A Healing Within OR Back on Form

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Not the least of human concerns around the world during the Covid-19 pandemic, is mental health; many if not most of us are stressed out either by social distancing and not being able to see family and friends, money worries for not being able to work, and let's not forget the stress grief imposes on us whenever we lose a loved-one. We all must find a way of alleviating stress if we can hope to survive the pandemic as much the same person - if not better and stronger, mentally if not physically  - than we were before it struck.

An actor friend once described how when he takes on a character it takes him over to the extent that he becomes that character and all but loses sight of his own self. It occurred to me that much the same might be said of stress; it takes us over and we can't see it because we are it, and lose sight of what is happening to our natural selves.

From time to time in the blogs, I have referred to a bad mental breakdown I had in the 1970’s, just a few years after my mother died. I was still in my 30’s, and a psychological mess for all kinds of reasons. It may be an overworked metaphor, but true enough to say I was drowning in a sea of confused and conflicting  feelings that had less to do with being gay than a sense of failure as a person, again for more reasons than I could begin to define. To make matters worse, there was no one in whom I could even begin to confide and there are limits to how anyone in a state of crisis, as I most certainly was, can cope with it on their own.

Inevitably, mind-body-spirit lost not only the ability to communicate in any positive form, but also the will to survive.  I experienced a complete mental breakdown with far-reaching consequences; in the short term, these were pretty dire, but in the longer term they saw me emerge a stronger, more focused person. I lost my job and did not work again for nearly four years. It was a terrible time and I would not have survived but for the support of some good friends who showed me the way back to Hope where all there had been was Despair; the rest was up to me.

Thankfully, mental health issues carry less of a stigma these days. Even so, the mentally ill person has not one battle on his or her hands but a series of battles. We win some, lose some, but practical as well as emotional support is needed before innate survival instincts start to kick in and a glimmer of positive mind-set appears at the outer edge of an all-devouring Black Hole; it is called motivation, and more often than not it is triggered by the return of a much missed sense of humour. 

“If I had no sense of humour, I would long ago have committed suicide.”

― Mahatma Gandhi

Fortunately, once rediscovered, I have not lost my sense of humour again since; it has helped me through 6+ years of coping with prostate cancer, inspired me to learn to walk again after a bad fall in 2012, and I dare say it will see me through an impending operation on my infected elbow and subsequent stay in hospital.

Religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality; never underestimate the human spirit as it can help us overcome even the worst life throws at us ... if we but let it.

A HEALING WITHIN 

Weary of fumbling

through a maze of ugly shapes;

nothing beautiful

to be seen or heard even

by the inner self,

its default to a positive mind-set

left for dead under

a mind-body-spirit anaesthetised

by helplessness, 

as in up against huge waves

of negativity,

no existential surfboard, tired

of having a pathetic dog-paddling

pass for progress

World, acknowledging me

party to its ugliness.

bearing down on human senses

day after day

on the early morning commuter run;

a cacophony

of buses, trains and people anxious

to be on time

for places and faces they would prefer

to avoid, but needs must

as some ambivalent ethos drives

the human engine beyond its limits

with no regard for whose, where, why
or consequences 

World, reconnecting me

(slowly but surely) with the beauty

of Below Surface,

fishes passing by without tossing

judgemental glances,

sharks causing a stir on the look-out

for sustenance,

not a fast buck to line the pockets

of designer gear

intended to impress or intimidate;

splendid rainbows

among coral spewing beer cans

along with other evidence of human

complacency and waste

Suddenly,

a so-weird glow of crabs and starfish

on the ocean floor

opening the inner eye to tales

of the unexpected

coursing the blood of living creatures

great and smell,

alerting us to danger, even death,

but also the wonders

of creation among which the greatest

has to be life itself,

its delights as well as hardships

around every corner if only by way

of ‘no pain, no gain’

Lungs bursting

with no less self-doubt than before,

but tempered

with hope of finding a kinder world

than I had sought

to quit without notice like a tenant

in high arrears

or that square peg in the round hole

of a workforce,

unwilling to face the situation

head-on, imagining
devils with human faces,

the easier to find excuses for opting

out of the damn scrum

On home ground,

concerned voices and helping hands

reaching out to me

to clutch, not as one all but drowning

but as someone

encouraged to restructure a whole

whose parts

have broken loose from each other,

need reconnecting

and (still) reshaping into a form

least likely to fall prey

to human frailties for staying focused 
on evergreen life forces

Copyright R. N. Taber 2017; 2020

All through the Night

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This poem appeared on my gay-interest blog in May 2012;  anyone interested can access the original post via its archives as listed on the right hand side of any blog page.

It is, in part, a love poem; the narrator could be anyone who finds comfort and inspiration in losing the love of their life. Yes, it is also partly about me, but as I have said  many times, my use of the first person plural is primarily meant to give the reader direct access to the poem as well as being a global persona; it is easier to engage with any piece of writing when made to feel you are addressing him or her directly.

I wrote this poem after the love of my life died some years ago. What does it matter that it was a gay relationship when all that matters is that it was a relationship between two people who loved each other and had high hopes of spending the rest of their lives together? As it happens, we only had a short time together, but our love sustains me still, haunts my favourite dreams and whispers words of love and encouragement in my ear whenever I am feeling low.

As I grow old and having to sleep alone, there is no room in my heart for sadness, only that once upon a time I fell in love and was loved in return. Moreover, having suffered regular periods of depression all my life, that love is the best defence against it.; time and again, it rescues me from the abyss where depression likes nothing better than to dump it victims. Love, of course, comes in all shapes and sizes; special people, places, even songs and pieces of music all play their part in helping to lift us when we are feeling so down, there seems to be no way up.

So when certain people from various socio-cultural-religious backgrounds try to tell me that gay people don’t know the meaning of either spiritual or physical love, I have only one reply..."Bollocks!" No love that is a part of us ever dies because it comprises the better part of us that we pass on to others among the better things we say and do...and so it goes on, and on, long after we, too, are gone.

You're right, this is not a gay poem as such, and why should it be? Love doesn't discriminate so why should we...or a poem?  Some would argue that falling back on memories - for sanctuary, inspiration, whatever - is simply a form of escapism from the harsher realities of any Here-and-Now - and they may well be right, but ...so what? There are worse forms of escapism than love to save us from so awful a free fall as that which configures depression.

ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT

A bird sang in my garden as twilight fell;

what species it was, I could not tell,

but its song filled my darkening soul with light

and saw me all through the night

Came moon and stars to keep me company

and the bird, still it sang, as if just for me,

a song showing pictures of us to my inner sight

that saw me all through the night

Closer, dawn, new-old fears of another day

stubbornly failing to (quite) fade away;

moon and stars abandoning me to such a plight

as haunting me all through the night

Among the sun’s first rays, Apollo’s smile;

the bird, typically, came that last mile,

spreading peace and hope enough in a leafy sky

for a time to live and a time to die

Among even love songs heard or yet to hear,

none will sound sweeter to my ear

than of a bird whose species I couldn’t  make out

that once sang in my garden all night

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: An earlier version of this poems appears under the title 'Empathy' in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

Source and Destination

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The same reader who asked why I often use the expression mind-body-spirit in poems and word search labels rather than mind, body and spirit has also asked why past-present-future appears as one instead of three words. Again, hopefully, the poem below might help the reader to understand my point of view as I am not, as the reader suggests, simply taking poetic licence.

Does anyone really doubt that past, present and future have a significant bearing on the human and natural landscapes that comprise planet Earth, 0000 - 2019 and counting …?

Oh, but counting or countdown … and to what?

This poem is a kenning.

SOURCE AND DESTINATION

Human history, helping to shape

who we are, how we think,

all we believe in – religion or none,

children of Earth Mother,

going with nature as human nature

cajoles, or losing faith

in a socio-cultural consciousness

bogged down in stereotypes recycled

over centuries

Austere shades of contemporaneity

conspiring to project fake news

on social media, aiding and abetting

the worse symptoms

of prejudice, fear, even hate crime

on Everyman’s doorstep,

projecting, in turn, a sense of alarm

following shades of red sunrise to sunset

virtually incognito

Moving on, trusting in the true spirit

of progress to play fair with nature

and human nature, if taking on board

what Hope, Faith and Charity

have to say means providing a future

least likely to be disempowered

by changes of climates and all sorts,

of socio-cultural politics and religion bent

on blaming ghosts

I am past-present-future, making of nature

and human nature … whatever

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2019

Sunset on a River

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Just when I think I haven’t another poem in me, one comes along to prove me wrong, and here it is, my first poem of 2019.

I love sunsets, not only for their natural beauty, but because – for me, as I dare say for many of us – it draws a line between night and day, light and dark. I find myself reflecting on life, love, nature and the relationship between nature and human nature more than at any other time. I have noticed, too, that these reflections often feed into my dreams and almost certainly contribute to my being something of a philosopher-poet.

The photo was taken by my closest and dearest friend, Graham – who also shoots the videos for my You Tube channel – and I wanted to share with you, dear readers, my thoughts upon viewing it.

SUNSET ON A RIVER

At the heart of a setting sun’s glow

I watch images of my past

converging on the Here-and-Now

while hazarding a guess at what comes next;

where only passing wings dare go

At the heart of a setting sun’s glow

I hear echoes of my past

converging on the Here-and-Now

while reaping the finer part of memory’s yield

as nurtured by mind-body-spirit

At the edge of a sunset’s fading glow

I toss all testing times

converging on past-present-future

while taking heart from a sense of Carpe Diem

bonding nature and human nature

In the dying breath of a sunset’s glow

as earth and sky conspire

to pass the world into the arms of night.

I’ll put one foot in front of the other, feel safer

for a discourse with Earth Mother

Where moon and stars on some river flow,

 so, too, the human heart aspires to follow

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

Nature, Poetry of Remembrance

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

Update (May 2016): A reader has been in touch to ask for the link to an interview I recently gave a student at my old university (some 40+ years ago) about my poetry for a multi-media project on 'an interesting person'. It was fun. Moreover, it warms the cockles of this septuagenarian's heart to know people still find me interesting. Unfortunately, this reader used the Comments button, but did not include an e-mail address so I am posting it again here.]

https://r224e31251.racontr.com/index.html  (NB. Copy into your browser to access this link.)

Meanwhile…

My mother died in 1976. I once asked her what she wanted out of life. She replied, ‘All I ask is that people remember and think well of me after I’m dead. I'd so like to be more than a photo on the mantelpiece," she added almost as an afterthought. 

What more can any of us ask for, eh?

Oh, I didn't quite get it at the time. I do now. Oh, yes, especially in springtime when I go for a walk in the countryside; I can see her smile and hear her voice everywhere I look... or... when I get home and listen to Shirley Bassey, her favourite singer...or... visit an art gallery and enjoy the Turner landscapes she loved...

Art, like nature, is always with us. Nature, though, is very much a living organism in its own right while art relies on the observer (or listener) to achieve much the same. Memories, too, are always with us, especially those surrounding loved ones. Yes, art can stir memories. Nature, though, offers a more direct route, reminding us that all living things, not just people, have their seasons, pass away and come again...

For me, it is this sense of spirituality that nature offers which transcends precious memories into a life-force in a way no religion ever could, and gives the poem its title.

NATURE, POETRY OF REMEMBRANCE 

Come a time I’ll close my eyes forever,

never again observe a waking day,

think of me with love as a new sun rises,

and weep not, but look for me there

Come a time I’ll close my ears forever.

hear dawn’s sweet chorus no more,

think of me as heavens make glad music,

and weep not, but listen for me there

Come a time my senses fail me forever,

never again smell a rain-kissed earth,

think of me as flowers open their petals,

and weep not, but walk with me there

Come a time we’ll have run life’s gamut,

may the dream that was ours never fade,

but merge into Earth Mother’s natural art

created for all our sakes and we for it

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2016

[Note: This poem first appeared under the title, 'Rhetoric of Mortality, Poetry of Life' in Accomplices to Illusion: poems by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

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.]

Pages in a Photo Album

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Clouds tell many stories, not least our own...

PAGES IN A PHOTO ALBUM

Lying in the grass,
studying the sky as cloud faces drift by
like the years of my life from cradle
to now, wondering where did they go,
and why, how…?

Grandpa and grandma,
long since gone to dreams in the urn;
family and friends I have loved,
and those who freely gave their love
in return

Teachers, liked or loathed,
rarely understanding how hard
some kids find it to be good
at this or that so get into trouble
at an early age, and few bother
to turn the next page in their history
so - misery!

Prisoners’ faces, too, putting
on a show, believing they know
they are done for, puppets
made to wriggle and squirm
on all-invisible strings, even pray
for better things, but to what, where,
or whom…?

Faces in a global room
looking out, always too scared to shout
for Love and Peace
as Apollo and today’s tin gods
make sport with us

Lying in long grass,
studying the sky as cloud faces drift by
like the years of my life from cradle
to now, wondering where did they go,
and why, how…?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2014

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Looks Familiar' in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Book, 2001.]

Landfall, Human Spirit

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We have no choice regarding our being brought into the world; all the more reason, in my opinion, why we should be allowed choices regarding how we live and even leave it. I, for one, would not want to stay if my quality of life (as I see it) was such that I felt unable to give to or take from it as I would like.

We should never underestimate or shrink the capacity of children and young people to think for themselves, the more so as they grow into a subtle if inarticulate awareness of the world into which they have, unasked, been brought. The better, greater part of instinct, if nurtured with loving care, will always be the cornerstone of humanity nor is it entirely lacking in nature.

Now, I have always maintained that quality of life is more important than life itself while how an individual assesses his or her quality of life will vary considerably since we are not (yet) a race of clones. As for so-called ‘success’ and ‘failure’, they are very overrated and far less important than aspiring to goals where the very process of aspiration helps make us (hopefully) better and kinder human beings.

Everyone sees life differently and wants different things from it. We should respect that at every level of society; home, school, workplace etc. Children and young people are not vessels for the aspirations of parents or teachers; they have minds of their own and should be encouraged to develop the moral stamina to make their own way in life.

Why do I refer to the human spirit when I subscribe to no religion? As my mother once told me when I said I did not want to go to Sunday School any more, religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality, and she was a Christian. Moreover, it is a spirit that endures long after death in the form of a posthumous consciousness whereby something of us, by word or deed, lives on to be passed on in turn by someone somewhere who may not even have known us well, if at all. [No religion has a monopoly on immortality, only its own interpretation of it.

LANDFALL, HUMAN SPIRIT

Faces, competing
to offer a helping hand
where I cower
in my corner from wind
and acid rain eroding
a world ever whimpering
in pain

Hands, reaching out
to drag me into the world,
urge me stand tall
among rats running rings
around human beings
looking on and/or placing
bets

Hopes, aspirations
and pipe dreams staking
a claim on me, tossing
fistfuls of straws where left
to surf a perfect storm
on my own, make for a safe
haven

Eyes, closing, as sure
as the world’s blood, sweat,
and tears customizing
its tee-shirts with this or that
social, cultural, political,
or religious divide, no place
to hide

Ocean of voices,
a crashing hypocrisy urging
I strike a balance,
take its swell in my stride,
do tin gods proud,
last spotted strutting cloud
nine

Landfall, blanket
of noises (potential choices)
and new senses
wrapping me in silver foil
to keep me warm
and safe from harm, peace
in our time

Waking refreshed
and inspired to sail on whatever
life throws at me,
stay true to mind-body-spirit.
each new day
reassuring me it's OK
to be gay

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2014 

[Note: An earlier version of this poem under the title Waters of the Womb first appeared in an anthology All Our Tomorrows, Triumph House (Forward Press), 1999 and subsequently in Poetry Monthly (43) the same year before I included it in Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]

The Zen of Yellow Roses

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When a loved one dies, a part of us dies also. Yet, my experience of death has been that, even as time passes, the worst of grief fades, and memory may even start to play tricks on us, love sees us continuing to share in the experience of loving and being loved, the quality of our inner life is all the better for that.  

In the language of flowers the yellow rose is for remembrance. What better icon then for the mind to click on at birthdays, anniversaries, whenever loss makes itself especially felt, than a yellow rose, and let flower the bitter-sweet joy of a happy memory risen above its thorns?

This poem is a kenning.

THE ZEN OF YELLOW ROSES or 

I bring truth

where imagination would feed

on fear and speculation,

engage with those seeking comfort

and reassurance

in far darker places than even

Orpheus searching

for his lost love in the bowels

of the Earth

I combat the terrors

of sleepless nights spent tossing

and turning

in early hours with no respect

for human dignity

or a desperation feeding

on such crumbs of hope

as left out for birds in winter

at its worst

I bring a lasting sense

of peace to mind, body and spirit,

where shadows

gather like key conspirators

with intent to kill,

yet kept at bay by a natural

instinct for survival,

struggle though it may against

hellish odds

As a rose its thorns, to pain I rise above,

who am Remembrance-Peace-Love

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Poetry, Rites of Way OR Engaging with Mind-body-Spirit

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Now, I am often asked why I write poetry. While I think of myself as a poet who happens to be gay rather than a gay poet, the gay input to my poetry is especially important to me. Hopefully, gay readers will enjoy relating to it, if only in part, while the less gay-friendly heterosexual reader is invited to put aside any outdated, misleading, and often offensive stereotypes that continue to attach themselves to the whole gay ethic in the minds of the less enlightened.  Much the same can be said of my approach to fiction; I haven't written many novels and none have been bestsellers although they sold well and feedback was mixed but on the whole appreciative; as with my poetry, I have tried to reach a mixed readership, and enjoyed every minute of it.   Anyone interested can read my fiction in serial form on my Fiction in the Subject Field blog; synopses at:

Now, although I enjoy socialising, I am also a very private person. I have never kept a journal because I hate the idea of anyone accessing details of my private life and thoughts when I am no longer around to qualify what I wrote. At the same time, my poems are journal pages of a kind; few are strictly autobiographical, but each and every one turns on the kind of person I am, warts ‘n’ all.

Many of my poems have been inspired by conversations with all sorts of people - men and women, gay and straight alike - who have told me about themselves as this bar, that bus queue…wherever. The subsequent poem is as much their story as mine. At the same time, how I chose to write the poem illustrates my train of thought upon hearing and often relating to what they had to say and mulling it over for hours, weeks, months, and even years. My fiction takes shape in much the same way although I, personally, find poetry both more expansive and inclusive. Any readers interested, may like to visit my fiction blog sometime, details at:

https://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/2016/05/news-updates-fiction.html

Writing poetry, like any creative process, exercises the inner eye in seeing even what is sometimes considered (by whom?) best overlooked. We all need to see and feel in order to try and understand; every artist wants to share his or her insight, feelings, and subsequent understanding - flawed though it may well be - with others.

Past-present-future, the poetry of yesterday-today-tomorrow, the stuff of dreams and personal space, seeing as through ... whatever.

Oh, and, by the way, I was born on a sloping dead-end street.

POETRY, RITES OF WAY or ENGAGING WITH MIND-BODY-SPIRIT

When this life ceases to be,

my spirit left to feed on eternity,

what will they think of me

who drank my wine at table,

doubted I was even able

to write at all or, at least, as well

as one might who always

kept Mount Parnassus in sight,

despite the English climate?

Oh, I dare say they were right,

but I’ve so enjoyed being a poet,

lapping up all criticism, praise,

scepticism, quips about simplicity,

a serious lack of intellectuality,

how gay-interest poetry undermines

a proud genre’s finer integrity,

compromises the very aesthetic

of its history and spirituality

I've heard it’s a cardinal sin

to lower the tone, let anyone in

on a poem, its place in the arts

intended to impress, access

only partly allowed or its mystery

all but solved, and that way

(surely?) anarchy lies. Whatever,

a poet will always have the edge

on Mr, Mrs, and Ms Average

Although but mortal, mind and body

expect more of the human spirit

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2012

[Note: An earlier version of this poem was mistakenly published under its draft title 'Requiem for a Poet' in A Feeling for the Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.]

Pages in a Family History OR Ghost, (Another) Word to the Wise

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Sadly there will always be prejudice and bigotry especially in some parts of the world that are slow to get real about Human Rights, but elsewhere as well. 

All we can do is lead by example, try to educate the less enlightened among the heterosexual majority in our own little corner of the world and trust that the ripples we make will spread, become waves and cross oceans. It has happened before, is happening even now and will always happen.

Yes, there will always be bigotry and prejudice but be sure it won’t always get its own way. People, on the whole, are better than that, although it may take more time than we would like for those some to realize that. Others, of course, like die-hard evangelicals and those repressive regimes around the world who put self-interest above common humanity, will always pursue their own agendas...that is, for as long as the rest of the world lets them get away with it.

We can but resist the worse aspects of life as best we can and try, each in our own way,  to live up to the legacy that every good parent leaves his or her their children - love. Love, in all its shapes and forms will see us through just about anything life throws at us.Sadly, some children miss out on that, but love is open all hours, we only have to make time to look and learn... if we so choose. (Something else my mother taught me and which, especially as someone with no partner to share the ups and downs of growing old - I am 70 now - I try to live up to in my heart and pass on in my poems.)

The best oral traditions, as passed on in all walks of life, are more than just stories, they are a legacy of love that - should we care to listen and learn - encourages us to bond with a common humanity and play our part, each in his and her own way; a posthumous as well as present consciousness serving us ... if we will but let it.

PAGES IN A FAMILY HISTORY or GHOST, (ANOTHER) WORD TO THE WISE

There are words my mother told me

that, when feeling low, I always recall,

seize upon and cling to passionately,

opening up to the body, heart and soul

There are dreams my mother shared

that, when feeling low, I always recall;

knowing how much she really cared

keeps her near close, makes them real

There are principles my mother had

that, when feeling low, I always recall,

seeing the good in folks not the bad,

though all humanity stumble and fall

There is bigotry my mother warned

that, when feeling low, may get to me;

the trick (she had its lesson learned)

is to cry inside, so no enemy will see

Keep the faith, my mother urged me

that, when feeling low, I always recall

on hearing colour-creed-sex-sexuality

make its case for heart-mind-body-soul

My mother passed away years ago,

but I often hear her whisper in my ears,

urging me to keep the faith and know

love is stronger than the worst of fears 

In those wise words my mother told me,

hear the cry of a common humanity

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

The Zen of Discernment

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As we go through life, how much do we discern regarding the nature of our surroundings, and how much do we take for granted?

This poem is a villanelle.

THE ZEN OF DISCERNMENT

Like ghosts, our years pass us,

(the mixed blessings of memory)

as hauntingly beautiful as stars

No lesser regard for science

than Earth Mother’s finer poetry,

like ghosts, our years pass us,

Images of laughter and tears

finest art can only ever but copy,

as hauntingly beautiful as stars

No hopes wing more precious

than family and friends in harmony;

like ghosts our years pass us

Come birdsong to fine old trees,

so joy and pain creating our history,

as hauntingly beautiful as stars

As centuries turn nature’s leaves,

so each human heart creates eternity

like ghosts, our years pass us,

as hauntingly beautiful as stars

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

[From: Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012]

Old Haunts

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I suspect we all get lonely sometimes. Ghosts and soap characters can be good company, but there is nothing like going out and meeting people to feel...alive! Essentially, it's a matter of self-confidence, believing in ourselves and others or how can we expect them believe in and have confidence in us?

Never let anyone tell you you're less of a person then they are, whatever inflexible socio-cultural-religious 'principles' they may throw at you.  We are all different and as I have said many times on both blogs, being different doesn't make us different, only human. 😉

OLD HAUNTS 

World, glimpsed

in its bed-sit windows

weaving fictions

around street corners

Cracks on a pane

chasing forgotten dreams

made whole again

(while the sun shines)

Lonely, a sad word,

like a weepy autumn mist

asking of the world

it answer to its ghosts

Hope, still  treading warily

through eternity

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2011

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

A Kindness of Ghosts

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Many people say they find  religious festivals very depressing; everyone comes together in the spirit of their religion for only a short while, and then we all start fighting amongst ourselves again, nations as well as families; nations wherever there are meddling politicians and fundamentalist clerics trying to put one over on each other and everyone else and families divided for various reasons, not least what they see as some members creating a cultural divide between old and new ways of life.

Whatever, we can only do our best to make sure that socio-cultural-religious differences do not undermine us; there will always be peace and love somewhere and in someone that we can turn to whenever it looks like they might succeed. Alive or dead, near or far, they will always be people and/or events inspiring us to overcome even the worst this world may throw at us for as long as we leave the door of our hearts open to them and never let anyone or anything provoke us into slamming it shut for the sake of any socio-cultural-religious persuasion.

We are a common humanity whose differences (as I have said so often and will say again) do not make any one of us different, only human, regardless of colour, creed, sex or sexuality.

Here’s wishing you all Happy Days, not just at festive times, but always.

A KINDNESS OF GHOSTS

Seabirds, making

graceful flight;

missiles, closing in

on us

Homeowners striving

for a good tan;

refugees having to settle

for staying alive

Jagged rocks along

the seashore;

spent shells among

daisies on a lawn

Children crying over

lost sandcastles;

sorry world, weeping

at mass graves

Climate change across

land, sea and air;

nature, despairing at

our despair

Love, hope and peace

but as ghosts…

kept busy haunting our

better selves

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2013

  

[Note: The poem has been (very) slightly revised from a version that first appeared in CC&D, Scars Publications (US) September 2005 and subsequently in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

Fail-Safe For Mortality

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What is life all about? How should I know? But a passion for nature reassures me it’s part of a bigger picture than even the inner eye can see…

Whatever our culture, religion, sex or sexuality, who can embrace nature and not sense its lending us a feeling for life that is part of its patchwork of history that includes all humankind? An undeserving inclusion, I often think, seeing how we are inclined to treat the natural world as if we own it, and are entitled to rape and pillage landscapes to which no written poem can do justice because they are poems in their own right,

FAIL-SAFE FOR MORTALITY

Where the sun clips the wing of a blackbird,
there I’m heading;
where a spring breeze sings in swan’s down,
there I’m coming from

Where summer rainbows kiss autumn leaves,
there I’m heading;
where April showers give birth to its daffodils,
there I’m coming from

Where autumn leaves make music to die for,
there I’m heading;
where laughter and love take their holidays,
there I’m coming from

Where the snowmen dance to a robin’s tune,
there I’m heading;
where old gods pass new myths off as history,
there I’m coming from

Where a spring breeze sings in swan’s down,
there I’m heading;
Where the sun clips the wing of a blackbird,
there I’m coming from


Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

Insider-Outsider OR Mist on the Glass

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Sometimes we are reluctant to look too closely at happy memories because they hurt too much just for knowing they are but memories. Even so, never underestimate the lasting power of happiness. When the going gets tough, it is never far away but waiting in the wings to prompt our every move…once invited to do so.

Yes, happy times can never be relived in quite the same way. But they are always there fro us, urging us to explore our capacity for happiness. It is this that inspires the happiest hours of our lives and will continue to do so, provided we let it.

When loved ones die, we miss them terribly and memories can never compensate for the physical pain of missing their presence in our lives. But such happiness is a shared experience. We were happy to spend time with them because they were happy to spend time with us. Each cared about the other’s happiness and well-being. We should never stop caring but seek out new ways of being happy and making other people happy. So things will never be the same. Life’s like that.

Happiness - like love - comes in all shapes and forms. Let good times that have passed away and seem beyond reach inspire our present, not inhibit it and the future will invariably make room for more.

Death comes to us all, that's life. Love, though, remains a part of us in the form of a posthumous consciousness in which hopefully we, too, may continue to make our presence felt for the good in someone else's life and memory long after our final heartbeat.

So ... if your window on happiness seems misted up, give it a good clean, yeah?

Yeah!

This poem is a villanelle. 

INSIDER-OUTSIDER or MIST ON THE GLASS

Through a misty window pane

set in a red brick wall,

I'll softly tread now and again

I glimpse familiar faces, strain

to hear them call

through a misty window pane

A kaleidoscope of spring rain

touching us all,

I'll softly tread now and again 

Oh, to catch up with love again,

follow its trail…

though a misty window pane!

A mirror to choice, loss, or gain,

(making us look big or small);

I'll softly tread now and again

Who turns down Memory Lane

risks going into free fall;

through a misty window pane,

I'll softly tread now and again

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

Life Companions

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Spring may sometimes seem light years away, but where love is concerned - for anyone anywhere - it is always a springtime of the heart. We human beings are but mortal, but the spirit of love - in all its shapes and forms - lives on in those whom it may have touched long after we have gone the way of all living things into that Great Unknown we call Death.

LIFE COMPANIONS 

The good earth, a show of daffodils

as we roam country lanes, you and I;

sunny skies, and a blackbird’s trills

good companions, to let live, let die

Pausing to watch a harvest gathered,

raucous singing lifts body-mind-spirit;
with our good companions, we soar

land and sea, friendly heavens well lit

Another time, autumn mists falling

as if to guard nature's best kept secrets
of life-death-evergreen as inspiring
Everyman's first and final heartbeats

You-Me-Us, engaging with all nature,

bent on keeping its world together

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005, 2019

[Note: This poem has been significantly revised from an earlier version that appears under the title 'Good Companions' in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.]

Metamorphoses, from Cradle to Grave

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As we metamorphose from infant to adult, from birth through life to death, who’s to say what will happen to us along the way?  We can but hope to meet life’s challenges head-on and come through them a better person.

Ah, but do we ever, at heart, leave childhood behind completely? I suspect the good, the bad and the ugly affect our behaviour in later years. Some of us will have enjoyed an idyllic childhood, but life is no idyll and that can be a tough lesson to learn. Others will have been less fortunate during their formative years; we can but do our best to shrug off unwanted baggage, and turn it into something positive; for as start, looking for the good in people instead of rushing to judge the bad and the ugly. (Who knows what baggage they may be struggling to but unable to shrug off?)  

For me, this nursery rhyme invokes ghosts of childhood and beyond that represent the various stages of ‘me’; a ‘me’ visible only to the inner eye, and one - that had a BAD relationship with my father - I wish, would go away, but of course, it never will, any more than a significant part of the damage it caused. Even so, life - for most of us - is a positive learning curve, and the children we were are a far cry from the adults finally put to rest.

‘Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish, I wish he’d go away...’

Perhaps you know the feeling?

This poem is a villanelle.

METAMORPHOSES, FROM CRADLE TO GRAVE

Days of nursery rhyme
maturing, breaking free;
haunting mists of time

Let’s walk, talk, climb
singing) up an apple tree;
days of nursery rhyme

This gene, that enzyme
maturing, breaking free;
haunting mists of time

First summits to climb,
marathons run to victory;
days of nursery rhyme

Graduating to prime,
wandering thoughtfully;
haunting mists of time

Charged with a crime
for each lost opportunity;
days of nursery rhyme,
haunting mists of time

Copyright R. N.Taber 2007; 2012

[NB This poem has been slightly revised (2012) from the original as it appears in  Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

[Please Note: My collections are only on sale in the UK but anyone can order (signed) copies from me at a generous blogger discount. For details, contact rogertab@aol.com with ‘Blog reader’ or Poetry collection’ in the subject field.]

A Short History Of London

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I grew up in Kent and would often spend a few weeks of my summer holidays in London where my maternal grandparents lived. This would have been in the 1950s when London suffered from periods of dense smog; the air here is considerably cleaner now still much polluted as in so many major cities.

When I was a boy, my mother would bring me to London on my birthday to see the Christmas lights in Oxford and Regent Streets; in take on a theme and all the major stores would reflect this in their shop window displays. The effect was magical. To this day, I recall how an Aladdin theme took young Roger's breath away, and it must have been a good fifty years ago.

Pollution aside, it is a great place to live, especially if you are rich (which am not) if only for its wealth of art galleries, museums and various historic icons like Buckingham Palace, Tower of London, the Monument and  St Paul’s Cathedral as well as newer ones like The Gherkin and The Shard...etc. etc.

I am fortunate to live within a short walking distance of Hampstead Heath and can easily access Green Park via the nearby Regent’s Canal. I sometimes find it hard to believe that I live in the heart of a bustling metropolis. To be honest, it is too bustling these days. London is very overcrowded as anyone who uses its stressful public transport network will confirm. 

Photo: The Tower of London

A SHORT HISTORY OF LONDON

Find love, hate and mystery
(politics of redemption);
zoom lens on a city’s history

No passing hint of jealousy
in its powers of persuasion;
find love, hate and mystery

Mansion and hovel, secretly
writing up its passion;
zoom lens on a city’s history

In darkest prose and poetry
of its tower-prison,
find love, hate and mystery

Feeding on Sam’s feisty diary,
flames of determination;
zoom lens on a city’s history

Come a multicultural century
(cause for celebration)
find love, hate and mystery;
zoom lens on a city’s history

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[From: On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010; rev. ed. in e-format in preparation.]