An Autobiography of the Human Race

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

We are all past-present-future in the flesh. We inherit certain genes and much of our approach to life is taken from historical figures who have made a deep impression on just as we, in how we live our lives, make an impression on others for better or worse; family, friends, casual acquaintances, even complete strangers. It only takes one moment in time when something we say or do strikes a chord in someone’s life that will play out forever.

We won’t all make the national archives, of course, but there is another, more extensive to the point of being inexhaustible archive that is the human mind-body-spirit, that key player in human nature that should never be underestimated; whoever and wherever we are, whatever our socio-cultural-religious background, gender or sexual persuasions, it is the backbone of a common humanity that has seen the human race also rise above all history has thrown at it, just as it will continue to do, even as the C-19 coronavirus continues to impact on us all.

This poem is a kenning.

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE HUMAN RACE

I walk with ghosts, night and day,

a presence as real to me as my own reflection

greeted in mirrors, shop windows,

still waters in dream-places keeping memories

and sometime companions alive,

urging mind-body-spirit like voices in the ear

egging urging me on, regardless

of any obstruction fallen or placed in my way

whether by accident or design

I talk with ghosts, night and day,

and they listen without interruption, just a nod

or shake of the head occasionally,

sufficient to persuade or dissuade any thoughts

to action or inaction gathering pace

demanding I look again or press on, regardless

where inspiration has landed a hit,

missed its mark altogether, deserves discussion

or better left to gather dust

I bare all to ghosts, night and day,

far more even than to those who know me best

if only because I dare not share

any part of me that takes its cue from the dead

for fear of being misunderstood

or (worse) denied a voice, left with less of a life

to speak of than even a ghost,

reduced to a skeleton in someone’s cupboard,

exhibit for some eager archivist

I am that past-present-future making of humanity

what it will, and am called History

Copyright R. N. Taber 2018; 2020

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

Skeleton in the Cupboard

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

I was researching my family history some years ago and went for a drink afterwards with someone likewise engaged. He asked me why I was doing it and I confessed it was a form of therapy to help me recover from a bad nervous breakdown; it was still (relatively) early days.  When I asked him the same question, he laughed and commented to the effect that he was hoping to find a few skeletons in the family cupboard. “Mind you,” he added almost as an afterthought, “I’m not sure I like the idea of someone raking over my bones,” and tossed me a knowing wink, whereupon I felt faintly uneasy and changed the subject. We passed a cheery enough hour together, and parted promising to meet up again…which we never did.

Given how we all perceive each other differently, that the media are inclined to put across a view of us altogether differently again should the opportunity arise and various ad hoc reports are likely to be biased if not suspect, depending on time and context…ca we really expect to reach a balanced view of any life history?

Hopefully, the average family history mole will arrive at a balanced perspective, but I can’t help wondering how he or she would feel about someone burrowing into their personal history…?

SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD

I cannot see, hear or speak,
but I know things, feel things, keep them
close to my chest, archive them
so any who care to rummage the files once
the archivist has moved on
may yet discover what it was that I hid
behind closed doors who thought
the better part of valour to keep them shut
on pain of hurt wherever

I can neither defend my actions
nor ever explain, but I feel them, keep them
close to my chest, archive them
to a living and posthumous consciousness
in which we all have a share,
whether or not we choose to pass on
anything of what has been gained,
learned or lost from experiencing the nature
of experience as it is

I will never see, hear or speak
to any who know things, feel things about me
for researching my history
out of a sense of responsibility, curiosity
or simply an affinity with people
suspected of slamming doors on closet lives,
choosing to forget their footprints,
handprints, DNA, even nervy (scary?) scrawl
remain open access

I am a silent witness to all life throws,
for better or worse, in sickness, health, death
and wherever else angels (it’s said)
may well fear to tread if dearly wanting
to prise open closed doors,
research archives history would prefer left
to gather dust for fear they expose
hidden truths, they from whom so much hid
for love of them

I am called many things by many people
struggling to differentiate between good and evil,
erring on the side of the former
wherever possible if only by comparison
with its global counterpart’s capacity
for one-upmanship in every area of human life,
leaving much the same paper
and online trails for any dedicated followers
of home truths to follow

For every family's history in my every bone,
someone exposing secrets of their own...


Copyright R. N. Taber 2018

[Update: Dec. 5^th 2020:  This poem appears in the Genealogists’ Magazine for December 2020. For more information about the Society (London UK) : http://www.sog.org.uk/about/contact-the-society]

Nobody Listens to Ghosts

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

Now, readers get in touch from time to time to pour scorn on my ‘preoccupation’ with ghosts while others endorse an affinity with the past and its subsequent influences on present and future behaviour (for better or worse) both from a personal and global point of view.

I believe we are all subject to a posthumous consciousness to which we can choose to pay attention or ignore, feel inspired by past achievements (including any bookmarked ‘failure’) or simply confirm our worst suspicions.

Whatever, let the inner ear and eye have its way, and any of us may well identify a ghost at his or her shoulder urging we listen and learn.

On a personal level, it is easy if only because the ghost/s in question will have helped make us who we are; on socio-cultural-religious level, though, how many of our so-called 'betters' listen and hear, look and see...?

Maybe those of us who never listen to our ghosts need to try it sometime?

NOBODY LISTENS TO GHOSTS

Stranger

on a garden fence, watching

flowers growing,

can’t decide on the best

for the picking

and taking home, then cocks

an ear to a passing ghost,

pleading, for all our sakes, leave them

alone

Teacher

at a local school desk, watching

children growing,

can’t decide on the best

candidates for success

(perhaps even fame) then cocks

an ear to a passing ghost

pleading, for all our sakes, treat them

the same

Cleric

on a classic high horse, watching

everyone listening,

can’t decide on the most

likely to want grooming

for paradise, then cocks an ear

to a passing ghost

pleading, for all our sakes, leave them

a choice

Politician

on a popular soap box, watching

audience reaction,

can’t decide on the best

cues for winning

an election, then cocks an ear

to a passing ghost

pleading, for all our sakes, talk down

speculation

Ghosts

in passing storm clouds, watching

a world in chaos

unable to agree on the best

strategy for achieving

lasting peace, turning cloth ears

to its children

pleading, for all our sakes, come good

for us

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

A Strictly Private Viewing

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

Today’s poem has not appeared on the blog since 2009. It first appeared in a Forward Press anthology, Poetry Rivals, 2009: Lyrical Winds and subsequently in my collection.

Now, dreams are often seen as an intrusion into our personal space, but personal space comprises conscious and unconscious thought. I see dreams as affording us a strictly private viewing of it, taking in all those parts that comprise the whole; reality, illusion, ego, home truths, denial, wishful thinking...etc. etc.

How we interpret dreams and may or may not let them influence us for better or worse...well, that's called choice.

A STRICTLY PRIVATE VIEWING

Cartoon faces moving across my sky

like a home movie;

I close tired eyes to push them away

but they haunt my mind;

happy faces, sad faces, tearful faces,

lips mouthing my name;

familiar, faintly familiar, some skeletal

expressions breaking out

Past, present, wishful thinking signals

to the brain to shut down

but they have logged on, not ready yet

to turn me off;

lies, half lies, bad errors of judgement

like some grotesque mob

up for rough justice for want of answers

I don’t have, never did;

monstrous accusations and insinuations

fall like bird droppings

on a statue’s public profile, frozen in time,

trapped in its own failings

I hear a distant cry, an echo of centuries

in pain, anger and grief

for all private lives and a personal space

relegated to speculation

new faces, clear signals, warning off

Conspirators to Nightmare,

put expressions of defeat to rout, deleted

like redundant icons on a screen;

benign spirits enough to grace a totem pole

take control, cast out

demons let slip past a kinder humanity

by an unforgiving hierarchy

Eyes open, eyes shut, sky relaying
to pillow the faces of love;

we sleep, we awaken to direct and star

in our own reality peep-show
for as long as it takes to log off from it all,
wondering if we might yet get
to carry on in a loved one's dream-poems
in remembrance of times past

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

'[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'A Penny to See the Peep-Show' in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]