Witness for the Prosecution

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

This is a poem about the darker side of London. Tragically, it could equally apply to just about any major city or large town in the world where we pause and look around sometimes, despair, and demand not only answers but also action.

Glossy tourist brochures may like to pretend otherwise, but most places, like most people, have a dark side. Perhaps we should open our eyes to it more often?  Yes, we should enjoy exploring these places. London and other great cities across the world have much to offer the discerning visitor. At the same time, is not forewarned, forearmed...?

WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION

I’ve seen all ages on a city's streets
beg coins for bus fares or worse,
even steal a blind woman’s purse,
mock a one-legged man’s affliction
then yell “Persecution!” at passing
coppers for trying to do their duty
by some council estate community
suffering daily from the traumas
of kids without conscience, let alone
good manners (fat chance!) bent
on leading the locals a rare dance,
skipping school, drinking, smoking
this ‘n’ that, setting themselves up
as victims of society once caught out,
 all the more pitiable for having slipped
through Propriety’s safety net

No matter ethnicity, gender or creed,
this new breed of street urchin
whose familiarity with Human Rights
racism and other discrimination
would be admirable but for their using it
(more often than not) to turn tables
on any decent citizen resolved to support
law, order, and everyday commonsense,
though as likely to receive rough justice
from the law courts as back streets…
Knives - and guns - not unfamiliar sights
so no wonder fewer of us willing to say
what we may well have  heard or seen out
of fear for family and friends being made
to pay, no hold barred where any criminality
pitted against social responsibility

Oh, and what do the mayors and PM make
of all this? Oh, plenty to say, a limitless
supply of token gestures as we city dwellers
grow ever more anxious for answers

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007

[This poem has been slightly revised from the original version as it appears under the title 'Witness for the Prosecution' in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

Anatomy of Chaos

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

We may not be rich, but even those of us blessed with life’s simpler, everyday comforts need to count our blessings whenever, from time to time, they may seem somewhat thin on the ground. 

Millions of people worldwide are struggling to survive in appalling conditions; floods, drought, famine, lack of clean drinking water, overcrowded refugee camps, extreme poverty, war…We may catch glimpses of these on TV and spare them a thought, only to go on and watch a movie, fun quiz, chat show or whatever…

There is no point in feeling guilty, just very fortunate, and if awareness of the world’s ills does not help us keep a sense of proportion, it damn well should.

ANATOMY OF CHAOS 

Carpet stains
greeting the dawn,
yawning
away with bare feet,
flip-flops,
mouths dripping
coffee,
cornflakes, butter
on toast…
chair legs banging on
about
how chaos rules
OK

Carpet stains,
epitome of a life
enjoyed,
fibre heart strings
singing along
with garden birds,
grasshoppers,
teenage rock moves
and ma
performing a star
turn
at the kitchen
sink

Carpet stains,
alive, but only just;
sunset
soaking its fibres
with shades
of red and yellow,
like autumn
saying its goodbyes
to faces
at windows looking
for ways
to make the best 
of things

Carpet stains,
put to bed with wine
and candles,
left to soak up
evidence
of home comforts,
world politics
redirecting its refugees
via short-cuts
to Paradise Road,
splinters
of broken glass
overlooked

There will be blood...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Bed-Sit Lifer

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

Every large town and city has its share of bed-sits or single person apartments comprising little more than a room with basic amenities. If you’re lucky, it’s en suite and you don’t have to share a bathroom / toilet.

I recently got chatting to a guy in a bar whose house had been repossessed because he could no longer afford the mortgage repayments. As it happens, he’s gay but he could have been anyone of any persuasion, man or woman. He lives in one room without a view and has to share a bathroom. “One you turn sixty,” he told me, “people stop caring, especially if you’re gay and you’ve lost your looks.”

He is a lonely, unhappy man, convinced his age and sexuality means he can’t get a life, and his living conditions don’t help.

Yes, well, gay men and women don’t have a monopoly on loneliness, that’s for sure, and there are many people in this world who don’t even have a roof over their heads.

It’s sad and, yes, the 21st century should be ashamed of itself for the degree of poverty in the world. But there is more to poverty than lack of money and resources. There is a poverty of the heart and spirit that gives up on life too soon.

We all want different things from life and few of us come even close to what we would like. But we can still enjoy life and make the best instead of the worst of things. It’s never easy, that’s for sure. But it’s true what they say…where there’s a will, there’s a way. I have met some of the poorest people who can honestly claim to be happy in their own way. They may not have much, materially speaking, but they love life and care about people and just being around them makes you glad to be alive.

I’m not poor but I definitely ain’t rich either. I would have liked my own house overlooking the sea. Instead, I rent a studio flat in London UK. Sure, I have regrets (who doesn’t?) but life is what we make it and we are what we let life make of us. Yes, I get lonely sometimes. Yes, I am unhappy sometimes. Who isn’t? Ah, but I don’t intend to become like the guy in that bar…and yes, I’m (well) past sixty too.

You have to be a friend to have friends and you have to think positive to be happy. It’s not always easy and can be hard work…but it’s always worth making the effort. Getting a life doesn’t just happen…we have to make it happen.

BED-SIT LIFER 

Dawn’s dust has scarcely

settled at the chin;

an eccentric clashing

of streets below

reminds that it’s time

to go at it

World’s dirt has scarcely

greased the hair;

a hyper-rhythmic rush

of leather gear

pants me here and there

at bald faces

An April dusk has scarcely

brushed a teary eye,

birds singing in whispers

like mourners
gathered at a gravestone

now trickle away

Only answerphone messages,

cat's in a funny mood,

more repeats on the telly,
forgot a take-away,

the pirate tape won’t play,

nothing else to say

Hear a knocking at the door,

(not expecting anyone)

maybe a neighbour wanting

to borrow something;

could it be we'd introduce

ourselves at long last?

Licking lips nervously, rising

with anticipation.

heart skips a beat like a lifer's

on visiting days, pausing 

at the door, gripping handle,

afraid of...what, me?

What impression will I make

on this stranger

who may well have had a day

like mine, be seeking

some company too, no harm

in trying to make a friend?

Too late. Footsteps, going away;

oh, well, maybe another day ...

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2000, 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears  in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]

The Saddest Swinger In Town

http://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223121732/oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T

When we talk about poverty here in the West we invariably think of Third World countries. Yet, the West has its share of poverty too, even the great USA although it prefers to hide it behind a glossy corporate image. In the UK and across Europe there are beggars on the streets and families living below the bread line
Statistics tell us that poverty kills more than 50,000 people every day. Oh, but to hell with statistics, they are academic. (Who takes any notice of them anyway?)

Every statistic is a real person. Behind every statistic, is someone trying to get a life.

A year ago, I spotted an enigmatic young woman in a bright orange dress on the dance floor at a London bar. Months later, I read that she had been found dead in her home. She wasn’t the victim of a violent attack or a drugs overdose; she had been unemployed for several years and died of malnutrition. So why didn’t anyone realise? Why didn’t she ask for help? You tell me...

This poem is a kenning.

THE SADDEST SWINGER IN TOWN

I am a friend to none,
but embrace all, yet it is not
out of vindictiveness
I swing for every man, woman,
and child on the streets
of a world fast losing the plot
when it comes down
to getting its priorities right
(looking after its own)

Some call me The Teaser,
calling on Life to flirt with Mercy,
dragging kindly souls
deserving far better than this
to an untimely death;
small comfort in Earth Mother’s
lasting kiss for those
left to grieve for the greater
of love’s tragedies

I spare none, but feast
on shadows, waters of the womb
and leftover dreams;
Yet, even I can be beaten,
forced to retreat,
were the world to take arms
against its penchant
for glossy storylines, take issue
with home truths

Poverty, the saddest swinger in town
for society's denial of failing its own

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

[Note: This poem will appear in my next collection, Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Bools, 2012.]

Crocodiles In The Water

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

I wrote this poem some years ago after a conversation with a young student whose family in his home country have to walk miles every day to fetch clean water. He was genuinely shocked that we, here in the West, take the simple, everyday act of turning on a tap so much or granted.

After the poem appeared in various print and online publications, readers wrote in whose various countries of origin were mostly in Africa (but also, latterly, Iraq) to say much the same thing.

We are living in the 21st century, for goodness sake! The West should be ashamed that we do not do more to provide basic amenities for poorer people world-wide.

We must do more: http://www.megree.com/e/3

Thhis poem is a villanelle.

CROCODILES IN THE WATER

A common slaughter,
Third World dying
for want of clean water

Children’s laughter
turns to crying,
a common slaughter

Each young-old grafter
grown sick of trying
for want of clean water

At some capital altar,
disciples denying
a common slaughter

A 21st century arena
found sadly lacking…
for want of clean water

Through gold teeth, eager
summit tipplers belying
a common slaughter
for want of clean water

[From: The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004]