A Walk in the Park

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

“We are not victims of aging, sickness and death. These are part of scenery, not the seer, who is immune to any form of change. This seer is the spirit, the expression of eternal being.” - Deepak Chopra

“Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.” – Leonardo da Vinci

“Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary.” - Khalil Gibran

“We do not see nature with our eyes, but with our understandings and our hearts.” William Hazlitt

“Forever is composed of Nows.” – Emily Dickinson

Even as a child, I loved being at the heart of nature, not only for its surrounding, but also for the responses to it by mind-body-spirit, communicating sounds and poetry it would be years before I would even begin to define it as a sense of spirituality; years, too, before I felt able to go public with it through poetry. 

As my dear mother used to say, learning curves are not confined to the classroom...

A WALK IN THE PARK

Taking a long walk
in the park, sky many shades
in many moods,
spots of rain urging me pause
by a favourite tree
playing host to feathered friends
bidding me see-hear-listen,
let the indomitable Spirit of Nature
address past-present-future

Becoming more aware
of a Here-and-Now beyond 
rain and cloudy skies,
a part of me opening up, not only
to what it could see
but to feelings, asking questions
of heart-and-soul
it had not thought of asking,
confused by worldly turns of thought,
all but become a habit

Life is for all, no exceptions,
though we are sometimes made 
to feel we don’t deserve
a voice, simply for nurturing
visions of self-identity 
considered ill-suited to this society,
or that community,
for fear of any bullying powers that be;
none so blind as will not see 

Having listened to all the tree
had to say by way of putting lyrics
to the music in my head,
heart-and-soul's reawakened,
already reworking
its approach to everyday living,
less of simply tagging along 
for the ride, up for restating its position;
such is...the art of being human

Ah, but time to go home, hopefully share
all I have yet to make sense of here...

Copyright R. N. Taber (2023)

[Note: This poem also appears on my gay poetry blog today.] RT

Hi, Everyone, from London UK

Hi, Everyone, from London UK,

Sorry, no poem today as I am trying to load as many of my poems to a memory stick as I can, just in case the blog ever disappears.

In the past, UK poetry publishers have shown no interest in me because I make it clear that any published collection must include a gay section. My self-published collections proved popular, but the last one appeared in 2021' since then, I have been diagnosed with prostate cancer, had a bad fall that has left me with  mobility problems and have been having to cope while living on my own. I cope OK(ish), so no worries, but nothing gets easier as we grow older and I'm in my late 70's now.

As I have said on the blog before, in latter years, writing poetry has been as much by way of creative therapy than for pleasure; it helps me  manage thought processes and memory problems as a direct result of years of hormone therapy for my prostate cancer. So, I feel a need to write what I can, while I can and keep my poems in a safe place in case any publishers eventually show any real interest once I have passed away.

No one has ever appreciated just how much my poetry means to me and, yet again, a BIG thank you to you all, dear readers, for encouraging me by viewing my poems and sending emails from time to time.

Reader H H asks how many views this blog has had in total since I started writing it up about ten years ago. Currently, blogger statistics show 213,149 views; for a poetry blog, this is VERY encouraging, so you can understand why continuing it is so important to an oldie like me, from both a psychological and health point of view. The gay poetry blog statistics show a total of 160, 987 views, again, very encouraging.

Feedback suggests that more LGBT viewers dip into both blogs these days and I like to think it is because they are coming round to the point of view that poetry is for everyone, has something to say to everyone, intent on voicing a perspective on which the reader is invited to consider his or her own take. Whatever, food for thought is important; sadly, the pace of life these days means fewer people can make time enough for even that. 

When I stared blogging, I had been warned that a gay poetry blog would be unlikely to attract many readers and I was unable to find anything similar online, so...G-AY in the Subject Field took to pc screens worldwide. My having been sexually inactive for some years now, it may have  lost its initial momentum, but feedback suggests LGBT readers appreciate the encouragement my poems try to offer. (I spent too many years in a lonely closet to want the same for anyone who is led to believe there is something shameful, even sinful about sexual/ gender identity; neither is a choice, but who we are. 

It is a tragedy of our times that some family members, friends and religious communities continue to be guided by many misleading stereotypes propagated by the less enlightened. 

Nor is the sense of spirituality I have always felt any the less for my being gay. Encouragingly, most young people are more prepared to take others as they find them, without prejudging them for what they may have heard on this or that grapevine. (I suspect political correctness means well, but has proven far less effective than intended;. You cannot effectively legislate for a person's perspectives on life and people; it simply creates closets for any that need to be aired, challenged and modified. 

As for poetry, whether people like a poem or not is less important than they should consider how and why they feel about what it it has to say to the voice in which the poem speaks. (As regular readers well know, I have always championed the right to agree to differ...] RT 😉 

We are barely into 2023, yet violent criminal acts on the streets and behind closed doors are hitting the headlines already .Let us hope that Peace, Love and Understanding will eventually prevail worldwide, the darker side of human nature notwithstanding....!

Oh, and on the subject if headlines, I have been asked what I think of Prince Harry's revelations in his book, Spare. Well, I have no interest in reading it, not least because it is unlikely that other members of the Royal Family will respond and there are always two sides to every story. So, to coin a popular phrase, "No comment." 😉

I am working on a new poem, but slowly as I am not too well and old age is catching up with me. No point in crying over spilt milk, though so, yes, I continue to do my best to keep looking on the bright(er) side of life... even though a fog sometimes.😉

Take care, folks, keep safe and stay positive,

Hopefully, back soon with a new poem,

Hugs,

Roger

Past-Present-Future, Our Call

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

While I don’t believe we (quite) make our own luck or bad luck, I have come to have a sense of mind-body-spirit’s directing it. 

As regular readers know, I had planned to qualify as a librarian after leaving school in January 1964 (after re-taking and re-failing an A-level.) Unable to take up my place at Library School, I drifted for a good 7 years with no real sense of direction. 

Looking back, though, I may have lost heart, and mind-body-spirit may well aided and abetted my drifting, we never lost sight of what or who I wanted to be. I went into free fall after freefall, made mistake after mistake, but even in the course of these, I never quite lost sight of my original aims in life -to be a librarian and find the confidence to look the world in the eye as a gay man.   

My hearing problem (perceptive deafness) means I often have communication problems in group situations; apart from a love of literature, I am essentially a ‘people’ person so public library work was always the obvious choice of career as it involves a lot of 1-1 information work with which I am (far) more comfortable and can cope (far) more effectively. As for being gay, mind-body-spirit was working on that issue too. 

Yes, I got there in the end and many would say it was more by luck than good judgement. It may sound whimsical, but I suspect mind-body-spirit knew best. Yes, it took me a longer to qualify as a librarian, and I did not leave the proverbial ‘closet’ until my 30’s, but those dark years of drifting like a lost soul in a worldly wilderness gave me a greater understanding of personal crises and (hopefully) has made me a better poet. Although I have always loved writing poetry, I never realised just how much a part of me the poet in me really is until I was much older. 

So, luck, bad luck...up to a point we make our own, but if we never (quite) lose our sense of direction in life... well, yes, I suspect mind-body-spirit will continue to guide us through thick and thin if we but keep faith with it, and let it do just that. 

PAST-PRESENT-FUTURE, OUR CALL 

Like leaves on a feisty breeze,
the baffled consciousness travels
a puzzled world’s wondering
just what’s what about governmental
decisions, as likely as not to leave us
asking more questions, if only for mulling
what-might-have-been but for pecuniary pies
in various (potential) answers 

Like blossom on a feisty breeze,
the hopeful consciousness travels
as freely as any scepticism
regarding electoral cat-and-mouse games
as likely as not to be interrupted
by as an innate a cynicism as parental calls
for us to participate in home rituals reaffirming
their knowing what’s ‘best’ for us 

Like roots in a feisty breeze
an enduring consciousness travels
time and (personal) space...
coming to rest more by nature’s whim
than any pre-ordained design
yet returning to the earth from whence it came,
perchance to rebirth itself, with the good earth onside
to make reparation, earn forgiveness? 

Chance may well be a fine thing, once it can see  
just who-what-where in life we need to be 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

[Note: this post-poem appears on both poetry blogs today.] RNT

Private Lives OR A Lesser Known History of Everyman

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

Another revised poem today that I found while rummaging my print files; it has not appeared on the poetry blogs before.

I am still very poorly, but remain Covid-free, am feeling a little better every day, and hope to continue writing new poems and publishing them here before too long.

The poem is a kenning and appears on both general and gay-interest poetry blogs today. 

Sadly, many LGBT folks worldwide still remain fearful of the consequences of their choosing to look the world in the eye wherever bigotry persists in making itself felt. As I've said before - and daresay will again - there is so much more to anyone than their sexuality. I suspect the bigots among us, too, (like many if not most of us) know all about engaging in a tug-of-war between keeping up appearances and bringing certain home truths into the public domain.

PRIVATE LIVES or  A LESSER KNOWN HISTORY OF EVERYMAN

We lurk in personal space
conspire to confuse feelings 
likely to light it up,
expose me for watching them
from shadowy corne
while they dance all cares away,
pretending not to know
I am nearby or why, refusing to cry
over spilt (sour) milk 

We manage the living dead,
calling tunes and pulling strings
who would deny me,
mistake me for such bad dreams
as plague humankind
for infiltrating a mind-body-spirit
that is but weak
where it likes to fool itself otherwise,
and everyone else 

We're no strangers to mortality,
walking daily in such shadowlands
as haunt humanity
throughout its daily sleepwalking,
calling on life forces
least likely to penetrate is defences
see it break cover,
confront and/ or excuse its true identity
for acknowledging me 

We are such secrets as never on the loose
for fear of Truth getting the better of us

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

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

 

Autumn, Season of Silences

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

Today’s poem first appeared on the blog in 2013.

When barely spring here in the UK, it is already autumn in some parts of the world. An Australian reader living and working in London one spring and ‘feeling homesick’ once asked for an autumn poem. [I lived in Australia once, a long time ago, and would love to go back as fate had it in for me at the time and I wasn't able to stay long. Sadly, travel insurance due to my prostate cancer and other health issues is prohibitive so I suspect I never will.]

There is a dreamy quality about autumn that, for me, is like listening to unspoken poems, a spirited silence that no other season can quite match, even a feisty spring or gregarious summer, as if it is loath to go into a winter sleep likely to subdue its silence if not its spirit ...

AUTUMN, SEASON OF SILENCES 

One long, lovely summer

once I spent with you

till fallen angels broke cover;

enter autumn, on cue

Our time together near over,

we were as leaves

on a grieving sycamore

falling like tears

Drifting, piling on a grave

of broken promises,

all the love we’ll never have

for all our kisses

Saddest of autumn dreams,

unspoken poems

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2020

[Note: This poem was first published in an anthology, Shades of Autumn, Anchor Books [Forward Press] 2004 and subsequently in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]

Dog Roses OR N-a-t-u-r-e (All-inclusive) Life Forces

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blogs (in a slightly different form) in 2013. It was not long, though, before I deleted it from my general blog after a lot of abusive emails, but have re-posted it on both blogs today (Feedback continues to suggest that few gay readers dip into both blogs.)

In the language of flowers, dog roses mean pleasure mixed with pain.

It was after writing today’s  poem in 1991 that I began writing my novel Dog Roses: a gay man’s rites of passage that is serialised on my fiction blog:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/dog-roses-chapter-one_14.htm

  

Few of my novels have appeared in print form as I was never able to interest a literary agent, but I always enjoyed writing them (albeit a struggle sometimes) and wanted to share them. To be honest, I did not expect the fiction blog to last long, but have been very encouraged by a growing readership and positive feedback over several years - from gay and straight readers alike - for both my gay-interest and general novels. Why do I write both general and gay-interest material?  Well, not least because I get fed-up with people who, once they realise a person is gay, choose to see no further than that; gay or straight, there is far more to all of us than our sexuality.

Being gay has never overly influenced my reading tastes. I enjoy (and write) gay as well as straight poetry and fiction. I used to be an avid reader, although less so now. Moreover, as regular readers will know, writing has always been an essential form of creative therapy for me; essential for my general well-being, that is, as I have suffered with depression since childhood. Now, at 70, it continues to sustain me and keeps my little grey cells ticking over; not just because I enjoy it, but also because it serves as a welcome distraction from living with mobility problems (since a bad fall in 2014) and prostate cancer (diagnosed in 2011). I did not expect to be growing old alone, without a partner, but I have some good friends, my blogs and blog readers ... and my writing; it is more than enough to keep me looking on the bright side of life.

Now, most of us find ourselves at a crossroads at least once in our lives, sometimes more often. Decisions to make. Which way to go, and what if...? Being gay is not a choice; we are as we are. The choice lies in whether or not we come out to family and friends, look the world in the eyes as a gay person or choose to remain in the proverbial closet; the latter can be a dark, lonely place as I discovered for myself until I finally got real and 'came out' in my late 30's although it took a nervous breakdown to make me see that it was a case of get real or stay lost.

The poem first appeared  in an anthology, Inspiring Minds, Poetry Now (Forward Press) 1999 and subsequently in my first major collection; the alternative title has been added since..

DOG ROSES or  N-A-T-U-R-E (ALL-INCLUSIVE) LIFE FORCES

Dog roses

at the crossroads, twin journeys begin;

a scent of wild desire

smouldering...

within each savage breast,

despairing rest

Choices to make, promises

to break

Dog roses

filling our senses with glad times past;

catching up the moon,

sun setting fast,

teasing our desire,

fire with fire

Choices delayed, promises

put aside

Dog roses

at the crossroads, twin journeys begin;

a scent of wild desire

smouldering...

within each savage breast,

despairing rest

Children of Spring, born of nature,

deserving better

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001, rev. 2020

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

L-I-F-E, Windows on the World OR Homing in on Sense and Sensibility

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2017.

A single friend once commented that his everlasting regret in life is never to have been in love, loved in return, and having children. This, from someone whose family adore him and who will be remembered by many for a kind heart and generosity of spirit.

Few if any of us can say, hand on heart, that we have no regrets. Life, though, deals each and every one of us a different hand, not least because we are all different. Such is the nature of things. 

Whatever mistakes or poor/ wrong choices we may have made in life, love comes in all shapes and sizes, and we should regret none of it, even where it may not have (quite) come up to our hopes and expectations. Love is a life force from which we should all take heart. We may be single, or fortunate enough to have found a partner (within or outside marriage)…whatever, I defy anyone to say they have never loved at all…whether it be of the human or natural world…past or present, nevertheless continuing to make itself felt always, and hopefully making us better, kinder people for its place in our lives.

As for whatever we may leave behind us  when time demands we take our leave of this life, we could all do a lot worse than have secured a good place in someone else’s memory, the effects of which may well be passed on for generations.Regular readers will know that I often refer to a posthumous consciousness, that part of us that remains 'live' in someone else's mind-body-spirit, the better, kinder part of us continuing to make itself felt; a sense of eternity if, only as ghosts.

As a someone once said to me many years ago, "To achieve at least one good thing in life for someone else, is raison d'être enough to compensate for if not (quite) wipe out any of those bad choices with which we are inclined to engage from time to time." He was a vicar, and well aware that I did not subscribe to any religion. (My Pantheism came years later.)

L-I-F-E, WINDOWS ON THE WORLD or HOMING IN ON SENSE AND SENSIBILITY

Watching a sunrise,

all live senses re-awakening

to the spirit of nature,

metaphor for balmy breezes

encouraging evergreens

to sing a song for all seasons,

birds winging Nature’s

semaphore of hope, no matter

blue skies turning grey

Watching high noon

play out its daily theatricals,

all we passionate

children of the Earth eagerly

aspiring to make

the most of opportunities lost,

missed (or never were)

before Time has its wicked way

with us, and it’s too late

Watching a sunset,

curtain all but drawn on affairs

of mind, body, spirit…

working in a harmony (of sorts)

to contrive meaning,

purpose, (closure?) whatever

it takes for laurels

upon which we may rest easier

if not (quite) in peace

Watching a darkness

gather our world to its bosom

where we may well

writhe like newborns lacking

in communication skills

to express our needs, desires,

all found wanting…

yet a sixth sense of its potential

but waiting in wings

Watching at windows

on the world from the top floor

of a tower block,

pulling blinds to try and forget

those cares of the day

(ever ready to keep us company)

by taking from love

(in real time, memory or fiction)

a renewed life force

Copyright R. N. Taber 2017, 2020

Engaging with Epic Poetry

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

Today’s poem first appeared on the blog in 2017.

In July 2009 I was privileged to participate in "One and Other", sculptor Sir Antony Gormley's 'live sculpture' project on the 4th plinth in London's Trafalgar Square; I gave a poetry reading. At the time, I thought reference to its being a 'live' sculpture simply referred to those participants invited to do whatever for an hour, July- October. I became aware that I was part of an epic poem of sorts, which subsequently inspired the poem.

Now, text-speak may well be as relatively a new phenomenon as the mobile phone itself, but conversations with the inner self are as old as humankind.

Invariably, we think of mind, body and spirit at separate entities, and I am often criticised for suggesting they are. Yet, each engage with each other in such a way that maybe it is high time we started thinking of the whole rather than the parts? After all, it is they that would see us (as a whole) engage with time and space... for better, for worse; it is they, also, to, whom we invariably turn when we are stressed out for whatever reason.

Exercising mind and body is a form of creative therapy that can encourage the human spirit to wake up to whatever reality we are avoiding and help us reach a constructive decision as to how best to proceed - or not, as the case may be.

Poets make much of Poetry of the Heart, but there is a  sense in which we are all, each and every one of us, living poems; the whole of us, as individuals, not just this part or that. 

There are many who profess to hate poetry, find it glib, trite, weak; those same people, simply by engaging with life itself, who are creating the Poetry of History, an epic poem about the human race as beautiful - not least for its very diversity - as any prose.

ENGAGING WITH EPIC POETRY 

Life,

spiralling me downwards

from cradle to grave…

often when I least expect it,

leaves me clinging

for dear life at straws in an ill wind

raised by a helter-skelter

of events conspiring to drag me

beyond imagination,

test ego (and salvation) to limits

rarely conceived

even by those daily enduring

a world of nightmares

Love,

spelling out such promises

as sweet dreams

are made of, offering (for free)

a magical-mystery-tour

of mind-body-spirit asking only

that I stay true

to the end of a line drawn

not (whimsically) 

in sand or clay, but in good faith

that 1 + 1 is equal,

to the sum of all its frictions,

and, yes, I can add up

Hope,

bringing me the best of things

at the worst of times,

reshaping the obstinate clay

of human nature

as a potter’s wheel might

its tasks in hand,

demanding the poetry of art

speak up for Beauty,

fair chameleon exposing masks

of the Beast

for human waste washed up

by the tides of life

Centuries of anticipating eternity 

for engaging with its epic poetry

Copyright R. N. Taber 2017

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

Rites of Spring

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

This poem first appeared on the blog in 2016.

Since the onset of the Covid-19 coronavirus, many people around the world - both sexes, all ages, especially those living alone  - are now experiencing loneliness for the first time in the lives; the need to self-isolate, social distancing, the loss of loved ones to the virus … all are impacting on our lives to some degree or another. Some of us feel supported by friends, family and neighbours while others are made to feel they do not even have that reassurance and comfort to draw upon. Whatever, we are all having to get used to living in a changed world … and change, itself, can be a tough nut to crack, even for the most resilient among us.

Loneliness is not only a sad condition but can also make a person bitter if he or she is not careful to keep a balanced perspective. We poets write about it, but it’s every lonely person’s private hell and there’s nothing poetic about it all; the poetry comes with hindsight after finding that someone special, often when and where we least expect it.

Thankfully there are many ‘special’ people in this world; those who care enough to lend a helping hand (without being asked) or even just make contact by letter, email or much appreciated phone call where they sense it may well be needed. Far too many people either wait to be approached or take offence because someone hasn’t approached them; invariably, there are reasons behind human behaviour, about which many of us don’t think to ask or even consider before taking offence … and not the least of these reasons can be loneliness, a feeling that too few of us are willing to admit.

How long two lonely people having found each other will stay together may be anyone’s guess, but it’s a sure bet they will enjoy a taste of their own private heaven. Needless to say, the heart, too, has its seasons, of which the most joyful (at any age) has to be spring.

Ah, yes, I remember it well ...

RITES OF SPRING

It was a winter of the heart,

craving spring, hungry for summer,

wondering where they’ve gone,

those sounds of laughter haunting

the ear? Why a pillow by mine

and no one there? I’m walking down

a street and all I see is feet,

protesting about being on their own

too long, falling in with others,

insisting it is where they belong

Seasons passed, cycle of pain

turning me, clockwork clown, going

through the same old motions

of getting by (fixed smile, dry eye);

till one night during Happy Hour,

there you were. For a while we took

comfort in drowning together,

letting our glasses relate the way

life's meant to be, you and me

against the world till... (maybe?)

True to say, in each other’s arms

we agreed to stay a while, no weeds

deceiving passers-by but flowers

bright as daffodils after April showers,

tail of a comet on the Milky Way,

favourite songs played over and over

by a late DJ till everyone’s running

for cover but us, left savouring dreams

to share, richer for richer, no poorer

for chancing our luck then and there

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2020

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.]

L-O-V-E, Survivors

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

Today’s poem first appeared on the blog in 2016, and has since been (slightly) revised.

Staying positive and trying to keep looking on the bright side of life has never been harder for many of us than now as the Covid-19 coronavirus continues to take its toll around the world. Essentially, I am a positive thinking person; even so, life has a nasty habit of contriving circumstances likely to make us think differently, circumstances which, for whatever reason, spot a chink in our psychological armour and send us into free fall ...

Many years ago, my lie took a turn for the worse (not the first time) and I had a bad nervous breakdown; unable to see a way through it, I attempted suicide. Fortunately, life forces I cannot begin to describe kicked in, and I started to see something of the wood through its trees. I recall telling a doctor, "I can't do this." His reply has stayed with me ever since. "Yes, you can," he said, "... just tell yourself over and over that you will get through it, and you will. Better still, focus on all the positive things you want to do that giving up now will never let you, and go with the damn flow, man, go with the flow." 

So … I went with the damn flow, and survived to tell the tale.

Good or bad, we make the world we live in and it is up to all of us to try and make it a better one.

Humanity's rage to live for love and the greater good will always defeat its enemies in the end.

Looking on the bright side of life may not always be easy, but human beings have a natural capacity for love, in all its shapes and forms, and the more we can focus on that the better. 

(Did I say it would be easy...?) 

This poem is a villanelle.

L-O-V-E, SURVIVORS

Though bigotry and hate thrive 

among the world’s power brokers,

it’s love that will see us survive

Always, people willing to drive

forces for good to the aid of others,

though bigotry and hate thrive

While terrorist-led plots connive

to mock this world’s peacemakers,

it's love that will see us survive

Open heart and mind ever contrive

to expose the worst attention seekers,

though bigotry and hate thrive

If life giving forces as bees to hive,

(a warning sting for potential takers)

it’s love that will see us survive

As sure to keep freedom's name alive,

as frustrate its would-be code breakers;

though bigotry and hate thrive,

it’s love that will see us survive 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016, 2020

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

The Seekers OR Beyond Rhyme and Reason ... What?

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2016 under a different title.

I am often asked (a) Why do I write poetry, and why so little blank verse when everyone knows rhyme is old hat, especially as the media ignores me for the most part so I’m not even "famous"? and  (b) Why spoil a good poetry site by including gay poetry? [Thank you for the praise element there.]

Well, fame isn’t everything, nor is blank verse, and I do have a reputation of sorts around the world if feedback from my blogs and other Internet sites is anything to go by. The most important thing to me is that there are people out there who read what I write; whether or not they like what I write is less important than it may give them food for thought. [Even not liking something demands we ask ourselves, why?] As for including gay-interest poems, as I do in all my collections…why not? I am a gay man and a poem is a poem is a poem. I have received emails from heterosexual readers to say it has helped them think differently (better) about gay people and from gay readers thanking me for my inclusiveness. Opinions will always be divided; such is the nature of food for thought.

Poetry is a passion with me. Prior to university, I wrote many poems; less so for some time afterwards. Reading and writing critical essays about great poets was very enjoyable, but also very daunting. How could I possibly follow in the footsteps of the likes of Wordsworth, Shelley, Blake, Hardy and so many more? It took a while for the penny to drop. I could not hope to follow in their footsteps nor should I even try. No, I must create footprints of my own. It would not matter if few people found them worth following so long as they were there, to be chanced upon; hopefully, of some worth to someone somewhere at some time or another finding their way in life (and losing it now and then) as I have done. Reading great writers has helped me become a positive thinker; no mean feat considering the inferiority complex that dogged me at home, school and young manhood.

I have only ever been in love once in my whole life, but love takes various forms and I have loved many people in various ways. Take friendship, a form of love at all its various levels, and probably the most commonly open to abuse. Sometimes love is returned; often, though, it is abused. Nor am I referring to just physical but also  psychological abuse; people taking advantage of love, taking it (and us) for granted, always taking, taking, taking… with little or no thought about what it means to give. It can hurt, really hurt. For me, poetry has always helped ease that hurt. 

Yes, poetry is my passion, a love that returns far more than I can ever give. Especially as I grow old, the passion continues to course through my veins and remind me of all that is beautiful in this sorry world, in nature and human nature; more than a match for cynic or pessimist, and music to the ears of a positive thinker so long as he or she remembers to listen out with inner ear, see with inner eye, feel a way through bad times to better. I recall loves of my life - in all shapes and forms - that inspire me, always have and always will.

Whether we acknowledge it or not, we are all poets in the sense that poetry is the very act of living; how we chose to define it - and ourselves - is down to each and every one of us, each in our own way, not least in poetry, bearing in mind how there is a poetry of sorts in everything we are, do, regret, aspire to ... whatever, if we care to look, and learn  from the looking whether or not we ever quite find it.

This poem is a villanelle.

THE SEEKERS or BEYOND RHYME AND REASON ... WHAT?

Who seeks out poetry, seeks love,

always listening out for its call

in nest or flight, wings of a dove

Between earth and heavens above,

as human passions rise and fall.

who seeks out poetry, seeks love 

Find nature’s finest, hand in glove

with Man’s first aim, survival;

in nest or flight, wings of a dove

Where a trophy hunter may prove 

keen eyes for a potential kill,

who seeks out poetry, seeks love

A power to make mountains move,

centuries-old nightmares repel;

in nest or flight, wings of a dove

Grown cold, hand out of its glove

among rhetoric's overspill?

who seeks out poetry, seeks love,

in nest or flight, wings of a dove

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008