Human Spirit, the Hand that Rocks the Cradle

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

By now readers will know the so-called Arab Spring (2010) has left those countries involved no better if not worse off than before. Well, that's world politics for you...

Civil war has all but broken out in Libya yet People Power continues to make its voice heard across North Africa and the Middle East, ordinary men and women desperate for democratic reform and risking their lives for it.  The human spirit is strong if vulnerable, proving time and time again that it can and will rise above tragedy.  Perhaps, though, if more Western politicians even half understood Middle East politics and neither side did not always assume they know best...

Nature and human nature, they give and they take away. Perhaps, though, if it were even just a shade less inclined to reflex actions that demand it bite the hand that feeds it, humankind might yet find itself in better shape to prevent itself going to the dogs of war that have haunted its every step since the beginning of time...?

The poem first appeared in Poetry Monthly International (2010) and subsequently in my collection.

HUMAN SPIRIT, THE HAND THAT ROCKS THE CRADLE

There’s a hand that caresses the first buds of spring

and bids them grow;

it moves among summer corn in time for harvesting

by courtesy of Apollo

Where autumn’s leaves making ready for its turning,

it bestows a blessing;

when winter brings us to our knees, of life despairing,

it beckons us to spring

Where we run the gamut of love, hate, peace and war,

find, too, Earth Mother;

let Her fair hand caress and smooth the troubled brow

or we destroy each other

The question arises, dare we bite the hand that feeds us

and face the consequences

or do we accept it in a spirit of goodwill to all humanity,

put aside our differences?

Beware, or the hand that rocks the cradle may let it drop,

our world broken or worse;

needs must, we learn to read the hand that’s writing us up,

go back to school or else... 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2016

[Note: An earlier version of this poem was first published in Poetry Monthly International, February 2010 and subsequently Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]

Remembering a Woman of Substance

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

[Update: 26.9.19: I share the view of many that it was in poor taste - to say the least -on the part of Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, to refer to the death of Jo Cox in the way that he did in the House of Commons last night; I suspect it was offensive to many, especially the dead woman's husband. Having watched the debate, I was appalled by some of the the language and rowdiness of many - on both sides of the House - who were constantly interrupting speakers. Do they not appreciate what bad example they are setting to those watching, especially impressionable young people?]

Every death comes as a shock, even when it is expected. But when it is a wholly innocent person and not only unexpected but also violent, it sends shock waves around a whole nation, even the world. The shock waves fade in time, but memory is a living organism and that never fades so long as there are family, friends, and other decent people out there who will not only cherish it but pass it on from generation to generation. 

On Thursday, June 16th 2016, Jo Cox MP, 41, wife and mother of two young children, was murdered in broad daylight by one of her own constituents in Birstall, West Yorkshire. 

Now, I never met Jo Cox, knew her only by reputation and from hearing her speak in Parliament on TV. However, the outpouring of genuine grief and shock - even across customary political and socio-cultural-religious divides - further highlights the fact that she was, indeed, an exceptional young woman of substance.

More about Jo Cox on wikipedia at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jo_Cox

Every death is a tragedy,  but the murder of a wife and mother in her prime as well as (already) a force to be reckoned with on a generally egocentric-driven political scene, that defies description. As for the killer’s motives, even his mental state at the time, these are barely relevant since nothing can change what has happened; all a poet can do is try to capture a little at least of the spirit of something in someone far better, and always well worth remembering.

This poem is a villanelle. (Why a villanelle…? By the very nature of its form, a villanelle requires a direct no-waffle, approach; by all accounts, Jo Cox was that kind of woman.)

Jo Cox [Photo taken from the Internet]

REMEMBERING A WOMAN OF SUBSTANCE

One loving wife and mother, 
rare breed of politician,
touching hearts, world over

Bringing opposites together,
her work, a passion;
one loving wife and mother

Anxious to make life better, 
a caring people person,
touching hearts, world over]

Crossing this and that barrier
set by culture or religion,
one loving wife and mother

No comfy chair commentator,
but getting things done,
touching hearts, the world over

Icon for life, senseless murder,
role model for a generation;
one loving wife and mother
touching hearts, world over

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016

(London, June 17, 2016)