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.]

All at Sea OR A-n-g-r-y

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

Regular readers will know that I often write about ghosts and I've  recently received several emails on the subject.

For a start, I have seen ghosts although, yes, that may well have been simply my imagination in overdrive. Even so, I firmly believe that the human psyche comprises passions enough to make itself felt at any point in time.

Each in our own way, we leave a footprint on the passage of time for others to follow or simply observe, examine, reach (debatable) conclusions and act accordingly as and when they may (or may not) so choose. Inspiration lies in whatever it is someone somewhere - in the distant or recent past (not necessarily ours) – may have sad and/or done; thereby making their presence felt. It is this ‘felt presence’ that embraces us. We, in turn, pass it on, perhaps without each realising it, by way of a chance remark or observation; past and present contriving to affect the future while, again, not necessarily our own.

And so it goes on, each of us making history in our own way whether incidentally or by design, not infrequently left feeling all at sea by the intensity of time’s continuum.

This poem is a villanelle.

ALL AT SEA or A-N-G-R-Y

Distant voices come to haunt me

(how long must I turn a deaf ear?)

like angry waves on a stormy sea

World, acknowledging poverty

(conscience seeing its way clear?)

distant voices come to haunt me

Where ghosts, my only company,

(riding white horses into my fear)
like angry waves on a stormy sea 

Dark forces, rolling back history

(one for every human being’s tear)

distant voices come to haunt me

Raging genius at life’s raw artistry

(hidden persuaders, politics of fear)

like angry waves on a stormy sea

Storm clouds but feeding anxiety,

(Earth Mother’s intentions unclear)

distant voices come to haunt me

like angry waves on a stormy sea

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007