Soldiering On

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

Today’s poem only appeared early last year, but I was unhappy with both title and poem in spite of encouragement from friends to publish it here. Hopefully, readers will enjoy this version; I have changed the title and completely revised the end couplet. (So why post a poem here if I’m not entirely happy with it? Well, sometimes I am too close to the poem to see rather than simply sense what is wrong or missing; this is, of course, where any critical feedback comes into its own. (Academically, I didn’t do well at school I the 1950’s/ early 60’s, but had some excellent teachers; one of the most valuable lessons they taught me was to always face up to my shortcomings and mistakes, even if only to myself.)

I dare say most if not all of us have upset someone at some time or another with an accidentally inappropriate choice of words. I can think of several occasions when it has happened to me, and I’ve not always been able to mend fences with the person or persons concerned. Some people are quick to take offence and slow to appreciate that it well may be that no offence was intended.

Many years ago, I upset my secondary school English teacher by a using poor choice of words. I apologised, and explained I meant no offence. He accepted my apology, adding a word of warning that has stayed with me these past 50+ years. “Never, but never, underestimate word power, Taber. It can make or break or break any relationship. More often than not, you’ll never understand why unless you make the effort to find out. Even then, the chances are barely 50:50 that the other person will have a clue what you’re on about and will proceed to hold a grudge likely to prey on your mind for years. Most people, you see, forget that different words mean different things to different people. As for the spoken word, well, tone and body language are everything, and half the time we’re unaware how we are using either.”

Oh, but he was so right, and I have inadvertently found myself in that the same situation time and again, not least because I am partially deaf . Believe me, though, those of us who wear hearing aids are no more vulnerable to mishearing and/ or misunderstanding  than the average hearing person. Most of us who belong to the former category can usually tell from the other person's tone or expression that we have misheard and will act to prevent any misunderstanding. Sometimes an apology-cum-explanation can clear the air, sometimes it won’t stand a cat in hell’s chance of getting through to the offended person.

Language lays traps; it is always worth remembering the old adage advising us to think before we speak (write, e-mail, whatever) or risk its damaging the best of good intentions; its misuse is a common enough mistake that most if not all of us make at some time or another, grounds enough for appeal, surely, should we accidentally put a foot wrong? Sadly, such is human nature that it is (too) often inclined to turn a deaf ear.

This poem is a kenning

SOLDIERING ON

I’ll fight the good fight

with the very best of intentions,

yet often misunderstood

for a rogue devil in the detail,

invariably missed

by thought processes less familiar

with the subtler art

of meaning as regards prime destination,

a sensitive mind-body-spirit

Losing the good fight

has been known to hurt those most

whose side I would take

against the harsher machinations

of life, love, whatever

it may be seemingly conspiring

to set us at worse odds

than mind-body-spirit intends, but foiled

by its own commonest flaws

Winning the good fight

with the very best of intentions,

and getting the better

of some rogue devil in the detail

likely to throw a spanner

in the workings of any relationship

can be easily accomplished

for not assuming what’s good for the goose

is good for the gander

I, Word Power, expert in the art of persuasion,

nor less so in the nature of disillusion

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

Innocent, Until Proven Human (As Defined by Rites of Conscience)

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I once saw a foal and a child born at different times of the same day. One had no conscience and would remain a picture of innocence until its slaughter for human convenience; the other would soon become wise to the ways of the world and learn to manipulate them … one way or another.

INNOCENT, UNTIL PROVEN HUMAN (AS DEFINED BY RITES OF CONSCIENCE)

Every birth, a celebration,
history redeeming
the very nature of creation

At break of day, an ovation
for each living thing;
every birth, a celebration

From its time of hibernation,
a glorious spring;
the very nature of creation

At the heart of every season,
find love enduring;
every birth, a celebration

If history pauses for no one,
find in its evolving,
the very nature of creation

Seeds of a world’s salvation
here for the nurturing;
at every birth, celebration,
the very nature of creation

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009; 2015

Catcher in the Eye done Good

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Years ago, I saw a painting in an art gallery that has made me reflect on the beauty of memory, capturing and preserving a precious moment in time. Yes, a photograph can do much the same, but a painting is so much more than a photograph; it reads aloud to the inner ear, thus inviting the inner eye to appreciate its every deliberate brush stroke in much the same sense and sensibility as one might appreciate iambic meter in a poem. As with all creative endeavour, the art lies in its artlessness, artist rewarding observer with an insight to a process that requires we tap into reserves of feeling of which the chances are we are not consciously aware.

Memory may fade, but the art-poem remains a part of us and will be sure to manifest itself in our approach to life, love, nature and human nature…; indeed, to  just about everything.

‘Oh,’ I hear some people say, ‘but that’s only if you have the imagination…’ Bollocks, to that! Imagination can and does work on our consciousness, yes, but it also works on the subconscious, possibly to even greater effect. So never let anyone lead you to believe you have no imagination; the human condition is better than that even where, sometimes, human nature fails us. 

Imagination is that Catcher in the Eye of which we may or may not be well aware but which, in any case, remains one of the sweeter mysteries of the human condition. 

CATCHER IN THE EYE DONE GOOD

Young girl with daisies
in the hair darts across a greeny field;
though brooding sheep
keep a sidelong watch on playful lambs,
the merry scene
attracts a frisky foal, prancing
at a boundary fence

Innocence

Young girl with daisies
in the hair glimpses a pretty butterfly,
gives laughing chase;
one tangent wing at a finger's tip,
angel face glowing
hope’s pink blushes, elusive happiness
caught on canvas

Copyright R. N. Taber 1974; 2001

[Note: An earlier version of this poem - under the title 'Brush Strokes' - first appears in Love and Human Remains: poems by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]

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.]