Hello again from London UK

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

Hello again from London UK,

Sorry, no poem today as I am nursing the effects of having proven allergic to new medication. A GP assures me they will not last long, so, hopefully, a new unfinished poem will be completed soon. 

I sincerely hope, dear readers, that you are keeping safe and well, notwithstanding the stress of still having to live with the coronavirus, despite its appearing to recede. Many of us are stressed out, too, of course, by the Russia-Ukraine crisis, now in its 7th day. 

To see a European country become a war zone in 2022 is truly shocking. Russian president, Vladimir Putin, will not be easily forgiven by the rest of the world for his actions. One can understand his nervousness over Ukraine's ambition to be part of NATO, but there can be no excuse whatever for declaring war on a free country, especially without active provocation. History, without a doubt, will not judge Putin kindly.

It is inspirational to see neighbouring countries rallying to offer Ukraine what support they can; various  border checkpoints report a huge influx of refugees, many of whom have been walking and/ or queuing for many hours in bitterly cold conditions; the majority of these are woman and children, their menfolk over the age of 18 years prevented from leaving and expected to stay and fight. At border crossings, food, clothing, blankets and medical assistance is on hand ; many locals are offering to drive refugees for free to wherever they want to go in order to stay with relatives  while others are offering shelter in their own homes.

The physical and mental suffering of these refugees is unimaginable to the vast majority of us who have no experience of war in the 21st century. 

For my own part, I am experiencing pangs of guilt just for feeling poorly in the warmth and safety of my home here in the Kentish Town area of London UK. Never one too cry over spilt milk, I can but press on, but the mind boggles at the prospect of  of those refugees, many with no available transport, having to press on in freezing conditions, fleeing home and country, loved-ones too, while watching out for their children and  having to carry what little they have managed to save of their personal belongings for l-o-ng, weary mile after l-o-ng weary mile...

Meanwhile, those remaining in Ukraine find themselves mostly sheltering underground while the sounds of war launch a cruel assault on mind-body-spirits everywhere; most menfolk, as often as not, either actively engaging with Russian troops or keeping a sharp look-out for them, grabbing what little rest they can. 

In years to come, I daresay there will be a movie about it that will keep audiences enthralled, win awards and make a lot of money... while no movie can possibly convey the tortuous Here-and-Now in Ukraine for everyone involved.

Meanwhile, the rest of the world looks on and can but hope Putin will not attempt to pursue his territorial ambitions further afield if and when his forces finally take control of Ukraine...

Take care, dear readers, stay safe and, once gain, many thanks for joining me; it is a huge support to me, especially as I live alone and have to contend with prostate cancer and other health issues, not to mention growing old...😉 We can but nurture a positive -thinking mindset and - in spite of living in a mad,  mad, MAD world - keep looking on the bright(er) side of life, come hell or high water...

Back soon with a poem, hopefully tomorrow,

Hugs,

Roger

Epilogue

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

[Update: Oct 6, 2017]: The 2nd Invictus Games, created by Prince Harry, and the only international multi-sporting event for wounded, injured and sick service men and women, have been a great success, not only - and most importantly - in helping the participants to rise above any disability and all the emotional baggage that goes with it, but also in helping able-bodied audiences around the world to appreciate their efforts; disabled people are far too often stereotyped, even all but written off because the less enlightened see only the disability, not the person. More yet needs to be done for war veterans worldwide to encourage those who feel undermined and undervalued by virtue of this or other disability to give them a shared purpose in life, restore self-esteem, let them feel appreciated for who they are and for their self-sacrifice on our behalf without any sense of being patronised. Three Cheers for Prince Harry for having the sensibility and insight to found the event; his mother would have been very proud of him for it.]

November 11, Armistice Day, will see the commemoration of an armistice signed between the Allies and Germany at Compiègne, an agreement that ended the fighting on the Western Fron that went into effect at 11 a.m. Paris time on 11 November 1918. While it marked a victory for the Allies and a complete defeat for Germany, it was not a formal surrender; although the armistice ended all actual fighting, it took six months of negotiations at the Paris Peace Conference to conclude a peace treaty, the Treaty of Versailles.

Today’s poem first appeared under the title, Epilogue in the on-line poetry journal, Ydrasil (2009) and Poetry Monthly International (2010)before I changed the title yet again for my collection. (It sometimes takes a good while for me to feel 'right' about a title.) I wrote it soon after a former soldier I’d met in a bar had been telling me about a friend and former comrade who was in prison. The friend has been found guilty of attacking an ‘innocent’ party who had been goading him about looking better in uniform than in a suit. Apparently, he was on probation at the time. My companion commented, ‘It’s hard. You go to a war zone a whole person but each time you come back it’s like something more of that person is missing. Part of you dies out there or goes AWOL at the very least. I guess how much so is different for everyone…’

Many ex-service personnel (anyone, anywhere) need help to adjust to everyday life once they are home again either on leave or after being discharged. While it is important to help the injured and support the bereaved, there are also men and women who carry no visible signs of having been to war, but are just as much in need of our support and understanding as well as (in some cases) professional counselling. 

The man in the bar told me something else. ‘You have to be tough to fight, really tough. Show any weakness, and if the enemy doesn’t get you, your own side will. Back home, it can often feel like there’s a total stranger living in your skin and the chances are you don’t like that person at all. It's like the old self is all but dead. Sometimes the best part of that old self will make its way back, sometimes not. I dare say it’s the same for both sides in any war…’ He paused before adding tearfully, "It's hard on family and friends. They see a soldier hero, and have no idea..."

All disabled people, and I include forms of mental illness and any struggling to get the better of the likes of post traumatic stress disorders - regardless of race, creed, gender or sexuality - are an inspiration,  heroes of battles they face daily, winning some, losing some, but determined to get the better of both disability and the misleading stereotypes it so often attracts.

This poem is a villanelle.

EPILOGUE

I so look up to you with love and pride

for the finer human traits you nurture
in each, a candle lit for those who died

The first time you went to war, I cried,

while you but longed for adventure;

you fill me with such love, and pride

In Iraq, your worst fears chose to hide

in caches of ‘true grit’ human nature;

in each, a candle lit for those who died

In Afghanistan, you fought side by side

with the bravest, a born again warrior;

I so look up to you with love and pride

You saw friends killed or injured, tried

seeing Hell as but forms of cruel satire,
in each, a candle lit for those who died

You seemed to take it all in your stride,

 heaving the fallen over your shoulder;

 I so look up to you with love and pride,

 in each, a candle lit for those who died

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012; 2016

[Note: This poem appears under the title 'Missing, Believed Killed' in  print editions of Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Book, 2012.]

A Colouring Book

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Now, when we use colour, we choose carefully because we want to make an impression although what impression we make is likely to vary from observer to observer.

So it is, I suspect, with nature, just as the impression Earth Mother intends to make will vary and quite possibly leave many if not most of us none the wiser.

A COLOURING BOOK 

Blue, blue, the colour
of a morning sky;
golden the sun, risen high;
green, green, the grass
where lovers lie, giving us
reasons to care

Red, blood red, crushed
poppies in the hand
like a fallen soldier’s wounds,
attempting to atone,
and only a solitary skylark
left to mourn

Grey, a silvery grey,
dusk’s sad pall;
tears of Earth Mother, nurture
for sweet dreams
of peace and caring better
for each other

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2012

[Note: An earlier version of this poem was published in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

In the Eye of the Beholder OR Inner Eye, Inner Ear, Sheer Poetry

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

Although I do not subscribe to any religion, that doesn’t mean I have any less love for the architecture of many religious edifices; for much of religious music, too, even if I cannot relate the words of hymns and other songs of praise. For that matter, regarding Christianity, I also have a great appreciation of much of the sheer poetry to be found in its Holy Bible. I once commented as much to colleagues during a debate about religion over a meal after work; all said they found this offensive. I could not, they insisted, have my cake and eat it; one even accused me of blatant hypocrisy when I added that I am not only often moved by examples of religious architecture and music, but they also appeal to a strong sense of spirituality in me even though I take that from nature rather than religion.

I mean no offence to anyone. An eye and feeling for beauty are unconditional, surely? Few people, I suspect, whatever their religion, could fail to be moved by the sheer beauty and magnificence of some of England's great cathedrals of which the oldest is Salisbury.

As for religion itself, I intend no offence there either when I often attack the hypocrisy I find in many religious minded people for whom their religion is a closed shop, and they have little if any time for anyone who does not pay the appropriate dues. I would like to say these are a in a minority, but at 66 years-old experience suggests otherwise. However, there are exceptions to every rule, and thank goodness for all those men and women who not only subscribe to their religion, but also to humanity in general, regardless of colour, creed, sex or sexuality.

Yesterday I uploaded today’s poem as a voice-over to a video shot by my close friend Graham who has been visiting family in Wiltshire. (See also below.) If you want to see other videos I have uploaded to my YouTube channel, go to:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

This poem is a villanelle. [As regular readers will know, I am not averse to taking the occasional liberty with ’hidden’ rhyme.]

IN THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER

Ancient and beautiful,
a watchful maternal eye;
Salisbury cathedral

Its spire, proud and tall,
reaching up to kiss the sky;
ancient and beautiful

Welcoming one and all
(no enquiring who or why);
Salisbury cathedral

Hear cloisters softly call
upon peace, its tears to dry;
ancient and beautiful

An ages-old clock’s toll
offering pilgrims sanctuary;
Salisbury cathedral ...

Ode to love, one and all,
(embracing Henge nearby);
old and beautiful ...
Salisbury cathedral

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Note: Alternative title added 8/19.