The World this Weekend

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

[Update: April 15 2017]: It is Easter, when we should all be thinking of love and peace towards each other instead of the threat of a nuclear confrontation between North Korea and the United States of America. I can't recall anything quite like this since the Cuban missile crisis in 1962. I am am reminded by the song, Where Have All The Flowers Gone, that I first heard sung by Peter, Paul and Mary in 1962 although I confess I prefer the Joan Baez version (1967). When, indeed, will the conveniently anonymous yet all-encompassing 'they' ever learn? I love the song, not least because it made me think, just as it did a few minutes ago when I listened to it on You Tube:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iCAmQkmBrj8 

Now, some readers find it irritating that I link to historical as well as newer posts/poems while feedback suggests that others take a genuine interest. Possibly, if my blogs/poems survive my eventual passing from this world, posterity, too, may take an interest? [I like to think so, but...who knows?]

Now, the poem below was written in 2002 but could have been written at any time in any century; an earlier version also appeared in an anthology - Daily Reflections, Triumph House [Forward Press] 2003 - and Ygdrasil, an on-line poetry journal, April 2005.

Some readers have questioned my use of the word 'faith' in the last stanza. Well, as I have often said before on my blogs, faith embraces a whole spectrum of feeling and thought. Religion does not have a monopoly on faith even with a capital 'F'; I chose to put mine in nature even as a child. 

Yes, The kind of spiritual strength that religious faith lends is important to many people and we should respect that. No less important to those like myself, though, is the sense of spirituality we take from nature. More importantly still, we need to have faith in ourselves...or how else can we expect it of others?

Where progress is a tool which we shape past, present and future, we need to make sure we get it right. and compose a living poem to last, not an epitaph for the wind to wear down until no one can read what it says, or wants to…

It may be true that money talks, but it doesn't have the wit that words do. (Now, there is potential for a war of words second to none...)

This poem is a villanelle.

THE WORLD THIS WEEKEND

In pastures green or desert sand,

they haunt and pursue us,

history's lessons unlearned

Fear, much like a dead man’s hand,

appears sound, washed clean,

in pastures green or desert sand

Words, drawn swords to the land,

ripping out its spleen;

history's lessons unlearned

Love, a well-worn but infinite strand

of hope on the world scene

in pastures green or desert sand

Time, a chance to make a stand

against war and pain,

history's lessons unlearned?

Faith would keep us safe and sound,

washing raw wounds clean;

in pastures green or desert sand,

history's lessons unlearned

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2016

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly  Books, 2002.] 

Rumour

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

I confess no poetry editors have ever shown an interest in today’s poem, yet it has always been well received at poetry readings and even stimulated lively debate.  So many people seem to have been the victim of rumour at some point in their lives or know of someone else who has fallen foul of gossip. Far too often, seemingly ‘harmless’ gossip has become exaggerated beyond recognition by the time it has run its course.

Now, it can be a sad as well as wonderful feeling when a reader makes contact to say how a poem of mine has affected them deeply because they can relate so intimately to it. A reader got in touch with me in 2005 to say how he had borrowed my collection form his local library and this particular poem brought back vivid memories. It appears that he had been forced to move away from his childhood home after neighbours circulated nasty rumours about him; these resulted in his being physically as well as verbally assaulted in the street and his house was also vandalised.  The rumours were unfounded, but even after a local newspaper printed a true version of events, completely exonerating him, tongues continued to wag and the harassment continued.

I am pleased to say that I have heard from this reader since. He has made a new life for himself and his family and his wife recently gave birth to their third child.

Tragically, not every victim of vicious rumour has a happy ending. I personally know of one who committed suicide.

Oh, but if only some people would think before they start apportioning blame to others for this or that before they have all the facts…!

RUMOUR

Closed, the curtains now,

graffiti on the sill;

no cheery sounds in every room

just gloom and an eerie chill;

no laughing at the budgerigar

or thinking about a new car

but cowering in fear at a banging

on doors, the yelling

of good neighbours

out in force...after rough

justice

Empty, the garden now,

daisies on the lawn;

no kids playing on the old swing

and the satellite dish has gone;

no dog chasing next-door’s cat

or neighbours at the gate

converging like wolves

on fresh meat, working up

a thirst...too late

to make a killing; the law

struck first

Media in on the act,

and prime TV;

parents puffing their points

of view, kids enjoying

the party...

All quiet now. Werewolves

slinking from the scene.

(Can’t get it right every time

and who's to say

what might have been? A job

well done.)

Budgie gets to keep its cage;

history skips a page…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2010

[Note: This poem has been (slightly) revised from the original as it appears in  First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]