of a house,

whose cosy curtains come alive with firelight

and companionable shadows, testament

to a kinder Spirit of Christmas and its poetry

of wishful thinking

Icicles, gone without leaving a trace

like the homeless soldier, long since moved on

to some other blurred, nameless place

that’s, oh, so scarily similar to that Front Line,

tossing images of love, hope, and peace

into the next coffin alongside a growing rage

with wishful thinking

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

[Note: First published in CC&D v 242, Scars Publications (U.S.) March 2013 and subsequently in The World at War, Forward Press, the same year.]