L-I-F-E, Mixed Messages OR Any Human Heart

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blogs in 2012 under the title, 'Any Human Heart'.

Now, we do not ask to be born. We are born, literally, at our parent’s pleasure.  I don’t subscribe to the view that we owe our parents anything. Where there is love between parent and child, it will reap its own rewards.  Where there is no love between parent and child, the child has absolutely nothing to feel guilty about.

Regular readers will know that I support euthanasia in certain circumstances; not, though, when a person is depressed and unable to think clearly. I tried to commit suicide many years ago in the course of a severe nervous breakdown. I am so glad I failed. At the moment, we are still in the thick of a pandemic, and I know some people are feeling desperate; my advice, for what it's worth, is hang on in there because life will get better for all of us if only eventually rather than improving the quality of our Here-and-Now as and when we would dearly prefer.

Yes, there are times we may regret being born, especially when an ever growing disparity between the world into which we would like to live and the one we are stuck with sends us hurtling into a downward spiral of despair; thankfully, the human spirit is better than that although it, too, will have its bad days nor (for good or ill) is it immune to temptation.

The workings of the human mind and spirit are complex, all the more so for the contradictory nature and sheer persistence of the human heart is search of something ... better, kinder, whatever.

Hopefully, humanity can learn from the graver mistakes made in its history rather than thinking it can rewrite it or, worse, block it out and inadvertently go on to repeat the same mistakes ...

This poem is a kenning.

L-I-F-E, MIXED MESSAGES or ANY HUMAN HEART

Running the gamut of life

and love has only brought me pain

like some fine autumn leaf

turning gold (once green) battered

by October winds and rain,

souvenir of a spring badly let down

by an unkind summer yet again,

no silvery light able to make good

Apollo’s absences

Striving for meaning in life

and love has only left me as confused

as nature by global warming

causing bird and beast to change

habit and habitat

(little if anything the better for that)

while humanity chews fat

over a thinning polar ice, dying trees

and sickly skies

Seeking to move on in life

and love has only made me realise

I kicked off as a child

from lies in a poem read aloud in class

about a God in His Heaven

so all’s right with a world struggling

to feed its children,

as if any religion could ever make good

poverty or starvation

I am that heart whose first beats at birth

are welcomed by a kinder Earth

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012, 2020

Apprentice to Nature

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2016.

Since the Covid-19 coronavirus struck earlier this year, I have made many references to the fact that – especially as I live alone – writing up the blogs and working on a new collection of poems (albeit more slowly than I would like) has been a (very) welcome distraction and very therapeutic in the sense that it has saved me from getting too depressed and going into freefall. 

Several readers have emailed to say how attending to their gardens has worked for them in much the same way. I guess few activities beat actively participating in the growth of living things, whether it be a plant of a person. Me, I do not access to a garden, but look over one surrounded by trees, so can enjoy watching the birds and other life forces from my kitchen window.

One reader writes, “I live alone and do not have a garden, but I have a small dog and pot plants that help keep me sane. If I had to focus only on myself, I would be in dire straits by now …”

While the pandemic is a nightmare for everyone, dare I say it I so much worse for those people living alone are having to focus on themselves in the absence of much support from family and friends who may well not be able to visit; contact by telephone and/or video sessions help, but can make us feel so much worse once the sessions ends and the harsh reality of being alone attacks our senses with a vengeance. If ever there was a global need for

positive thinking, it is now as some countries like the UK emerge from lockdown while dreading a return of the coronavirus before a vaccine can be found.

My mother loved gardening. She saw herself as foster mother to the plants, flowers and wildlife she took under her wing. "It's much like bringing up a family," she once commented wryly, "they give far more pleasure for pleasure's own sake than by way of any compensating for what's best forgotten..."

Audrey Hepburn is often quoted as having said, 'To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.'

Now, I have always been a Hepburn fan, not least because I, too, discovered years ago that positive thinking will see us through just about any of the negatives life throws our way or puts in our heads; we just have to believe in tomorrow. (Did I say it was easy...?)

Stay strong, folk, and think positive.

This poem is a villanelle.

APPRENTICE TO NATURE

Proudly, much like a lover,

a flowering of its time like no other,

creating an evergreen border

Watching it grow, mature,

as per laissez-faire of Earth Mother;

proudly, much like a lover

Every second, minute, hour,

dreams to share in, store and nurture,

creating an evergreen border

Mixed emotions undercover

yet rising to every occasion (whatever)

proudly, much like a lover

A pupil-apprentice to nature,

the best part of any past-present-future,

creating an evergreen border

Humanity, common gardener,

marking the fruits of selfless endeavour;

proudly, much like a lover,

creating an evergreen border

Roger N. Taber 2016

[Note: If you ever want to contact me - rogertab@aol.com - please put 'Poetry' in the subject field or it will be ignored. All non-spam emails will receive a reply although there may be a short delay as I have various health problems at the moment.]

The Gambler OR 'If' Revisited

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

The poem below first appeared on the blog in 2016; along with other recent posts, it has been removed from the archives and (significantly) revised in order to re-publish here today. For anyone interested, though, there are many poems in the archives that will remain there so feel free to browse any time; I am only removing any that I feel, years on, need some revision (either the poem itself, its title ... or both.)

I am no gambler in the sense that I rarely bet for financial reward, but line most people I have nursed ambitions, followed my heart, fought my share of battles as a direct consequence, and ... yes, won some, lost some. Years ago, I had three driving ambitions; to look the world in the eye as a gay person, be a librarian and a poet. I have managed all three, but it took time for mind-body-spirit to take each proverbial bull by its horns and reconcile myself to as well as accept responsibility for any consequences. While nothing in my life has worked out quite as I had hoped, I remain, at 74, content enough to have,on balance, won more wars with mind-body-spirit than battles lost; it is how I deal with the threat of Covid-19 ... as just another battle in just another war ... and what will be, will be. 

Now, I get angry when people comment along the lines of someone’s having no ambition, just as I get angry when, as often as not, it is the same people who criticise another person's lifestyle and/ or sexual persuasion; it is none of their damn business.

Ambition means different things to different people and cannot be measured in terms of ‘success’ or ‘failure’; far too often these things are measured in terms of fame and/or fortune without taking into account someone’s success as a well-meaning, decent person; in the latter category, you will often find some of the poorest people in the world. 

Gambling on our potential to make a success if an idea or even a relationship is a win-win; even if circumstances conspire against us, we will have done our best; others might not see it that way, but if we are honest with ourselves, we know the truth of the matter. Yes, we may wish we had done certain things differently, made different choices … but, that’s life … and hindsight is not something we should beat ourselves up over. Hopefully, we will not only learn from our mistakes, but also pass them on to help others avoid them too; if there is a silver lining, the latter has to be it.

At the same time, we are all but human, fallible, and not infrequently vulnerable. Few things goad a person into taking a misguided path in life (if - initially, at least - for all the right reasons) than self-criticism for failing to live up to someone else's expectations, especially if that person is a loved one.  We think we need to 'prove ourselves'.  Sadly - as in the case of many a gambler for purely financial gain -we not only risk losing ourselves, but also much of if not all we hold dear along the way.

My late mother, to whose words of wisdom I often wish I had listened to more while she was alive - she died 40+ years ago just months before my 30th birthday - would often say when I confided this or that life plan running circles in my mind - "Always have a plan B, dear, just in case if things don't quite work out as you hoped." Fortunately, I did listen some of the time, and many a Plan B has been a lifesaver.

This poem is a kenning.

THE GAMBLER or 'IF' REVISITED

I can be a friend or foe, take me as you will

to a corner of your heart and let me stay

to whisper sweet words of love and desire

in your ear, bring precious respite

from life’s trials, wars and sleepless nights

for worry, fear, dread of what the day

may yet devour. I can light your darkness.

Only, dare dance with me on the shadow line,

win some, lose some? 

I can be a friend or foe, take me as you will

into a corner of your mind and let me stay

to whisper unkind words of lust and desire

in your ear, rarely offering any respite

from life’s trials, wars and sleepless nights

for worry, fear, dread of what day may bring,

rain or shine. Enough. Time to go along 

with whatever inner forces insisting we have
something to prove? 

Yes, the human whole comprises such parts

as may be taken for partner, friend or foe;
whatever, it insinuates the self, feeds on it, 
driving mind-body-spirit for good or ill,
has no respect for any self-awareness of 'easy'

money as fool's gold, while neither taking 
every dreamer for a fool who feels the need

to live for such tomorrows as may never come
but just might, if ...

Call me Ambition. neither saint nor sinner,

but self-styled winner (or loser)

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2016

[Note: This post/ poem also appears on my gay-interest poetry blog today; an earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Dirty Dancing' in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

A Gamesman's (live-in) Apprentice

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2016.

Here in England, the hospitality industry will be open for business again from tomorrow. Have fun, everyone, but be careful out there because the Covid-19 coronavirus has not gone away. 

I have met many people who feel their past is somehow preventing them for having a future, be it a criminal record, a history of mental illness, or quite simply an honest mistake that had unforeseen consequences of the worst kind. Having suffered a BAD nervous breakdown in my early 30’s - among other examples of social mud inclined to stick, not least my being gay - I know only too well where they are coming from.

However, I don’t believe in good luck, bad luck or… whatever. We make our own , and where good people come forward to help, there has to be something within us as well as within them to make them want to help...or not, as the case may be.

When things go wrong, whether or not through any fault of our own, we invariably need help to get back on our feet, take a positive perspective, make amends for our mistakes as far as amends may be possible, get real rather than feeling sorry for ourselves and abdicating responsibility for our future to a world that appears to ‘have it in’ for us. 

True, help is not always on hand or if it is it's not always obvious; more often than not, we have to seek it out and want to seek it out. No, not an easy task, but always well worth the effort.

“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.”  - William Shakespeare

“The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be.” 

- Ralph Waldo Emerson

This poem is a villanelle.

 A GAMESMAN'S (LIVE-IN) APPRENTICE

M-E spells how it is, and likely always will be,

the past ever catching out what its future brings,

apprenticed out to a gamesman called 'Destiny'

I love to act judge-jury over tea and sympathy,

reluctant to concede any conscience’s redeeming;

M-E spells how it is, and likely always will be

Once the past a prison, all hope of breaking free,

but a dream for one who, (upon a rude awakening)

apprenticed out to a gamesman called 'Destiny

Bad-done-good often thought beyond the ability

of even the creative mind’s more positive thinking;

(M-E spells how it is,and likely always will be?) 

Learning from our mistakes rarely comes easily,

where he or she who sets gossip tongues wagging

apprenticed out to a gamesman called 'Destiny

Call human nature a fickle creature for essentially

choosing to feed (or not) on a rare bent for forgiving;

M-E spells how it is, and likely always will be,

apprenticed out to a gamesman called 'Destiny'

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016; 2020

Mind-Body-Spirit, Learning Curve

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

A slightly different version of today’s poem first appeared in an anthology, The Scene is Set, Poetry Now (Forward Press) 2002, CC&D Scars Publications, U.S.) the same year, and subsequently in my collection; it also appeared in Ygdrasil, a Journal of the Poetic Arts (an on-line monthly webzine) in 2005.

I spent many years working as a librarian in public libraries. Young people would come in to do their homework and I would ask them how they were getting on at school. Their responses would vary from politely indifferent to openly hostile towards the school environment as they saw it. I would nod, smile, and try to sound encouraging. It was hostility, though, that would invariably trigger memories of my own schooldays when homework would inevitably get me thinking about matters other than what I needed to be getting on with for school the next day.

Homework taxes the brain and sends all kinds of messages into the mind, not all of which are directly relevant to the matter in hand; a stressful process, yet curiously liberating. It isn’t healthy to close our minds to what is going on (at any age) either in the world at large or, more importantly, within ourselves.

I used to wonder sometimes if teachers and parents understand how scary homework sessions can be. It would strike me that few do or they would be helping us answer more questions about life and human nature than any regular hypothesis considered suitable (by whom, I used to ask myself?) for homework.

Among my teachers at junior and secondary schools, there were a few who taught me more than a relatively narrow curriculum allowed. I may not have been able to articulate on this particular learning process for years, but especially as a teenager - it sowed seeds of thought embracing mind, body and spirit that I sensed required nurture. By way of their many throw-away comments and occasional voiced opinions about all sorts, I accessed aspects of philosophy of which I would otherwise have been left ignorant, helping me to develop an affinity with various life forces providing lasting food for thought that has influenced, guided, helped and supported me through good times and bad all my life.

While all the rest made me feel much like a caged bird anxious to be free, this was a real learning curve, one which university would expand upon and help clarify way beyond the relatively limited scope of academia, truly an education for life…one which, of course, never ends.

MIND-BODY-SPIRIT, LEARNING CURVE

Photos by the bed,
posters on the wall, press cuttings
on a chair likely to hit the floor
if someone opens the door,
so the door stays shut,
while anxious faces (rightly) debate
prejudices, pollution,
nature conservation, education,
immigration, religion,
traffic congestion, political correctness,
safer sex, drugs, always having
to stay alert or be put down
by a clamour of everyday voices
kicking what passes
for an agenda for life (theirs, not ours)
like a football on a field
of play according to whatever rules,
conventions or dogma
happens to be match of the day,
conscience scoring an own goal as often
as not, but keeps quiet

So many questions, few answers, lies,
half lies, part truths,
and home truths like moths flummoxed
by a light bulb

Please, someone,
open the door (not meant to stay shut)
and let us out
to have our say, play our part,
prove the world
has a heart, beating behind closed doors
because children are meant
to be seen not heard
and teenagers don't have a clue
even though they always think they do.
(Oh, and says who...?)
Everyone has a voice, deserves an ear,
put right if wrong,
always up for discussion if only
to understand  the need
for whomsoever to understand the what
and the why, who's likely
to gain and who's as likely to lose
in games grown-ups 'betters'
so love to play ostensibly to save us
from ourselves

So who's kidding who, we would all
so love to ask and be told,
if we could but bring our classroom voices
to the outside world?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2018

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

Mind-Body-Spirit, a Feeling for the Quickness of Time

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

[Update April 16th 2020: Even as I write, much of Europe continues to practise social distancing in an attempt to slow the progress of the Covid -19 coronavirus that continues to spread and cause social, economic and emotional hurt across the world. Life goes on, of course, but for many,many people it will never be quite the same again. A neighbour commented only yesterday that "So many people getting ill and dying ... Time never did wait for anyone, but now ... it's taking lives and livelihoods before we barely have time to breath, never mind say any goodbyes ..." 

These are exceptional times for us all, but I have no doubt that the human spirit  - with more than a little help from science and new technology - will eventually see the coronavirus on its way albeit imposing a contradictory feeling for the slowness of time on us all. The fine example set by health and other key workers cannot be overestimated. Once everyday life resumes at least a semblance of normality, the Here-and-Now is likely to assume an even greater significance; those among us hitherto inclined to take it for granted may well feel inspired - each in his and her own way - by those same selfless key workers, to focus more inclusively on making the most of treasured personal space and a feeling for the quickness of time.]

An earlier version of today's poem appeared on the blog some years ago; another was published in the on-line poetry journal Ygdrasil in July 2004 and subsequently in my collection the following year;.

Now, I have never subscribed to the view that children should be seen and not heard; they may not always be right (and are parents?) but are entitled to a point of view that deserves to be addressed and discussed if only so that any serious flaws in it are not left to fester into adulthood.

All parents want to best for their children. It should follow therefore that they need to know what their children are thinking and vice-versa, including if not especially among immigrant families whose socio-cultural-religious background is often very different from that of the country they have chosen to make their home.

Young people often feel no one is listening to them or even wants to hear what they have to say. (Some of us have been there.) They are told their ‘betters’ know what is best for them, yet those same betters might as well have cloth ears for all the notice they take of anyone not of the same mindset. Is it not high time we all started talking to not at each other and listening to each other more…before it is too late, and time has already put the boot in?

At 70+ I sometimes feel as if my life is being fast forwarded before I've even had time to get my bearings, and invariably find myself asking, so what’s new…? All the more reason, though, to live for the Here and Now and not waste time brooding on what-might-have-been and mistakes that cannot be rectified ...

MIND-BODY-SPIRIT, A FEELING FOR THE QUICKNESS OF TIME

Yesterday gone, today nearly done, 

tomorrow soon on the run from shadows

wrestling with frustration like children

sent to bed early, a lesson supposedly

for the learning, but just as likely feed us

half lies (home truths may get a look in);

trying not to feel hard done by or cry,

would rather die than show how it hurts

to be missing TV, denied PC access,

nothing left to do but call people names;

could read a book, I suppose, but who

wants to do that these days…?

Nothing like being made to feel (so) small

for speaking your mind, for we all
have minds of our own, a mistake to think
our kids are an exception...

Memories, good, bad and ugly seasons
in time, much like ghosts unable or unwilling
to come in from an existential rain,

so mind-body-spirit (for whatever reason)

inviting them in...

,

Being a kid can be a fun time, for sure,

but there's far more to it (and us) than that, 

and, yes, lots to learn, but picking up on
a few things along the way, too, but no one
imagines that learners can also be teachers
(children should be seen and not heard);
Absurd, the way adults talk over our heads,
assuming we haven't a clue, leaving us
to reach conclusions whether right or wrong
but likely to have as far-reaching effects
on a young mind-body-spirit as anything said,
done, overheard, misunderstood for better
or worse during formative years many parents
and their peers see as giving innocence 
its head, time enough for kids to get real, instead 
of letting us in on what's going on...

When I’m older, I'll show 'em I know
a thing or two where it's they haven't a clue
about what I'm doing, learning, harvesting
the bad as well as the good from never
having talked much (as a family) - teen years
all but a repeat of better-seen-than heard;
everyone fussing or arguing but one listening,
misunderstandings laying the foundations
of future years (and tears) as mums and dads
anxious to look good for the neighbours,
missing out on much of what's going on under 
their own noses, not to mention social media 
screwing us all up with fake news, bully trolls
hitting out at the more vulnerable, hiding 
behind an anonymity fooling no one, their targets
in despair, losing sleep, and worse...

Older, learning a lot of what life’s all about

(much too short to fuss over my being late home)

although (fair enough) should have called

to say so, but, what the heck...? Got home okay 
didn’t I? (Parents, eh...?

Growing old, ranting and raving at a window, 

watching the sun fade away, listening for voices 

once used to hearing say "don't" or "can't"

with "shouldn't" and "mustn't" close behind 

and "old enough to know better" a sting

in the tail because they cared, and an early night

never redefined anyone's world 

(in any language) even if we're as loath as a clock

to acknowledge a fault, tailoring time’s cloth

to fit parts we play (no carbon copy life will do); 

Ah, but would I could hear them now for real,

those voices that cared more than I ever understood,

too busy getting on with life as I saw it, deserving

my say, but (with hindsight) if turning deaf ears

and blind eyes more often than not to those who cared,

but rarely listened, and left me scarred...

Old, taking stock of past-present-future, tears falling
for their being little or no time left for dreaming

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2016; 2020

[Note: Earlier versions of this poem have appeared under the title 'A Feeling for the Quickness of Time'  in  A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.and on the blog.]

Mentor for a Learning Curve

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

Several readers have emailed to ask why I do not use social media to promote my poetry. Well, I no longer use social media because I got fed-up with stupid trolls taking up my digital (and personal) space.

One reader asks if it is because I fear criticism. On the contrary, I thrive on genuine criticism, for better, for worse. Similarly, I do not publish comments on the blog although I read them all and will reply if readers include an email address.

I am 73 now (since the winter solstice) and have known better days, but always looking on the bright side of life. Even so, I don’t socialise much now so enjoy exchanging emails all the more as it helps me feel in touch with the world beyond my own four walls. (Spammers beware, though, as I have learned the hard way to spot whether or not an email is genuine …)

MENTOR FOR A LEARNING CURVE

I will take your hand

through good times and bad,

help dry your tears

come happy days and sad,

lend a shoulder whenever the need

never knowingly intrude

You have my ear

should you ever want to offload,

confide any fears,

or doubts about which road

to take whenever the way ahead a blur,

mind-body-spirit unsure

I but ask for your trust

whenever needs must we share

the consequences

of doing this, going there,

as advised against by family and friends,

conscience justifying ends

Let us reason with any need

so confronting the human mind

that the human heart

feeds on desires of a kind

it once thought well and truly risen above

if never (quite) left behind

I am Discernment, come to teach you how

to best grapple with any Here-and-Now

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

Eyes Wide Shut OR Stereotypes, Identity Fraud

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

For those readers whose feedback suggests they feel it is 'inappropriate' for me to be carrying over some poems from one blog to the other, I am working on a new poem for this blog and a new poem for my gay-interest blog appears there today. Feedback also suggests that some previously less than gay-friendly readers have started to dip into the latter now and then; while the jury appears to be out on any verdict, it has to be better than any rushing to judgement...doesn't it?

Today's pom first appeared on my gay-interest blog in 2014.

Now, it took me years to shrug off the worst stereotypes (still) perpetuated by the less enlightened among the heterosexual majority.

One day, a straight friend accompanied me to a gay bar because he ‘wanted to understand gay people’. Later, I asked him what he had learned. He shook his head and replied,’ What can I learn from a bunch of clones?’

I was angry and upset, but began to wonder if I wasn’t - at least in part - replacing one set of stereotypes with another…?

Whatever the rights and wrongs of the argument, I began to realise that I was not (as I’d thought) reasserting my personal identity, but going along with a social identity that threatened to take away the personal freedom I had longed for after years of growing up in a gay-unfriendly environment. Sexual expression is only a part of who we are, and I was risking the rest of me.

Now, I am not knocking the Gay Scene; it gave me some good times, none of which I regret. At the same time, it was a learning curve for me, and in the end I turned to it less and less. I am a gay man, yes, but I do not need to make a public statement about it; at heart, I am just an everyday Joe who also happens to be gay and people (gay and straight alike, whatever their socio-cultural-religious persuasion) are as free to accept me or reject me as I am free to accept or reject them. In recent years, no small number of gay men and women have expressed much the same sentiment.

Life is about being who not what we are. We cannot expect everyone to accept or even like us any more than anyone can or should expect others to accept or even like them simply because of what or whom they represent. We can, though, respect others for who and what they are and for whom and what they represent. We should be celebrating a diverse human nature that brings a whole spectrum of personalities, ideas and passions to the global stage, not attacking any with which we may take issue for whatever social, cultural or religious based reasons.

Well, shouldn't we, and if not, I suggest we need to ask ourselves why not, and on a global conscience be it.

EYES WIDE SHUT or STEREOTYPES, IDENTITY FRAUD

I met a (very) ugly man

in a trendy gay bar, and confess

I wondered what on earth

he thought he was doing there,

but we got chatting,

and after a while I realised

he had a lovely smile,

his voice (a dreamy lilt)

returning me to days long before

I lost faith in love songs

He offered a firm hand

and told me his name, his touch

sending electric shocks

through me as (shyly) I gave mine;

his conversation was fun,

no dull small talk or the usual

chat-up lines although…

he grinned (winking) as he asked

if I’d care to come back to his place

for a coffee, or whatever

Later, sex as pure art form

filling my sad self with a passion

I’d never known before,

this ugly-beautiful man I met

in a trendy gay bar,

sense and sensibility colluding

with feisty frog-princes,

re-working happy endings,

and reminding me why I so missed

listening to love songs

Eyes wide open closed all self-programs,

and ran a virus check for malware

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2014

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

S-E-L-F, Living with the Enemy

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

Now and then we find ourselves confronting aspects of our past we would prefer to forget, especially any that may have caused distress - however unintentionally - to others.

Years ago, when I was a psychological mess and desperate for some time to think it through and work out a positive sense of direction for myself, I fled to Australia on the Assisted Passage scheme; in so far as any hopes that things would be different, even better, there, I might well have thought myself to be on yet another losing streak. For me, though, the redeeming feature of a venture doomed to failure from the start - not least because of the person I was then – was my meeting up with an old aborigine to whom – for the first time ever – I found myself able to confide my worst fears; I unleashed a string of regrets I had never quite faced head-on, probably because I was too busy blaming them for my state of mind.

He listened. He said very little, but listened. When I finally shut up, we sat in a very comfortable silence for some time until he said, “Regrets are part of life. If they come to haunt us, it’s but to teach us. Whether or not we learn anything, well, that is down to us, no one else.” It was such an obvious comment, yet made more sense than anything had made sense to me for years. (I was 24 years-old.) I could hear my old English teacher, ‘Jock’ Rankin, telling me much the same thing, and wished I had taken on the implications more, but does anyone in their teens?

Regular readers will know that thanks to my aboriginal friend, I flew home a few weeks later, hopefully a better person, definitely a changed one, and more importantly willing to learn from my ghosts instead of hating - and all but giving up on - the part of me that gave rise to them in the first place; a part that is still there, of course, but still learning, and hurting the less so for that.

S-E-L-F, LIVING WITH THE ENEMY

Regret is never enough

for the graver wrongs we do

as sure to haunt us

by day and night, ghosts

of an alter ego we got to know,

learned to hate, and finally cast aside

long, long, ago

Regret is never enough

to compensate for any mistakes

baying at our heels

like wolves, ready to pounce,

do their worst, gnaw to the bone

a body deserving no less for caving in

to being human

Regret is never enough,

cannot ever (quite) make amend

for any hurt caused,

by promises broken, trust betrayed,

a dark side of Everyman seeing to plans

haphazardly laid

Regret, for any impulses

of the worst kind, mind-body-spirit

long since redefined

by such confessions as no one hears,

meant only for the inner ear, and no one

to dry its tears

Regret, enemy-friend nobody wants know,

teaching us, ourselves, to know

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

Note: Frequently, and as recently as only yesterday, a reader complains that I rarely insert full stops at the end of stanzas. I offer no apologies. For me, full stops mark an ending, and a poem has none; it does not even have meaning (for the reader) until he or she starts to take in whatever is meaningful about the poem for them. and thinks on…

Shades of Contemporaneity

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We all want progress, but if you're on the wrong road, progress means doing an about-turn and walking back to the right road; in that case, the man who turns back soonest is the most progressive. - C. S. Lewis 

'If history repeats itself, and the unexpected always happens, how incapable must Man be of learning from experience.' - George Bernard Shaw

'Technological progress has merely provided us with more efficient means for going backwards.' - Aldous Huxley

Years ago, when I was still at secondary school (I am in my 70’s now) I was only vaguely aware of a hearing problem that led to my often failing to catch all of what my teachers were saying, and making a fool of myself when asked to comment. On one such occasions, my English teacher, ‘Jock’ Rankin, put it to hoots of laughter from classmates that it’s making and learning from our mistakes that maps out our progress from ignorant to less ignorant to worth listening to … adding’ almost as an afterthought (which it clearly wasn’t) that any learning curve needs must leave us sufficient personal space in which to engage with what has to be (surely?) the most basic among human rights, agreeing-to-differ. 

I well recall thinking at the time it was as good an agenda for life as any. 50+ years on, I continue to find myself thinking along the same lines … although how far that constitutes any measure of my progress through life is for others to say and me to but speculate on (at best) an open verdict …

As every generation must discover for itself, life is a learning curve. We all make mistakes, given that we are but human, and we can learn from these or not; better, though, to consciously move up-down-up on it than let egocentricity get the better of us and turn a blind eye... surely? 

SHADES OF CONTEMPORANEITY

Humanity regenerating
mind-body-spirit, struggling 
to keep pace

Love comes, passes,
a posthumous consciousness,
upbeat heart

Upbeat hearts, tearing
at cloth ears for light at the end
of tunnel vision

Love-hate relationships
refusing to be redefined by ties
that conjoin

Nature and human nature
consigning past-present-future 
to the classroom

Life, death, a passing on
of files confessing to fake news
and stereotypes

Personal space abandoned
at the edge of reason where hope
lies bleeding

Endangered species
clinging for dear life to last straws 
of human conscience

Humanity regenerating
chips off tablets of stone recycled
in time and space


Copyright R N Taber 2019

On the Mend

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Regular readers will be aware that I suffered a severe nervous breakdown in 1979. As I began to recover, so I started writing again as much by way of creative therapy as any natural love for the art form. Following an indescribable struggle with mind, body and spirit, I finally regained a sense of ‘normality’ and was fortunate enough to dig myself out of that Black Hole, unemployment, and return to work a few years later. In 2005, I began publishing poems, self-publishing the only option open to me as no literary agents or publishers wanted my gay-interest material and I refused to leave it out.

This poem (a villanelle) has been significantly revised since I published in 2005, itself a (lesser) revision of a (handwritten) version written during the 1990’s. Not one of my better poems, perhaps, although its place in the history of my poetry of no small significance. 

For years now, I have been striving to (a) reach out to readers, (b) share an inner learning curve, and (c) reconcile form and content in my poetry in a way that does some justice to its art form; it has been a long journey, and not over yet. To critics who suggest I should not poet poems until I and they are ‘ready’ I can only say that, having sowed various seeds, I am never quite clear how they might grow until they flower; sometimes they remain but seeds or may sprout shoots that refuse to flower or may flower in ways that are true to a picture on the seed packet.

One way or another, we have to take responsibility for ourselves; playing the blame game never got anybody anywhere hast unless it’s a Black Hole like the one I crawled out of years ago into a self-awareness that insisted I stop playing Jack-in-a Box about being gay and learned to take responsibility for and a pride in a better, kinder self than any which life experience had all but succeeded in moulding me into hitherto.

I’m 71 now, and still learning…

ON THE MEND

We broke the pot,

(Earth Mother cried)

up to us to mend it…

Birthdays forgot,

(the old beggar died)

we broke the pot

Loyalty split,

(so our ‘Betters’ lied?)

up to us to mend it

Peace, it could not

get the better of pride;

we broke the pot

To each our lot;

though humanity divide,

up to us to mend it

Marking the spot

where hope all but died;

we broke the pot,

up to us to mend it…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2017

[Note: An earlier version of this poem first appeared under the title 'Picking Up the Pieces' in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

A Meeting of Minds at the Last Chance Saloon

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One of my favourite subjects at school some 50+ years ago was History, not least because we had a teacher who made history come alive in in the mind’s eye. I well recall Mr Vickers - fondly known as ‘Chopper’ by generations of schoolkids - telling the class to bear in mind that History hates to lose face. He went to comment along the lines that, just as many if not most of us are inclined to be less than honest when reflecting on home truths, so it is with history. Consequently, he added with a characteristic chuckle, history is paved with excuses. 

I have since come to understand how it is invariably in the light of these excuses that events are recorded, re-recorded and often ‘adapted’ to reconcile with contemporary opinion according to this or that point of view.  

Fortunately, I also had an excellent English teacher at the same school [ 'Jock' Rankin] who taught us how to identify elements of bias in both factual and fictional writings as well as various media presentations. There is nothing wrong with bias, he would say, so long as we recognise it as such and make up our own minds.

On the whole, I hated my schooldays, but looking back I see now how, as an Education for Life, they excelled. Even so...50+ years ago, and what's really changed?  Well, not human nature, for a start...

A MEETING OF MINDS AT THE LAST CHANCE SALOON

Should global warming kill us all,
even Earth Mother may not survive
but as one among stars poised fall;
among its remains, nothing left alive

They say humankind fails to consider
that nature might turn and retaliate
for killing off trees, failing to nurture
respect for bird or beast until too late

We hear much talk of saving habitats,
ending world poverty, famine, wars,
as the poor grow poorer to feed fat cats,
old gods and new, settling old scores

Oh, but there’s politics, sure to save us  
from worms haunting its mass graves,
last-ditch rhetoric for wannabe saviours
still burning its oil in midnight's caves

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2016

Homing in on a Brave New World

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If learning is a rites of passage, the foundations of learning must lie with love or why do any of us make the journey in the first place…? 

Love is the greater of all human life forces, whoever and wherever we are in the world, regardless of any socio-cultural-religious and, yes, sexual persuasion, not least because it does not discriminate but takes us as it finds us, no holds barred.

It takes various shapes and forms, of course, love; places and aspects of the natural world will often feed us lovely memories, all the more so, though, if they include loved ones and/or close friends who share them also.

HOMING IN ON A BRAVE NEW WORLD

Once upon a time

in the sunshine, fickle world

spinning me round

till a mist closing in on me

where mistakes

and regrets come to haunt

as they always have, and I dare say

always will…

Oh, but hastily passing them by,

my world and I

The mist begins to clear,

and instead of taunts,

I can hear sweet birdsong

in summer air,

singing love songs, reciting poems

about kinder

as well as darker aspects

of humanity…

Oh, but hastily passing them by,

my world and I

Music, still tugging  

at heartstrings,

inspiring we nature lovers

everywhere

to let open mind and spirit take us

by the hand

as a child to its elders bound,

asking questions…

Oh, but hastily passing them by,

my world and I

Words, lightly hovering

on each ear

like birds in mid-flight before

journeying on

(and who knows why or where?);

sense and sensibility

converging from the start

on the human heart

Oh, but hastily passing them by,

my world and I

Love, invading the senses

like sunshine,

lighting up shadowy corners

of the self,

left inarticulate and ineffective

by inexperience,

ready to accept responsibility

for a new maturity

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015

National Curriculum OR Connecting with Wannabe Heroes

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When I worked in public libraries as a librarian, it seemed that children and young people were frequently given homework projects on the subject of war. To confront them with the horrors of war has to be a good thing. However, when they were telling me all about their respective projects, enthusiasm would nearly always stem from getting a buzz from the idea of war rather than being appalled by its consequences…

A parent once complained to me that her son wept while repeating a teacher’s graphic description of how a relative had suffered a lingering death from ‘undignified’ wounds sustained during WW2. “No child should hear such things!” she protested. The ‘child’, though, was 16 years-old and (surely?) deserved to know that war just ain’t like it is in the movies.

I well recall being caught out by a teacher engaging in whispers with a classmate. I was invited to share the subject of our discourse with the whole class. I confessed that we had agreed that the lesson was boring. i expected a severe reprimand at the very least. To my surprise, the teacher merely shrugged. Learning, Taber;' he said, is the key to life. You can take it and use it or leave it and lose it, up to you. Now, where were we ...?'  The incident was more years ago than I care to remember, but  I recall it as if it were yesterday, and glad I am that I do; of course, I didn't have a clue at the time what he meant and was simply relieved to be let off so lightly. 

NATIONAL CURRICULUM or CONNECTING WITH WANNABE HEROES

Today we have History

and World War Two

spills across the classroom,

filling every trench

with a stench of homesickness

and blood, desks dripping

pools of mud, where elbows

nudge each other,

half an eye on the clock

as we get stuck in

Under fire, bayonets fixed,
human clocks ticking;

somewhere, there's birdsong
and sunshine overtaking
rain clouds where Death’s face
pours acid tears
on an atomic bomb package
in texts selected
to temper any gung-ho

perspective

Science, and time to discover

more about ticking clocks

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2015

[Note: An earlier version of this poem  appears in Words of Wisdom, Poetry Today (Forward Press) 2001 and  First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002; alternative title added 2015.]