Now-you-see-Me, Now-you-Don't

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2016.

I once asked a friend who died a few years ago how she managed to stay so positive even while she was suffering from cancer. Her response was inspiring and I would like to share it with you all today, especially while we are still in the grip of Covid-19. She said, "I take each day as it comes and hope for the best, the best being not only a stronger, kinder world, but also a stronger, kinder me. Too many of us forget how kindness not only makes us stronger, but spreads as well. I can't save the world, but I can do my damn best to save myself. If I die, well, at least people will remember me for being a positive thinking person, and hopefully some of that will rub off on them too." The coronavirus continues to spread around the world, albeit, hopefully, on the wane despite resurgent spikes; let's hope the sense of mutual suffering shared by a common humanity will spread more kindness in the world too; certain socio-cultural-religious groups that preach love and peace while practising a separatist agenda/ dogma might bear that in mind.

In any situation that poses a particular problem for us, there is likely to be a bigger picture than that we zoom in on with an inner eye whose view will be biased from the start. In my experience, the only way to extend our inner vision to accommodate other points of view is to to discuss it with the friend least likely to agree with you for the sake of it and unafraid of causing offence by playing devil's advocate. Some people, of course, take offence at any point of view expressed that doesn't tally with their own. (Religious orders spring to mind.) 

Friends know us better than strangers, are familiar with most if not all he parts that make what is invariably a complex whole; for this reason, a friend would always be my first port of call although I would never rule out seeking the objective opinion of a counsellor. 

It has been my experience that counsellors give 'advice' they expect you to take. Me, I never give advice, but will always offer an opinion if asked or when a friend chooses to discuss a situation with me that I feel he or she is handling badly. I can honestly say that I never take offence when people disagree with me; that goes for my poetry too, just as well as some friends always find fault with what I have to say in a poem. wry bardic chuckle

At the end of the day, of course, it is up to the person or persons immediately involved in any difficult situation to make their own choice as to how they can best resolve it. All parties need to bear in mind, too, the old truism that you can please some of the people some of the time, but not all the people all the time; those who offer well-meaning advice, only to take offence if it is not taken, would do well to remember that.  

We need to remember, too, how easily the written and spoken word alone can be misunderstood in the absence of body language. A former 'friend' once took offence at a message left on her answering machine where none was intended; instead of confronting me with it, and resolving the situation there and then, she chose to send a nasty letter and continued to harbour a grudge thereafter. I tried to make amends, but underestimated the extent of the latter so was wasting my time from the outset. Such are the complexities of human nature, including some friendships. Needless to say, I do not miss that particular 'friend' in the least.  wry bardic grin

This poem is a kenning.

NOW-YOU-SEE-ME, NOW-YOU-DON'T 

We are many parts

comprising a complex whole,

something of a riddle

to the less discerning person

preferring to home in

on sound, intonation, inflexion

of voice, whether theirs

or not, to having any bigger

picture in sight

Working well together,

as parts of a complex whole,

trying to compensate

when one fails to properly

connect, hopefully

learning its lesson where failing

to acknowledge

its place in the bigger picture

that’s human nature

Ever up against it,

all parts of a complex whole,

no ‘live’ sculpture

as Galatea to her Pygmalian

who thought he knew

everything about his creation,

yet could not see it
for a human spirit's bonding
with its human heart

I am human potential, ever present,

yet now you see me, now you don't

Copyright R. N. Taber (2016)

Give a Dream a Go

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2016.

Once, I read something along the lines that the ‘dreams’ we most vividly recall are but leftover, half-formed thoughts inclined to either embrace us or knock us for six as we necessarily negotiate an emotional landscape that finds us close to waking up but unable (quite) to let go of whatever it is about sleep that insists we stay; cave in to the latter, and we risk making of our lives an open prison.

We are used to being told that certain political and legal moves are in all our best interests, but there is often a hidden agenda that benefits some people most if not all the time and the rest of us ... well, some of the time at least, we hope. We only have to look at what is happening in super-power countries like China and Russia, but political strategies worldwide have much to answer for as far as the principles of personal freedom are concerned. Oh, and yes, I include the UK. Whatever, though, the human heart is still a free country, and mind-body-spirit is not without certain strategies of its own to keep it that way.

Now, more than once, contemplating the day ahead over my breakfast has felt like being pulled one way or the other by complacency and positive thinking, each in the form of a viable escape plan from the other. Usually, but not always, a few slices of toast and several cups of coffee will summon a strength of mind-body-spirit resolved to let the more constructive alternative run its course.

Sleepwalking through life (with eyes wide open if eyelids drooping) is sadly, all too common; going through the motions of life instead of living it the way we want not as other people, convention... whatever...suggest we should. At the same time, we need to bear in mind that not everyone's idea of 'living' is the same, and it is unfair to compare, even more so to set ourselves up as judge and jury as so many people I know SO love to do...

Life, of course, doesn’t always give even the best of motives their head, but our options are often limited through no fault of our own. Even so, where an opportunity to improve not only our own lot but others, too, does present itself, we owe it to ourselves (and them) to GO for it, no matter what some might say or think. Some readers may argue that's just selfish, but in my experience, letting someone prevent you from doing something you really want to do can but end in tears; more often than not, any who appear to  begrudge us the opportunity are simply employing a get-out clause for not pursuing a dream of their own.

Life is rarely easy and sometimes makes demands of us we might well prefer to put on the proverbial back burner, but where there's a will, there's usually a way ... and that's where mind-body-spirit comes into its own. Yes, win some, lose some, but better surely to find ways of putting a dream to the test if only because it's how history and personal history come together and make history ...

'What is not started today is never finished tomorrow.' - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (German Playwright, Poet, Novelist and Dramatist. 1749-1832)

GIVE A DREAM A GO

Sometimes, the human body

will not (quite) emerge from shadows

(courtesy of sleep) conveniently

induced by selective half-memories

of fonder (kinder) times

when body and spirit took a stoic stand

against the more aggressive

(egocentric) interpretations of what it is

to be a practising human being

Sometimes, the human mind

can't (quite) escape a darker, weaker side

(courtesy of conscience)

invaded by selective half-memories

conveniently (almost) buried

under layers of regret, pain, wishful

thinking for turning back

the ever-spilling clock measuring out

human life in grains of sand

Sometime, the human spirit

refuses (quite) to justify being slow

to do the right thing

by all that’s integral to the integrity

even of those children

of a lesser god than it chooses to put

above reproach, especially

when available to call upon to excuse

the plainly inexcusable

Eventually (with luck) we wake

to choral music promising us heaven

of a kind not (quite)

as interpreted by various Holy Books

if only to keep us quiet

in the face of pain and regret stoically

managed but self-inflicted

all the same, especially upon others

who mean us no harm

Day dawns, and life goes on

so we need to pull ourselves together,

put the world to rights

and put any irksome misgivings down

to common misdemeanours

attributed to quirks of sleep expressing

(only human) anxieties

of a far less forgiving ego than likely

to meet the eye over breakfast

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016

An Autobiography of the Human Race

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

We are all past-present-future in the flesh. We inherit certain genes and much of our approach to life is taken from historical figures who have made a deep impression on just as we, in how we live our lives, make an impression on others for better or worse; family, friends, casual acquaintances, even complete strangers. It only takes one moment in time when something we say or do strikes a chord in someone’s life that will play out forever.

We won’t all make the national archives, of course, but there is another, more extensive to the point of being inexhaustible archive that is the human mind-body-spirit, that key player in human nature that should never be underestimated; whoever and wherever we are, whatever our socio-cultural-religious background, gender or sexual persuasions, it is the backbone of a common humanity that has seen the human race also rise above all history has thrown at it, just as it will continue to do, even as the C-19 coronavirus continues to impact on us all.

This poem is a kenning.

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE HUMAN RACE

I walk with ghosts, night and day,

a presence as real to me as my own reflection

greeted in mirrors, shop windows,

still waters in dream-places keeping memories

and sometime companions alive,

urging mind-body-spirit like voices in the ear

egging urging me on, regardless

of any obstruction fallen or placed in my way

whether by accident or design

I talk with ghosts, night and day,

and they listen without interruption, just a nod

or shake of the head occasionally,

sufficient to persuade or dissuade any thoughts

to action or inaction gathering pace

demanding I look again or press on, regardless

where inspiration has landed a hit,

missed its mark altogether, deserves discussion

or better left to gather dust

I bare all to ghosts, night and day,

far more even than to those who know me best

if only because I dare not share

any part of me that takes its cue from the dead

for fear of being misunderstood

or (worse) denied a voice, left with less of a life

to speak of than even a ghost,

reduced to a skeleton in someone’s cupboard,

exhibit for some eager archivist

I am that past-present-future making of humanity

what it will, and am called History

Copyright R. N. Taber 2018; 2020

[Note: This post/ poem also appears on my gay-interest poetry blog today.]

Ghost Riders in the Sky

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

As a child, I would love creating stories in my head from cloud ‘figures’. People would laugh and tell me I’d grow out of this fantasising. Well, some people still laugh, but I’m glad I still feel inspired by clouds years on. (I will be 75 later this year.)

They taught me a lot, those clouds; for a start, how to create and enjoy fictions without confusing them with facts although ... well, there was a time in my life when it was a close call.

It is thanks to my childhood fascination with cloud shapes that I became interested in reading, writing and... yes, people. I have written many poems and a few novels, but cannot be described as a 'successful' writer in the sense that it has neither made me rich or famous. Yet, who cares? Nor me, that's for sure. Writing (even more than observing cloud shapes) has taught me much about myself and human nature; more importantly, I have enjoyed every moment, and - as is often the way with any form of creative therapy - it has also helped to keep my old enemy Depression at bay for years.

Clouds have played no small part in making me the person I am today, and hopefully i may even pass some of this on by way of a posthumous consciousness in time and space, to be touched upon by any who may care to remember words I have spoken or written long after this life has had its way with me. For sure, there have been people in my life, long dead, who have remained a 'live' influence on and within my own consciousness, in a very positive way, and always will.  

GHOST RIDERS IN THE SKY

I’ve seen ghost riders

chasing sandmen into storm clouds,

and leaves fly

I’ve seen ghost riders

throw a sandman into a dark place,

and trees cry

I’ve seen ghost riders

pluck such as I from fragile shelters,

and no one care

I've seen ghost riders

playing cat and mouse with humanity

(winner takes all)

Ghost riders, goading 

others like me into this sorry world’s

worst nightmares

I’ve let ghost riders

drag me from my armchair, re-awaken

my consciousness

I’ve let ghost riders

rescue me from assault by prime time

TV advertising

I’ve let ghost riders

force me to face my more fragile selves

head-on

I've let ghost riders

leave me trailing behind, and found a way

back to real time

One by one, ghost riders

but a dust cloud, no trace even of a history

(except in me)

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012]

Sea and Sand OR Rediscovering the Art of Positive Thinking

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

Todays poem first appeared on the blog in 2015. Now seemed as good a time as any to repeat it as there can rarely have been a time in the lives of many of us when positive thinking was harder or more essential as in seeing us through the Covid-19 coronavirus pandemic.

Sometimes, we do our best, and yet it never seems to be enough for some people while others simply take our efforts for granted.

Yes, it hurts when all we seek is a little encouragement, and all we seem to have to show for it is grains of sand.

It is so often the case that people do not mean to cause hurt, yet fail to see their comments as a parody of their finer feelings towards us.

We all need to think before we speak sometimes, learn to acknowledge and trust our better instincts, formulate our ideas with care instead of (all too often) falling prey to so-called 'public opinion'.

Easier said than done, though, this refusing to either rush to judgement on others or let ourselves fall victim to those rushing to judgement on us.

Whatever, praise is no endgame in itself but a by-product of succeeding - as far as anyone can - in finding and being true to ourselves as opposed to more or less repeating what others may have said and done, however much we may admire them for it; being inspired by someone enough to follow  in their footsteps, on the other hand, is something else altogether. 

I suspect Nietzsche makes a valid point when he says: “So long as men praise you, you can only be sure that you are not yet on your own true path but on someone else's.”  ― Friedrich Nietzsche

SEA AND SAND, INSPIRATION or REDISCOVERING THE ART OF POSITIVE THINKING

Alone on a beach

among restless white ponies

panting heavily,

rearing at me for they know

a storm is coming,

although not yet a while;

time yet to let me see

the Old Man smile as I drop stars

through tearful fingers

relentlessly measuring out

the rest of my life

Air hot and stale

like the stillness of a coffin,

funeral prayers

long since dead and gone,

tossed to playful waves

as we’d throw a much-loved dog

a bone and watch it run,

tail wagging, anxiously homing in

on its reward

for whatever, only ever needing

to deserve praise

No bones here,

only flailing limbs of ghosts

in dark water

striving for landfall, but sure

of nothing,

like flotsam and jetsam taking turns

to see which will

fall into loving hands anxious

to shape an art form

if for no other reason than leaving

its mark... 

What to do?

Needs must…choose well

or wait for a stampede

to render me less than hoof prints

in the sand,

all human potential left

to natural erosion

unknowingly hastened by fishers

of men rushing to judgement

if for no other reason than needing

to deserve attention

Nothing for me here,

but rage and pain in a pool of stars

at my feet,

urging me to leap a feisty pony,

let it take me where it will,

escape not only storm but wreckage

as sure to follow as day

follows night and tides of humanity,

the course its nature sets us

if for no other reason than failing

to find peace...

Yet, treasures to be had,

sparkling views of sea, sky and sand

filing the inner eye

with memories of (far) kinder times

filled with faith in dreams

nurturing mind, body and spirit

no matter where the spotlight

on everyday lives may choose to fall,

urging that we follow the course

nature sets us if for no other reason

than deserving each other

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2020

contemporaneity, gender, human, identity, imagination, life, love, mind-body-spirit, nature, personal, poetry, positive, relationships, self-awareness, self-confidence, society, space, spirit, thinking

Last Orders OR A Fond Farewell

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2015.

Now, coronavirus restrictions are driving me up the proverbial wall and, yes, look likely to do so for some time; even as restrictions are relaxed, nothing will (ever?) be quite the same again. At least I have had time to get used to that proverbial wall in the sense that hormone therapy (for my prostate cancer)  has been driving me up it since 2012.  I have arthritis to deal with as well, in my left foot where I fractured the ankle after a bad fall in 2011 and also in my neck. I manage both okay(ish) but it ain't easy in your 70's (I will be 75 later this year) or at any age.

The hormone therapy not only makes me want to pee a lot day (and night) but also affects my memory and, latterly, my whole personality in the sense that I make mountains out of molehills where I used to things in my stride. The blogs help. As well as enjoying the company of readers from 70+ different countries, writing them acts as a form of creative therapy that encourages my old self to stay alive and kicking. I did get upset when a reader contacted me to say he had seen my gay-interest blog called 'sick' on social media, but not for long; it takes all sorts to make a world, warts 'n' all. Being gay is as much a part of me as being human while being human makes me as free a spirit as anyone; in my case, it  also makes me a poet with a responsibility, as I see it, to draw on nature and human nature in all its shapes and forms.. I rest my case...

Time is precious; past, present and future. One day, (hopefully not for a good while yet) the Grim Reaper will pay a visit, and my blogs will eventually disappear from the Internet.  Now, the blogs are the only record of my revised poems as well as many others that have not been published and are not included in my collections. I therefore intend, over a period of time, to publish revised editions of all my print novels and poetry collections in e-format so ...watch this space.

Meanwhile...

During my short time in Australia some years ago I met an elderly aborigine who attempted to explain the aboriginal concept of 'Dreaming'. In short, the Dreaming expresses a timeless concept of moving from ‘dream’ to reality which in itself is an act of creation and the basis of many Aboriginal creation myths. (It is significant that none of the hundreds of Aboriginal languages contain a word for time.) I cannot begin to express much of that myself, and would not presume to try. Even so, it is a concept I suspect any poet can easily relate to, especially one who firmly believes in a posthumous consciousness in the sense of spiritual 'presence (or ghosts) as I do.

Of all the love poems I have written, this has to be one of my favourites. A sudden need to revise the original as it appears in my collection was like a cry from the heart, reminiscent of Cathy's ghost calling to Heathcliff in Emily Bronte's classic novel, 'Wuthering Heights'. [Oh, yes, in case you hadn't guessed, I am, among other things, an incurable romantic, always have been, and make no apologies for it.]

LAST ORDERS or A FOND FAREWELL

May the last ‘live’ art I see,

be a lark dropping from the sky,

my last breath but endorsing

its love song, life force of nature

and human nature

May the last my senses inhale

be a heady fragrance of flowers,

my last dream, awake-asleep,  

recreating a collage that’s our life

in picture poems

May the last thing I ever feel

be the sensual touch of your skin,

the last of Earth we ever share

our toasting love in its finest wine,

sealed with a kiss

As the good earth calls ‘Time’

on all its children sooner or later,

so shall its ghosts call its bluff,

addressing the human spirit’s remit

for immortality

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002, 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem this poem was first published under the title 'Last Orders' in an anthology, A Ray of Light, Poetry Now, (Forward Press)1999 and subsequently in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]

The Dresser OR Contemporaneity, lead Figure in a Docudrama

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

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

I have to agree with Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, when he recently declared his his objections to our trying to 'photoshop out' the worst aspects of our cultural history; as bad or ugly as it may well have been sometimes, we need to be reminded of it if only to avoid making the same mistakes.

As for pulling down statues and editing out any media footage that might cause offence, we need to remember that they are products of their time. We cannot and should not deny history, but nor should we dress it up with what amounts to fake news once we start cherry-picking those aspects we prefer to emphasise because they put us in a kinder light.

Regarding some public statues, it is, I suspect, the inscriptions they bear more than the sculptures themselves that cause offence; honouring those, for example, whose financial contribution to society at the time was not least on the back of their being slave owners. Slavery was an abhorrent, inhuman practise, and we should never be allowed to forget that. While I support the Black Lives Matter movement, I would prefer to see the darker aspects of any cultural past confined to a museum rather than provocatively placed in a city centre or wherever and/ or inscriptions changed to reflect those elements of historical fact that dont deserve to be celebrated. At the same time, I have to say that it is a GOOD thing that inequality and prejudice have been given a public platform in the course of recent events; hopefully, we will see world and society leaders take appropriate action to tackle social injustices that have no place in a 21st century.

It has been my experience that certain social, religious, cultural and, yes, even sexual elements of human nature are inclined to conspire against us (supposedly for our own good) in order to establish themselves in this or that driving seat; not infrequently, they choose to ignore that, ultimately, there can only be one driver, who may may well choose to take an alternative route. 

Such is the nature of the human ego that it can be something of a control freak ... as and when it suits. Nor does anything bring this home perhaps than when browsing archives, not least those, relating to family history; reading and capturing the imagination like a docudrama portraying human nature at its best and worst, strongest and weakest, all-enduring despite (even because of) the very flaws that comprise it.

“The most effective way to destroy people is to deny and obliterate their own understanding of their history.” - George Orwell 

“Study the past if you would define the future.” - Confucius

“The great force of history comes from the fact that we carry it within us, are unconsciously controlled by it in many ways, and history is literally present in all that we do.”
- James Baldwin,  The Price of the Ticket: Collected Nonfiction 11948-1985

This poem is a kenning.

THE DRESSER or CONTEMPORANEITY, LEAD FIGURE IN A DOCUDRAMA

I come in peace, a force for good

yet am often abused, used to make war

on lesser forces unable to resist

the strength of my will giving ambition

and determination their way;

for good or ill, time will have its say

and those, too, who endure

the wait to see if they can (ever)

put their trust in me 

I bring hope where weaker forces

sure to fail, yet can be misunderstood,

seen as an enemy, threatening

to take control for my own purposes,

harbouring a secret agenda,

a measured tissue of lies and half lies

an impenetrable camouflage

for self-interest convincingly ticking

all the right boxes 

I offer stability where foundations

of enterprise are in danger of collapse

along with all invested interests;

yet, I am easily distracted in playing

the hero, even persuaded

by my own convictions that any potential

for universal gain has to be better

than settling for less on the grounds

it bring happiness 

Personal Assistant to that chameleon, Power,

I am charged with dressing history with flair 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012; 2020

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Lead Player in a Docudrama' in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012]

Faces at a Window

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2016.

A friend once commented on how there's no disputing we live in a dangerous world, one that's the stuff of nightmares.

Before the Covid-19 pandemic the first thing that leaps to mid is probably the threat of terrorism leaps to mind; nor has that gone away either. There are everyday threats closer to home as well; racism, homophobia, street crime, gang warfare, cyber bullying, certain religious and cultural issues such as FGM (Female Genital Mutilation) and the more barbaric aspects of Sharia law etc. etc.

Is it any wonder then that dreams and nightmares sometimes merge into a hideous quasi-reality? 

As for a face looking passively in at it all, that could belong to just about anyone, even one of our own personae that the conscious self we know and love either fails or refuses to acknowledge … in case it feels obliged to act rather than remain a critical bystander unwilling to get involved in someone else’s affairs? There comes a time, though, when we have to acknowledge that, like it or not, as part of a common humanity, we are involved...in helping, any way we can, to ensure not only its very survival, but its survival for the better.

Enter, the metaphysical poet John Donne: ‘No man is an island entire of itself…any man’s death diminishes me because I am involved in mankind...’ (Meditation XV1) 


FACES AT A WINDOW

Faces looking in
at a window
on my dreams
are always mouthing words
I can't make out

These faces looking in
at a window
on my dreams
always have a smile for me
no matter what

One face looking in
at a window
on my dreams,
it wears a wry expression
(knows me well?)

I struggle to imagine
what they see
as my dream-self
explores all time and space
of a subconscious
indulging in freedom
from restraints
along the lines
of universal dogma playing
war games
with mind, body, and spirit
or the temporal
manipulations of various
holier-than-thous
acting out an ages-old parody
of human justice

Faces looking in
at a window
on my dreams,
approving what they see 
for having a say

One face looking out
of a window
on my dreams
mouths I'm doing my best
(fair enough)

Waking at first light,
in time to catch
anxious shadows  
on my ceiling, dark forces
beating a retreat


Copyright R. N. Taber 2016; 2020

I-N-T-E-G-R-I-T-Y, Love Poems

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

As I continue putting together a new collection of poems, this one caught my eye; it first appeared on the blog in 2011.

People often ask me why I write poetry. I try to answer this in many of my love poems. Although the love of my life died many years ago and we had only a few years together, our love for each other continues to sustain me. Yet, as I often say to people living alone as I do, love comes in many shapes and forms; family, friends, pets, places...all these can be loved and become an integral part of not only our lives but also our whole being.

In my case, my relationship with friends and nature are the focus of my love,  and subsequently my love for poetry; the latter, by the way, is a gift from my dear mother who would often recite poems to me at bedtime as well as reading me stories. She died in June 1976 when I was 30 years-old, but I feel her presence whenever I write a poem just as I feel my late partner’s and others I have loved. Yes, there is sadness in me because I will never see them again, but that is more than compensated for and transcended by love...every day of every year.

Years ago, I wrote a gay love poem which, sadly, I have since mislaid as it predated the age of computers and am unable to rewrite as I have a poor memory after years of hormone therapy for my prostate cancer. At the time, a colleague urged me to submit it to a poetry magazine whose editor subsequently commended me for my efforts while rejecting it on the grounds that gay love poems lack integrity and might well offend regular readers.

Love comes in all shapes and forms and is as changeable as the seasons, in nature and human nature alike; like every season, it gives new life in one breath and takes with another while encouraging us to be be glad for what we have, and make the best of it, rather then dwell on what we have not, and make the worst.

True love is more than eternal, it is eternity, that you-me-us that has characterised human life since its earliest beginnings, and always will. Nor does any culture or religion have a monopoly on its spirituality; the human spirit in us all will see to that, if we will but let it, whoever and wherever we may be.

This poem is a villanelle.

I-N-T-E-G-R-I-T-Y, LOVE POEMS

In love poems, discern integrity

touching on all life's finer themes;

the ultimate collector's anthology

Any prose on contemporaneity

may well rip us apart at the seams;

in love poems, discern integrity

Where some see cruel ambiguity,

love lends out its promising dreams;

the ultimate collector's anthology

There's a cruelty rooted in bigotry,

humanity but a patch on all it seems;

in love poems, discern integrity

Natural world allowed its dignity,

till Earth Mother's face surely beams;

the ultimate collector's anthology

Come age, gender, race, sexuality, 

prejudices (still) haunting our dreams;

in love poems, discern integrity,

the ultimate collector's anthology

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012, rev. 2020

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title' Love, an Epic Poem' in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012; this post/ poem also appears on my gay-interest poetry blog today.]

It is what it is... or is it?

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

Now and then readers email me  to ask if I consider myself an atheist or agnostic because I am gay and, if not, why not…?

Over the years (I'm in my 70's now) I have lost count of the times I have been told by members of various religious groups that I will go to hell for being gay. A colleague at work once told me that she enjoyed working with me, and she was sorry I would go to hell (for being gay.) If we had not been in a busy public library at the time, I would have given her as good as I was getting, but I kept a tactful silence. If she interpreted my silence as a respectful one, she could not have been more wrong; her religion I respect, yes, its bigotry, no. Fortunately not all religious people are bigots, and I have felt privileged, indeed, to meet some of them.

So ... God is a homophobe? Evangelical Christians and the majority of Muslims are by far the worst, for being homophobic, but I exclude none. (While Judaism is inclined towards a liberal attitude towards LGBT issues, most Orthodox Jews stop well short of sanctioning LGBT relationships.) For this reason, I am publishing this post/poem on both blogs; it first appeared in 2017. Regular readers will know that I have every respect for all religious faiths, but as a human being (who happens to be gay) I have the right of reply ... don't I?

At school, 50+ years ago, we were once asked to write an essay about ‘Secrets’. This was preceded by a class discussion on the subject during which we were all agreed that secrets are hard to keep, especially from family and friends. Someone made an unkind remark about gays not being ‘out’ to which the teacher responded with a wry shrug that “Time outs us all, in the end. The trick is to get in first, before gossip and ignorance can do their worst.’ This comment certainly livened up the debate, but I missed most of what was being said for dwelling on the concept of Time ‘outing us all in the end.’ It is so true. Gay or straight, it is a rare person that has no secrets; invariably these come out, if not during their lifetime then in the course of events following their death.

I only came out to a few people until a bad nervous breakdown in my 30’s finally rid me of all self-consciousness about my sexuality. Even then, though, I trod carefully through what I had known for years as a minefield of public opinion. The breakdown had lasted several years before I found the confidence to face the world again. During this time, I explored human nature through avid reading and writing poetry, both of which had already stood me in good stead at university.

Being gay is, of course, only one aspect of human nature, one part of a complex whole. It has always been the whole that interests me although, obviously, I have a special interest in the gay aspect. Some gay people seem to find it strange that I write general as well as gay-interest poetry. But…why not? Being gay is a very significant part of who I am, yes, but I can hardly ignore the rest of me, those other parts that make me who and what I am. Well, can I...?

In my 70’s now, I often look back and wish I had done things differently (as in ‘better’) but I guess we are all victims of our circumstances up to a point, and my circumstances have often conspired against me. Yet, I am no victim in the sense that I made my own choices, albeit not always the right ones.

Many who subscribe to a religion have told me I will forfeit Heaven and go to Hell although I suspect we make our own heaven and hell as our lives take shape by our own hand. So is death the end of all things, I wonder? I have no idea, but as a nature lover, take comfort from the way nature nurtures itself, and spring follows winter. Love, too, never dies even as lovers and loved ones pass away. I suppose I put what Faith I have in nature and love rather than in any religion since, from both, I have always taken a strong sense of spirituality. As to whether or not that sense of spirituality is seen as a sufficiently positive force in my poetry  to pass into living memory after my death, only time will tell.

No agnostic or atheist, me, but a pantheist. 

IT IS WHAT IT IS…OR IS IT?

Time running out,

mind-body-spirit left floundering

among regrets

for missed opportunities, rushes

to misjudgement,

and plain, everyday mistakes

with consequences...

for there can be no payback

equal to the task

of making reparation for any flaws

in humankind

No sense of a God

likely to extend any forgiveness

to the likes of me,

unable to relate to any Heaven

(potential safe haven)

throughout a lifetime of struggling

to make sense of dogma

interpreted by Religion’s finest

as leave to preach

a Politics of the Heart making sense

of humankind

How then to approach

the End of Things in the absence

of any New Beginning

other than as some deactivated spirit

gone to ashes, dust,

someone else’s (imperfect) memory,

there to endure

a kindly ‘eternity’ that sits more easily

on the tongue than ‘death’

while advocating spiritual qualities

in humankind?

I have asked this of poems

that have dogged my every footstep

from child to senior,

no one answer offered (or confirmed)

but a sense of moving

through time (other than growing old)

acting out tales passed on

by ghosts about leaving footprints;

no one left behind

but (together) creating a continuum

called humankind

To each, our own way,

engaging with the greater mysteries

of life and death,

finding such comfort as we can,

pinning our finer hopes

on what’s better, kindlier, said

and done, wiser choices

than less so, promise nurtured

or left unfulfilled

for an indefinable social conscience

to define us as it will

Whatever, it is what it is, and Time

will out us all one way or another…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2017; 2020

[Note: this poem/ post also appears on my gay-interest blog today.]