Ghosts in the Tower

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

At 73, I have difficulty getting around London these days since a bad fall in 2011. As it happens, the accident occurred very near the Tower of London although I had not been visiting it that day. It later transpired that I had badly fractured my left ankle and would need to learn to walk again. At the time, several kind passers-by stopped to help and waited with me for an ambulance to arrive. I was in a lot of pain, ye I spite of everything, I experienced an uplifting sense of camaraderie not only with those kind strangers but also with what I can only describe as a sense of kindred spirit emanating from the Tower itself.

Call me fanciful if you like (who am I to argue?) but that same kindred spirit stayed with me throughout one of the worst years of my life which left me housebound for months and often despairing of ever being able to get out and about again. (I was, after all, 68 years old at the time.)

Now, I can walk again, if with some difficulty, with the aid of my trusty walking stick and mange wo get out and about pretty well, all things considered. Yes, I have good days and bad days, and on the latter, it is that same human spirit, positive even in adversity, that continues to see me through.

Now, today’s poem has been significantly revised since it first appeared on the blog several years ago.

Among ghosts at the Tower is said to be Anne Boleyn, beheaded in 1536 for treason against Henry VIII; her ghost supposedly haunts the Church of St Peter ad Vincula in the Tower, where she is buried, and has been said to walk around the White Tower carrying her head under her arm. Other reported ghosts include Henry VI, Lady Jane Grey, and the Princes in the Tower. In January 1816, a sentry on guard outside the Jewel House claimed to have witnessed an apparition of a bear advancing towards him, and reportedly died of fright a few days later.  There have been various nameless and formless apparitions reported more recently, by night staff at the Tower. 

GHOSTS IN THE TOWER

In the bowels of London’s tower,

beats the pulse of its history,

feisty ghosts reliving every hour

Though tempted, we do not cower

from a fear that's legendary

in the bowels of London’s tower,

Here, mortals high and low flower

like lotus, spoils of eternity,

feisty ghosts reliving every hour

Ambition, lights and dark of desire,

past-present-future of a city

in the bowels of London’s tower,

Where ravens fly and tourists gather,

a city (still) aspiring to glory

feisty ghosts reliving every hour

Pages in its history coming together

to engage with us (intimately)

in the bowels of London’s tower,

feisty ghosts reliving every hour

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

Extracts From A Prison Diary

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

Listening to a group of youths chatting amongst themselves on a bus, I was appalled to hear how they all but revered one of their friends who had recently been jailed for a knife attack on someone. 

I bet they wouldn’t think prison was so good for street cred if they were there, locked up for much if not most of the time and deprived of their freedom all the time...

The majority of young people are decent, hard working, good people. The tragic irony is that the relatively few bad apples in the proverbial barrel have the same potential if only they would acknowledge the common sense in getting their priorities right, the courage to resist peer pressure from the wrong parties and make the most of that potential instead of whining about how the better opportunities never come their way.

Prevention is better than cure. True, luck can play a part in whether or not opportunity knocks at our door, but mostly we have to take a good look around, see what there is to be had that we want and is worth wanting, and ... 

GO FOR IT.

Did I say it was easy ...?

EXTRACTS FROM A PRISON DIARY

A neighbour slipped out to buy bread

and…was shot dead;

Hoodies cheered, one waving a gun;

(Who’s next? Could be anyone...)

I thought I knew that hood inside-out

till I heard a devil yell, “Shoot!”

A face in shadow, but I knew the voice;

what happened next, my choice

Mates say guns are a must (gang culture),

a necessary feel-good factor;

suddenly, blood on my designer shoes;

heads cops win, tails I lose

Emergency sirens blasting at my head,

(Like it was me shot someone dead?)

I knelt by the body and called out a name;

the only answer, howls of shame

I was told to wear a white shirt, black tie

for the funeral, but it was a lie;

what difference if I’m dressed up smart?

Better jeans, hood, a caring heart

Later (crying in cuffs) taken back to prison,

old mates, some hoodies, looking on;

Drugs, booze, skipping school, what matter?

It was my finger on the trigger

The idea of prison hadn’t bothered me

(I’d seen cool shows on TV);

the reality? I am as meat in a lion’s den

only…torn to pieces by men

Oh, to be a schoolkid again, a wiser one,

who would never carry a gun…

nor would I mistake everyday life for dull,

but get an education, enjoy to the full

Like bile on the tongue, every word written

for tears and fears I keep well hidden

or drown in each lonely day’s angry swell

crashing down on this, my life, my cell

[From: Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]

Profile of a Hotshot

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

For a minority of young people, being in a gang is exciting, even glamorous; a life of crime, even violence, brings them local street cred. For some, too, it provides a sense of belonging that, for various reasons, may be lacking at home; invariably, they discover soon enough how seriously flawed this simplistic perspective can be, paying for their mistakes with prison or worse...

There is no excuse for gang crime. A prevailing irony and tragedy lies in the fact that, given an opportunity, most gang members have a positive contribution to make in the very society that condemns them.

There are two sides to every divide and both need to find a way to be reconciled. Society needs to ask itself where it is failing some young people to drive them into a gang culture; what does a gang offer them that it cannot, and why can’t it?

For their part, gang members need to ask themselves what they really want from life and make a bigger effort to find it; they certainly won’t find it by using weapons, shooting drugs or compensating for their own fears by terrorising others. The chances are the false security of being part of a gang, and the price they must pay for exercising their contempt for society's better values, will come back to haunt them in its prisons, those universities of crime that major in the art of self-delusion.

Meanwhile, the majority of decent young people remain under threat of being stereotyped by a mindless minority.

  

PROFILE OF A HOTSHOT

We called ourselves the Hotshots,

my gang and me

Upholding the right to use a gun,

in our constitution

We’d pick fights on street corners

and raid stores

If some little old lady or a war vet

in the way…too bad

We were the Hotshots, graduated

from school to streets

No one could touch us because we

had youth on our side

Looks, girls, designer gear and guns

made us invincible

We even hit prime time News once

(fame at last)

Then a hotshot turned good citizen

and grassed us up

Disbanded now, gone to this prison

or that graveyard

Me, once Mr Fox, now chickenfeed

among old lags

We were the Hotshots, thought guns

were cool

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