The Lie OR A Matter of Conscience

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

“To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.” -  William Shakespeare

If you do not tell the truth about yourself, you cannot tell it about other people. – Virginia Woolf 

“Lying to ourselves is more deeply ingrained than lying to others.” Fyodor Dostoevsky

“The worst part about being lied to is knowing you weren’t worth the truth.” Jean-Paul Sartre

Now, I suspect most if not all of us tell lies sometimes, whether to ‘spare’ someone home truths or, more likely, to spare ourselves having to cope with theirs and our own at the same time. Whatever motivates the telling of them can be as deceitful, if not more so, than the lies themselves. 

Living with a lie can be a harsh, lonely environment; such was the closet imposed on me at the ripe old age of 14 years by family, church and a generally homophobic 1950’s before I finally came out as a gay man. There are other closets, of course, and other lies; if the cap fits…?

THE LIE or A MATTER OF CONSCIENCE

Whenever I may try
just to put something right,
you’ll argue with me
one long, dark night till dawn,
and just when I’m sure
I’ve won, a watery sun and birdsong
arrive to prove me wrong

It matters hardly at all
should you colour me white,
for soon forgot,
waiting to catch you out;
if no real harm done,
easy enough to simply shrug me away
if only to nag you another day

It’s who colours me black
or even subtler shades of grey
has the most to fear,
living on the edge of a pit
of snaky half truths
eager to begin, on any slip of the tongue,
a song no swan ever sung

Oh, but I so revel in leading people astray,
anywhere, any time of day... 

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

[Note: This post-poem also appears on my gay-interest poetry blog today.] RT

Battle Royal

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“As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being.” – Carl Jung

“Faraway there in the sunshine are my highest aspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see their beauty, believe in them and try to follow where they lead.” Louisa May Alcott

 Vladimir Putin’s denials of ill-intent towards Ukraine, prior to authorising its invasion by Russian troops, must surely place him among the ranks of the worst dictators – and war criminals - in history; ironic, indeed, his argument that Ukraine deserves to be ‘liberated’ from the grip of what he defines as ‘pro-Nazi’ forces within it.

While the tragedy of human nature, at home and abroad, has always been its vulnerability to lies, its salvation - sooner or later -  lies in the power of mind-body-spirit to expose and rise above such lies, even if it cannot (ever) undo or truly compensate for any damage already done...

BATTLE ROYAL

There is a darkness
that will gobble us up if we let it,
fail to fight back,
let a lightness in again, sunshine
and just a little rain
from time to time, enough to nurture
a stale soul, starved
of care, left to whatever neglect has in mind
to repay in kind

There is a darkness,
capable of gripping mind-body-spirit
in a stranglehold
we may resist, as kinder forces
would have their say,
but any such light determinedly stalled
by mixed feelings, now throwing
a native wisdom out in the cold, now begging it
return to the fold

There is a darkness
refusing to surrender to the resilience
of mind-body-spirit
to any corruption of heart-and-soul
likely to but score
an own goal once it entertains such ideas
as fighting its battles
in no-win situations. contrived by poor life choices,
and lost opportunities

There is a darkness,
in loneliness that, try as it may, cannot
halt the dawning of days
of love and friendship, as sure to flower
and bring to all landscapes
of mind-body-spirit such light as only they
can return us whole,
less fearful just for knowing they are there, no matter
our past-present-future 

Beware, in darkness, political resources to such devilry
as may yet lull humanity into a false sense of security...

 Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wreck of 'The Perfidy'

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

“If one tries to navigate unknown waters, one runs the risk of shipwreck.” - Albert Einstein

“Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.” – Voltaire

“Every Government has as much of a duty to avoid war as a ship’s captain has to avoid a shipwreck.” - - Guy de Maupassant

Whether or not Russia invades Ukraine, there are likely to be personal well as political repercussions for all concerned.

Much the same can be said for the Covid-19 pandemic; signs akin to post traumatic stress syndrome (PMT) may well manifest themselves in many if not most of us, and we need to remain alert to the possibility.

While the pandemic, is hopefully in decline, common sense alone would suggest that now is not the time to assume that all’s well that ends well. We need to stay on high alert for some time yet, maybe years. Even so, we can still get ourselves a life and make it well worth the having, yes?

Yes!

WRECK OF ‘THE PERFIDY’

I am no ‘fate’ pitting us
against stormy seas, rather dare
or circumstance,
feeding our personal space
with such ideas...
whether perceived as serving history,
pecuniary advantage,
or simply needing to chase a heart’s ambitions
any repercussions, down to us

I will throw a lifeline
of sorts to any mind-body-spirit 
in such distress
as it cannot begin to assess
the risks involved,
concerned only with breaking free,
seemingly a second chance
to turn a life around that’s run aground
on ever shifting mud flats

A coastline in full view
suggesting such safety and security
as only troubled souls
shipwrecked on such a shore
as deceit-pretence
dare thrive, in the thick of a gullibility
and ignorance
to which the least discerning among us
offer little or no resistance

Time, though is no lifeline
to the mind-body-spirit seeking ways
to finally escape
the perfidious lie left to gnaw away
at the heart and soul
of one led astray, unable to (ever) confess
for fear of exposing
its pillar of society for hypocrite-fraud,
intentionally so or not

No permanent safety in sight,
despite attempts by family and friends
to make of me more
than an object of curiosity
and suspicion,
left but to reason the how and why
came The Perfidy here,
meant to sail into history with honour, pride,
only to beach on mud flats

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Configuring the Archives OR Placing the 'I' in History

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

Every day, we make a little history by whatever we say and do or choose not to say and do, or simply forget to say and do, whatever the case may be. 

Come tomorrow, today’s Here-and-Now is already history, a an essential part in the history of our personal space if but a miniscule cog in the rolling wheel that is Earth’s past-present-future …

CONFIGURING THE ARCHIVES or PLACING THE 'I' IN HISTORY

One early spring,
I spotted swallows returning,
and before long,
chicks were feeding in a nest
by my window,
and in no time at all, I'm thrilling
to watching them winging
April skies, bringing such songs of cheer
as the human heart holds dear 

Summer, it came,
and mind-body-spirit on a roll
for taking its cue
from Earth Mother’s delight
in seeing nature
and human nature taking on such
joie de vivre as humanity
chooses for cover, if only to shield its lies
(for fears?) from prying eyes  

Autumn shed leaves,
such as humanity lets tears fall
as wintry days threaten
any winning ways the world
may care to invent
by way of its keeping any falls from grace
out of sight, out of mind,
while few of us as fooled as it likes to believe,
making the most of any reprieve 

Swallows flown south,
a wintry world in mourning for seasons
come and gone,
human nature taking its cue
from a barn owl
last spotted following such instincts
for survival as humankind
feeding on whatever likely prey happens by,
nor excluding the likes of you and I 

Such beginnings, endings, and in-between lives
as configuring all Earth’s archives... 

Copyright R.N. Taber, 2020

 

Amateur, a Self-portrait

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

Few if any of us will admit to not being masters of our fate.Up to a point, we are, of course but human life and nature are as complex as the Here-and-Now we have to try and make sense of every day until our past-present-future reaches its conclusion one way or another. 

A wise old bird I once knew warned me never to play amateur psychologist with my own feelings. Sadly, it is advice I failed to take for many years. Consequently, I developed an inferiority complex and lack of self esteem that I tried to confront and deal with, failing miserably. (Yes, my realising I am gay and growing up in a homophobic atmosphere was part of the equation, but only a part.)

Regular readers will know that I suffered a bad nervous breakdown some 40+ years ago. A married reader who confesses to experiencing much the same asks how I 'fully recovered' and 'got my life back to normal'. The sad truth is I never 'fully recovered although , yes, I did manage to knock my life into shape again, even managed to resume my career (thanks to a lot of help and support from various sources and some wonderful people) after several years of being unemployed and seemingly unemployable. It was tough, but if I was a victim, it was of my own making in the sense that I should have sought professional help years earlier. I suspect my breakdown was mind-body-spirit asking for that help, if somewhat late in the day; it had been damaged and badly in need of fixing for far too long. There was never going to be a quick fix.

Although I have been on an anti-depressant for years, it was being given a second chance that made me determined to to address my personal problems head-on and rise above them.  Returning to work in an entirely new environment where only select senior colleagues had been made aware of my history, proved to be a life-saver. I moved into my present flat, and spent years paying off credit cards used to furnish it. By that time, I was conscious of a growing uneasiness within myself. I needed form of creative therapy, and time to pursue it if I was to have any chance of averting another mental breakdown. I gave up a full-time career to work part-time, made time to write (a second life-saver) as well as creating a social life since living alone and often working long hours was contributing to a sense of depression that needs must always be attended to.

I have not been particularly successful with my writing, but enjoy it, and am happy to have achieved a minor reputation as a poet in the 70+ countries that continue to visit my blogs since I started writing them up some ten years or so ago.

Can I live with being a 'failed' novelist? Easily. The few novels I have written can be read in serial form on my fiction blog; only Blasphemy and Catching Up with Murder were ever published; several literary agents expressed an interest in Mamelon 1 & 2, but nothing ever came of it.  

Happy enough in my later years - since recovering from my breakdown sufficiently to get on with my life - I can well relate to the C.S. Lewis quote: “You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.”

AMATEUR, A SELF-PORTRAIT

There is a part of me

that no one ever gets to see,

for my living out

its fantasy, a nightmare fiction imposed

on Mind-body-spirit

The mind, it may fight

as best it can to get the better

of forces unknowingly

(and unwanted) hell bent upon infiltrating

the human body

The spirit, it may resist

most dreams dressed up to kill,

yet fall for home truths

last seen feeding on an amateur psychology 

worn on its sleeves

The better part of me

struggles to compensate for secrets and lies

it’s made to house

in a heart hell bent on betraying appearances

behind closed doors

The years, they passed

in tears for my struggling daily to break free

from a mind-body-spirit

that would ransom me to Reason, but Reason

would have none of it

Finally, Reason paid up,

returned me safe and sound to the kind of self

that makes a kinder person

if (still) vulnerable to life forces beyond control 

of you, me, anyone

Now, I grow old, haunted

by the ghosts of those same dark secrets and lies

that held me captive for years,

but there are other ghosts, too, allies in adversity,

come to dry my tears

Such is life and human nature,

last seen seeking to nurture its natural predilection

for love and peace

in a world rarely living up to its promises (or ours)

but… who knows…?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

Waves, Metaphor for Life

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

Some readers also dip into my fiction blog, and those of you who enjoyed the first part of my fantasy novel, Mamelon, will be pleased to know that I am (just about) on track for completing the second (final) part by the end of this year.  Sorry for the delay, but I am still experiencing difficulty walking (even with a walking stick) after my accident last year. However, I am learning to manage the pain and get out and about. Better news, though, is that hormone therapy continues to keep my prostate cancer at bay. Gotta look on the bright side of life, YES.

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/mamelon-chapter-1.html

Now, regular readers will know I love the sea. For me, it is one of nature’s finest metaphors for life; love, war, peace, spirituality, inspiration, fulfilment, regret…a potpourri of its more splendid aspects while, at the same time, acknowledging the starkness of its reality and the comfort of home grown illusion.

 Photo; from the Internet

 W-A-V-E-S, METAPHORS FOR LIFE

Waves, splashing

against me like a meeting

of old friends…

now showering me with kisses,

now running away…

just as you did towards
the end of our living together,

considered sinners

We'd no more giving

for each other, only the pain
of recalling (in tears)

how once we were - one life,
one love, twin waves

embracing the same shore,

flotsam spread across pebbles

like prayer beads

At every heartbeat,
fragile fingers trembling
at each fastening

and unfastening - of desires
rising, tumbling...

like waves lingering
but briefly at deserted shores,

crumbling sea walls

Left listening out for your calls,
but only seagulls...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2015

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from an earlier version that appears under the title Waves in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.]

National Curriculum OR Connecting with Wannabe Heroes

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

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.]

Tell-Tale Mind

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

How many of us, I wonder, show ourselves to others as we really are rather than whom we would like them to think we are? Many people seem to think I am a strong person and very self-confident. Yet, nothing could be further than the truth. I portray a fictionalized version of myself in which I believe, because I have never quite managed to work out what it is about my real self that I can believe in.

Sometimes, when we are discussing mutual friends or colleagues with other friends and colleagues, even members of our own family with other members of the family, we are not infrequently surprised by what we hear and may even wonder if we are talking about the same person. I guess we present a different persona to different people. Yet, those personae are all the same person. So are we, I wonder, all caught up in our own fictions?

I have kept faith with my sexuality since I came out as an openly gay person many years ago, and am certainly not ashamed of being gay. At the same time, all those formative years of having to lie because being gay was a criminal offence have left their mark. In those days, I had to create an alternative persona in order to survive. On the one hand, there was the conscientious if not very bright schoolboy; on the other, there was the shy, scared teenager struggling to come to terms with an awakening sexuality and finding ways of satisfying it that would have shocked just about everyone I knew. I’d cruise for sex and love-hate every minute of it. I was like a good-bad character in a novel. My life, for years was a split reality. Even now, years on, no one knows or will ever know how much so or just how much of that split personality remains.

Oh, I am no Jekyll and Hyde, but if someone were to ask, ‘Will the real Roger Taber stand up please,’ it would be a motley collection of characters that step out of the storybook that is my life.

This poem is a villanelle.

TELL-TALE MIND 

I’d show the world what I would be

(as if make-believe pays)

but the mind, it tells tales on me

Terrified, as I confront adversity,

a sailor on angry waves,

I’d show the world what I would be

‘Be brave, go free,’ love told me,

quick to learn its ways,

but the mind, it tells tales on me

From nature, I take my humanity

(lost in a temporal maze);

I’d show the world what I would be

I have kept faith with my sexuality,

(mastering its ways)

but the mind, it tells tales on me

The heart, it seeks refuge in poetry

(from its nightmares);

I’d show the world what I would be,

but the mind, it tells tales on me

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009; 2011

[Note: Yes, I know I’ve been oversimplifying in my preamble and not saying anything original, but readers often ask what lies behind a poem, what prompted me to write it in the first place. Besides, I am writing a blog, not an essay on the human psyche.]

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.]