A Life in the Day of a Couch Potato

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

A reader, Helen, has kindly written in to say she and her family enjoy my poetry and she thinks my blogs I deserve more followers. Well, thanks a lot, Helen, encouragement is always welcome. Poetry, though, is not everyone’s cup of tea and I am just happy that the blogs are still going strong after six years via my Google Plus site that links to new and historical posts/poems. I have set the statistics so Google does not count my own views; this gives me a clearer picture of readership. 

Now, today’s little poem was written way back in 1979. Sadly, it strikes me as being even more relevant now than it was then. A neighbour had been complaining to me about retirement, saying how he missed ‘the buzz of real life’ because all there was for the likes of retired people was a second hand existence by courtesy of television and cinema. I suggested keeping up with friends, getting out and about and doing things, going places…pleasures for which we often have little or no time when working full-time and/or bringing up a family…? (Mind you, we need to make time.) He simply shrugged and went indoors to watch an afternoon soap opera.

No, I’m not knocking TV, or the fact that we live in a Digital Age, but now I am retired myself, I enjoy keeping up with friends, getting out and about and doing things, going places…the simple pleasures for which it was often hard making time for when working.

Following a bad fall in summer 2014, I was housebound for months and spent a good year or so learning to walk again. I live alone so TV was a great comfort and companionship (of sorts) in between writing up the blogs, three sessions of (ten) physiotherapy exercises a day and chatting to friends who were kind enough to drop by and help out on a regular basis all the while I could barely walk. I missed getting out and about and do so now as much as I can; even though walking is still quite painful, I have a sturdy oak walking stick, and it is always worth making the effort.

So when I talk to young people rushing home to spend hours on social media, I can’t help feeling they are missing out…

No, I am not knocking on-line social networking, but there can be no substitute for real-life, face to face companionship and banter among friends, not to mention getting out and about in the sunshine…can there? Now I am older (71) and less mobile, it is harder to get out and about and meet people, but (still) always worth making the effort.

Social media. the world wide web, TV...all have a place in our lives, of course they do, but no one's real life balance should be tipped in their favour...surely?

Yes, cyber fun can be good fun, but there's no fun quite like sharing fun in the real-life company of friends, forming and developing interpersonal skills that can teach us as much about ourselves as other people, and will see us though the best part of a lifetime. Oh, and it really isn't a case of you can't teach an old dog new (digital) tricks; this old dog knows a few, and all the better for having learned a good few of the non-digital variety...

A LIFE IN THE DAY OF A COUCH POTATO

Little birds singing on the garden wall

I’ll not write you up;

you’re, too sentimental

for the Age, they say

As one to another you brightly call

I’ll shut the window;

a new soap opera's about

to start on TV  

Bright sunlight distorting everything

Screen-lined faces

like grotesque cartoons

in a Hall of Mirrors

Let's close the curtains, better already

Comfortable now...
with armchair perspectives
on the world

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2017

[Note: This poem has been revised since it first appeared under the title 'To a Sunny Day' in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001.]

Misty Memories OR Time, No Final Curtain

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

An earlier version of this poem  appeared in Poetry Monthly magazine (April 2007) and subsequently in my collection, Accomplices to Illusion, the same year; it was written with a friend in mind, but also for the many thousands of people diagnosed with dementia and their carers to try and give them some encouragement and help them through the early years of what is a heart-breaking condition

My friend rarely indicates that he recognises me now, but his friends and family know the person who is my friend is still there, inside the person he has become, because every now and then he finds a way - if only fleetingly, through the ever thickening mists of dementia - to tell us so. 

Time, even unto death and beyond, has neither remit nor power to erase living memory altogether, especially where love is concerned.

'Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.' - Oscar Wilde

“That I shall love always,
I argue thee
that love is life,
and life hath immortality”
- Emily Dickinson,  That I did always Love

MISTY MEMORIES or TIME, NO FINAL CURTAIN

Let life be painting pictures on the heart

for the soul’s grasp forever to retain,

so the mind’s eye, less clear than at the start

and peering through mist,can enjoy again

Though memory’s jigsaw, it may fall apart,

fitting the pieces, we make bad choices,

the mind’s ear, if less clear than at the start,

is still listening out, hears love’s voices

Our finer senses, heart and soul shall hone,

if seen to work in mysterious ways,

so Memory, though fair stripped to the bone,

to the inner self stays true all our days

Though we be taken for but shadows in a mist,
we know better whom love has ever kissed

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2019

[Note:The dinal couplet of this poems was revied, May 2020.]

Engaging with Mr Hyde

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

Most if not all of us have a dark side, possibly never more memorably illustrated than by Robert Louis Stevenson in his famous novel The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

What do we see when we look in a mirror? Sometimes, reflecting on how we look exposes much of how we are feeling but cannot articulate at the time; an indefinable anxiety about giving much if anything away.

In my experience, we need to give more away, feel less inhibited about confiding worries, fears, even a sense of split personality that can only fuel both.

On the whole, we all do a good job of camouflage. But is that a good thing? I suspect people would be less likely to crack under the strain of whatever it was causes them to do terrible things if they had felt able to talk to someone who might have been able to help them reach a clearer, less awful perspective on friends, family, colleagues, and life in general.

Having experienced a severe nervous breakdown some 30+ years ago, I remain haunted by how much worse it so easily could have been if I hadn’t received the help and support I needed. This, I should add, was more by accident then design.

Looking back, I can see how feelings of distress fuelled by an emotionally damaged childhood and early manhood erupted as they did. I am only surprised this didn’t occur years earlier. Possibly, compensating very well (too well) for a significant hearing loss and having to conceal the fact that I am gay for many years (when gay relationships were a criminal offence) made me such an expert in the art of hiding my feelings that I could not even make them out myself. Certainly, I could not articulate on them and needed help in flushing them out before I could even begin to come to terms with how I really felt or who I really am.

Traumatic and distressing though my breakdown was, I was one of the lucky ones. 30+ years on, I still suffer bouts of depression from time to time, but these are nothing compared to what happened to me then. Tragically, mental health is still something of a taboo subject which is probably why most people’s conception of mental health issues continues to be naïve if not downright ignorant; more often than not, it is a distorted one. Only those of us who have experienced it and the relatively few people who have supported us on that ghastly roller-coaster ride, have any idea of the damage it does to the human psyche.

So if someone you know starts behaving strangely and out of character, please don’t give up on them. Try to help and support them. (Professional help and support is not always either forthcoming or constructive.) It isn’t always easy being a friend, but friendship means taking the rough with the smooth. Sadly, some people are only interested in the latter; they cannot or will not contend with the other.

This poem is a villanelle.

ENGAGING WITH MR HYDE

Find beasties in mirrors weeping

for those looking fear in the eye,

never truly awake or ever sleeping

Silent as dawn’s stealth creeping

over bedcovers where we lie,

find beasties in mirrors weeping

Werewolves in sheep’s clothing

(human nature knows us by)

never truly awake or ever sleeping

Consorting with gargoyles sweeping

up mistakes and lies we’ll deny,

find beasties in mirrors weeping

Through a lace curtain of empathy,

home truths from which we shy,

never truly awake or ever sleeping

Alter ego, a chameleon peeping

through a roaming glass eye;

find beasties in mirrors weeping,

never truly awake or ever sleeping

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

Harvesting Imagination

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

Today’s poem is especially for ‘Hanna’ who asked if I have another poem about dementia as she looks after her brother who is in the early stages of Alzheimer’s; they both liked Misty Memories that I posted recently.

About 750,000 people here in the UK have dementia, and this number is expected to double in the next thirty years. I have seen the unbearably sad consequences for both sufferers and their carers. The British Government says it is committed to improving the care and experience of people with dementia and their carers by transforming dementia services to achieve better awareness, early diagnosis and high quality treatment at every stage and in every setting, with a greater focus on local delivery of quality outcomes and local accountability for achieving them. Let us hope so.

Some young people may say it does not affect them, but I know of at least two school children helping to look after a parent who has Alzheimer’s. Besides, we all have to grow old, and who knows…?

I once knew someone with Alzheimer’s who had been an English teacher and always loved poetry. Now and then in the later stages of the disease, she would come out with a very apt line or even a whole verse from a poem she’d once been able to recite by heart. So great an impression had some poems and events made on her that even the darker mists of memory failed to engulf them completely.

This poem is a villanelle, was inspired by people like my late friend and also the author Sir Terry Pratchett; indeed, all families/carers, some whom I have known personally, that have experienced or are experiencing the truly heartbreaking task of watching their loved ones' mental faculties slowly winding down. 

HARVESTING IMAGINATION

Wheels of the mind winding down;
though time play fast and loose with us,
we’ll reap a harvest of imagination

A smile but lost its way in a frown
seeks sanctuary in Cinderella memories,
wheels of the mind winding down

Though dignity wear a faded gown
as it stumbles through a Hall of Mirrors,
we’ll reap a harvest of imagination

A heart that wears love’s crown
keeps beauty in the folds of its favours,
wheels of the mind winding down

Love’s spirit unbowed, unbeaten,
turning the pages of life’s kinder stories,
we’ll reap a harvest of imagination

Among spoils of battles lost and won,
pathways to peace for all benign ghosts;
wheels of the mind winding down,
we’ll reap a harvest of imagination


Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: This poem first appeared in Ygdrasil, an online poetry journal, June 2010, and subsequently in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2010]

Hitting Home OR Dead to Rights

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

Our emotions may not always play fair, but cannot and should not be tolerated once they it starts cutting up rough. Love is no excuse, and has no place in domestic violence.

Indeed, there is no excuse for domestic violence in any shape or form, physical or psychological, and no matter who the perpetrator ;nor is there any shame in facing up to a situation and asking for help.

Victims need to confide in a close relative or friend. Perpetrators need to seek professional advice.

Whatever, no one should suffer in silence out of fear or a sense of misguided loyalty, even love. Get support (various sources available on the Internet) and summon the willpower to walk away from it. Let the abusive partner stew in his or her own juice. Forget the dream and face up to reality.

The only answer to domestic violence and physical/psychological bullying is zero tolerance. My father was a psychological bully, less so than many, I dare say, but it's not always a matter of degree; what matters are scars left on the victim, no less unsightly for being invisible to the naked eye.

Sadly, few family members can bring themselves to discuss such issues, even between themselves, thereby risking any damage being done spilling over into a tragedy worthy of media headlines.

Whatever, people need to speak out before the local coroner gets in on the act.

HITTING HOME or DEAD TO RIGHTS

Flung open the door, smile on the face;
fist at the jaw, fallen to the floor, waiting
for more...

Eyes closed, mind shut tight to it all,
homing in on a single happy time, before
things fell apart

Breaking heart in pieces on the mat,
angry tongue making the lips bleed if only
for a bad day at work

Blows lessen, cease, but not the terror;
left sick with humiliation for this wannabe
love relationship

You go upstairs, slam the bedroom door,
down later for supper, expecting to make up
for temper tantrums

Tomorrow, a rose and any tear but yours
on these so-bruised cheeks, after forgiveness,
compassion or passion?

When I pray, even God asks why I stay,
and if I confess no idea, a dear familiar voice
calls me a liar

Wherever I once found it in me to love you,
I must find much the same to leave you, or be
like your rose...

Left dying, in a smashed vase

Copyright R. N. Taber ,2003; rev.2011


[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.]

Detour

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

Sometimes we feel let down, even betrayed. and wonder why we carry on. On such occasions, I have always looked to nature for reassurance, strength and inspiration...

DETOUR

On a road of broken dreams and shattered lives,
I took a detour down a dirt track;
among leafy trees, green fields, sheep grazing,
I revisited Earth Mother;
we had been estranged, she and I, for some years
yet it seemed but yesterday
I had risen with larks, let a lullaby of nightingales
lull me into false hopes

I felt fingers stroking my hair as I passed through,
as if to reassure a prodigal child,
but I was bitter for what I (still) saw as a personal
act of betrayal and deceit;
had she not let me believe the finer things of life
would always survive the worst,
yet abandoned me on a road of broken dreams
leading nowhere?

At dusk, a nightingale greeted me like an old friend
but I pretended not to hear
as I settled on a bed of sweetest smelling heather,
afraid to close my eyes;
sleep, though, eventually penetrated my defences,
left me vulnerable
to the iron resolve of Earth Mother under its cover
of gentle persuasion

I journeyed through dark centuries of pain and grief,
defiant ghosts for company,
showing me killing fields where peace and love left
for dead but rose again;
they planted in me, my ghosts, an unspoken trust
to keep faith with them;
accordingly, I flew off on the wings of a dawn skylark
into a new awakening

[From: On The Battlefields Of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

Postcards From the Edge OR Notice of Intent

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

This poem provoked a flood of emails after it first appeared on the blog and in my collection during 2007. Most readers expressed pleasure if not relief that I was airing a condition with which many of us are forced to deal, frequently on a regular basis.

Many of my poems touch on the trauma of depression albeit ending on a positive note. Why is that? Well, for a start, too many people continue to underestimate depression, believing it synonymous with being very fed-up. It is an attitude that needs to change. Depression is tough enough without family, friends and work colleagues implying that all we have to do is pull our damn socks up!

There was a time when attitudes towards my sexuality provoked bouts of severe depression, especially as I have been prone to depression since early childhood (not recognized in children and young people then as it is now.) There are multiple causes of depression. We are all vulnerable to it, especially in the kind of world in which we live today although I dare say every century has had its various stresses and strains under which some people have buckled for one reason or another (there is rarely a single cause.)

My dear late mother used to say that when things are looking bad, the trick is to focus on all the good things in life and people. A simple idea, yes, even a trite thing to say. Ah, but does it work? Oh, yes!!! Maybe not right away but, like most things in life, we have to work at it.

Be understanding, patient and supportive towards with depressed people. yeah? Don't rush to write us off (as many people do) as whingeing wasters. Spread the word that there is no stigma in being depressed, and hopefully people might rush to understand (instead of rushing off in the opposite direction) the man, woman or child who so needs that understanding, patience and support.

POSTCARDS FROM THE EDGE or NOTICE OF INTENT

Driven to the naked edge of a snake pit, peering in,
all but poised to leap, defy demons on the brain
constantly jeering because I’m gay, weary of family
and friends urging no surrender to a growing desire
for my own gender, thus acknowledging this, a sexual
identity integral to every other part of me, although
those parts the same, no less true for being honest,
drawn to home truths haunting me since that dawn
I confronted myself for who I am, even as I continued
to perpetuate a sham of being straight (taught a sin,
at the very least a crime - to be gay)

With each new day, subtle shifts of opinion, even in
a fickle media, then legislation intended to give gay
men and women a kinder freedom

I'd stood alone and scared, desperate to end these lies,
half lies, a creeping among shadows like a thief,
seeking a love I dare not own in the face of society's
resolve to expose me for even less than a nobody
crucify me on that old stand-by Cross of Convention
but time, now to let history see I am my own person,
refusing point blank to be made subservient to stereotype.
while not my intention to offend those who mean well,
stood by with tears in their eyes watching the local bigots
breaking our backs with rods for straws, little thought
to making repairs because mud sticks

No more snake pits, self-blame, being made to feel
like a candidate for some Walk of Shame, time to get real,
put closet ways behind me

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2007]