Hello again, folks, from London UK

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

“We must accept finite disappointment, but we mast never lose infinite hope.” – Martin Luther King

“Always remember that you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem and smarter than you think.” – A. A. Milne

“If you are pining for youth I think it produces a stereotypical old man because you only live in memory, you live in a place that doesn’t exist. Aging is an extraordinary process where you become the person you always should have been.” David Bowie

Hello again, folks, from London UK

No poem today, sorry. I am working hard on the final part of my poetry trilogy, but the heat is getting me down and there is still more of it in my mind than on paper. As regular readers know, years of hormone therapy (only) for my prostate cancer have really messed with my thought processes. Even so, we golden oldie poets are stronger and more determined than we look, so I press on. I am taking a break from Misnomer (3) while we are having to endure a heatwave here in the UK, but hope to finish and post it sometime next week.

The heat makes me feel dead beat. but writing poetry and doing word puzzles help even a gay poet to think straight. 😁  

Reader G J has emailed to complain that “You are very selective with your quotes, always choosing those that support your own views. Besides, some of the people you quote are obscure and unheard of…!” He or she also asks, “Do you realise that you often repeat the same quotes on other posts?” 

Yes, I am selective about the quotes I choose to post, not to support my own views, but (a) to provide the reader with an entry to the poem and (b) to avoid giving the impression that I am simply imposing my own views. As for obscurity, there is an entry for everyone I quote on Wikipedia if anyone cares to look, as I hope they will; yes, the authors may be obscure to some readers, but are well worth looking into, but this is a poetry blog and there simply isn’t room for me to expand.

As for repetition. I learned at an early age that if something is worth saying, it is invariably worth repeating; that’s how memorable quotes become… well, memorable. 😉

I hope some of you will find time to explore the blog archives now and then, although I suspect a heatwave is probably not the best encouragement...

In the course of global warming, I imagine many if not most of us will be having to deal with unseasonal heat and its consequences in the foreseeable future. I can but wish you all to keep well, stay safe and continue (as I do, albeit a struggle sometimes) to nurture a positive thinking mindset, whatever… No, never easy, but there is a lot to be said for the old saying ‘Hope springs eternal’… especially when the going gets tough.

In my experience, too, the spirit of kindness never fails to make itself felt and give hope a timely and very welcome boost

Take care, stay safe and keep well,

Hugs,

Roger

Poetry as Creative Therapy

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

Readers have been asking why I post poems only to revise them at a later date. Would it not be better to wait until I am fully satisfied with the finished piece before going ahead and sharing it? Well, yes, it would, but I am satisfied with it at the time and want to share it; if I have any reservations, I will delay, but even then, it can be good to share what may only transpire to be the genesis of a poem; I may well make changes to its wording and structure later, but any revisions always try to retain the spirit of the original poem.

While I do my best to interest readers with my poems, I have made no secret of the fact that the blogs are also an important form of creative therapy for me as well. I suspect my recovery from a nervous breakdown many years ago has never (quite) been as complete as I like to think. Moreover, any hangovers from that terrible time may well have been reawakened by my prostate cancer being treated with hormone therapy (Zoladex) since its being first diagnosed in 2012. I'm not complaining, just being pragmatic; I cannot ignore the effect (and influence) health concerns have had on my poetry, so they are relevant to answering the question.

In the early days of hormone therapy, I expressed concern to my consultant that it was making me feel frightened a lot of the time, and was also affecting my thought processes, especially my memory. I was assured these were side-effects of the treatment. Over subsequent years, I have learned to deal with them, but if I though I was winning the battle, I could not have been more wrong.

The sense of creeping fear leaves me from time to time, often for very prolonged periods, although it has returned with a vengeance since the coronavirus pandemic struck. However, memory loss and disorganised thought processes have dogged me from the start. Not helpful for a wannabe poet, I hear you say, and you would be right. I have struggled with writing poems (and fiction) for some years now, probably before I even started the blog, but hadn’t got the measure of my shortcomings.

I gave up on the fiction as no publishers were interested. Even so, working with words has been a lifesaver. Without the blogs, I suspect I would have given up on myself in the early days of my prostate cancer. Some days are a nightmare, not least because I forget the meaning of words with which I have been familiar most of my life and need to keep looking them up to make sure I am using them correctly. At the same time, organizing my thoughts into poem mode can take days, and that’s before I have to start wrestling with words and meaning. Completing both processes encourages me to continue, not only writing poetry but also getting ready to face another day.

My life was so different before either the prostate cancer or a bad fall in about 2012 when I fractured my left ankle and have had a mobility problem ever since, especially now I am in my mid-seventies. I used to enjoy walking for hours in the countryside and parks, long cliff walks by the sea, wherever the whim and might take me. Similarly, I used to love exploring art galleries and museums etc. and I miss all that because you can be sure that either prostate cancer or Foot will have other ideas... 😉

I am not making excuses for my poetry not always being up to the mark, simply telling it how it is and attempting to answer the question as to why I post poems only to revise them at a later date. I have always enjoyed writing poetry, nor just by way of creative therapy either. My first published poem appeared in my secondary school magazine when I was still only 11 years-old. I’ve never thought of myself as an especially good poet, but hope what some of my poems have to say will continue to resonate with some readers even after the Grim Reaper comes calling.

Readers often ask why I have an entry on Wikipedia. I didn’t know myself for a long time, but it appears it is because I also write gay-interest poetry, and there is little enough of it about. Gay poets, like gay novelists, have good reason to want to try and correct the many misperceptions many people have about gay people, the fake news and misleading stereotypes that haunt some of us all our lives.

Rightly or wrongly, I grew up in a family that gave a very vulnerable fourteen years-old Roger the impression they had as low an opinion of same sex relationships as many if not most people in those days. Consequently, I remained in the proverbial closet until my early thirties; even then, it would take a nervous breakdown - that had been simmering away in me like an awakening volcano - to eventually set me on a course that would not only restore a flagging self-confidence, but also result in my emerging from the closet, ready at last to start looking the world in the eye as a gay man. Oh, I made lots of mistakes along the way, and regret them all, especially where I may well inadvertently have hurt other people’s feelings.

Enough of all that, hope you won’t think I have strayed too far from the point I was originally trying to, make; few points worth making can be made in a few words.

Take care, folks, and keep well,

HUGS,

Roger 

PS In spite or (or because of) everything I’ve said, I do follow my own advice. I wake up each morning feeling physically sick for having to get through another day... BUT... by the time I have given myself a pep talk, got dressed and had some breakfast...YES, the positive mindset is already ticking over nicely, and invariable sees me through until bed-time... if only just, sometimes. 😁

 

Hi, Everyone

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

Hi, Everyone,

Sorry, no poem today, although I am working on one. Unfortunately, a worsening ear infection means that I am not feeling up to doing much at all at the moment, but hopefully it will soon pass.

Several readers have asked how I cope with the prostate cancer. Well, I just try to take each day as it comes and keep my fingers crossed.

I am 75 years-old, have been treated with hormone therapy (zoladex) since I was first diagnosed in 2011 and have injections about every 18 months. Although successful in preventing the cancer from becoming aggressive, the zoladex affects my memory; in the early years, I feared I was a candidate for dementia, but my consultant assured me it was the hormone therapy. I also get scared, even panicky sometimes, and this is not the kind of person I am. However, I’ve learned to live with these side-effects and do my best not to let them send me into free fall.

Diet has helped. I stay clear of dairy and meat products now. Soya milk and other soya related foods seem to help energise my system; it may not work for everyone, but it works for me; if the proof of any the pudding is in the eating, well, here I am, 10 years on, not quite the man I used to be, but still alive to tell the tale.

A reader has emailed to say he lives alone (as I do) and has just been diagnosed with prostate cancer.  It is scary, I know, but a positive thinking mindset helps… a LOT. Family and friends are likely to rally round and offer support, so let them and take strength from it; some people bury their heads in the sand and that helps no one.

Scary, too, is the coronavirus pandemic… for everyone. It is ok to be scared, we can but do out best to rise above our fears and not let them get the better of us. Easier said than done, I know, but it’s not as if we have much choice. Some of you will have lost loved-ones, friends and workmates to the coronavirus, and that is always a tragedy, but as I have said many times before, love never dies, buts remains a life-force within us... if we let it.

Take care, everyone, stay safe and keep as well as any of us can expect to be during a pandemic.

Back soon, I hope. Meanwhile, feel free to explore the poetry archives, accessible on the right hand side of any blog page, Oh, and for the reader who had some kind words for my fiction blog... many thanks, much appreciated.

Hugs,

Roger

Waking Up to Life

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

One of the (many) problems of living with prostate cancer and being treated with hormone therapy (Zoladex) is that its success depends on keeping testosterone at bay. As it happens, I am gay, but a debilitating illness can affect anyone, and finding a way through it - on our own rather than its terms - is never going to be easy.

Most of the time, I have no sexual urges so am relatively content. Every so often, though, a rush of testosterone creates the urges while failing to address bodily functions anywhere near adequately. (In other words, I can barely get an erection, if at all!) Being sensually rather than sexually active is even more frustrating than being without a regular partner, given that there are usually brief encounters to be had if you know where to go. Knowing where to go, but well aware it would be a complete waste of time, however, now that can be soul-destroying. 

Oh well, I just have to keep looking on the bright side of life and be thankful that (75 soon) I am still here to tell the sorry tale. Stay positive, I am always telling people so I guess I need to practise what I preach! (I do, mostly, but now and again I allow myself to lapse into whinge-mode…)

Not in any wasteland, though, not me, not any more. There is more to life than wanting what we can't have; we just have to find ways of making the most of what is available to us and, no, that doesn't mean having to settle for less. The human condition is incredibly adaptable to its circumstances, just as the human spirit can rise above even the worst life throws at us ... if we let it.

What's done is done, and gone. No one gets their time over again, neither the good parts nor the bad. What we can do, though, each and every one of us, regardless of any socio-cultural-religious or other forces working for or against us, is start looking ahead, resolve to make the most not only of what we have, but who we are in a Here-and-Now that has the potential to let us play not only as constructive a role in our past-present-future as any personae we may have previously adopted, but all the more so for a positive thinking mindset.

WAKING UP TO LIFE

Overslept,
dreams preventing deep sleeping,
or eyes opening,
taking m places I'd rather not go
but can't stay away
because they are an integral part
of my history

Overslept,
revisiting brief, intimate encounters
(high hopes dashed)
that promised everything, but left me
stranded in a wasteland,
worse off than ever for misreading
not seizing the day

Overslept,
cuddling up to a pillow, surrendering
to the surreal,
long enough to leave all emotion spent
on fuelling imagination 
into meeting more pro-active demands,
body stalling 

Waking up,
faces on the ceiling floating wry smiles
for a sleepy-head
sick of taking each day as it comes, only
to be left stranded
on some lonely wasteland without a clue,
body on stand-by

Getting up,
resolving not to include a dead yesterday
in my calculations,
no more truck with illusion and delusion
needs must get real, start
exchanging negatives for positives by way
of mind-body-spirit 

Starting over,
(finally) getting to grips with life as it is,
people as they are,
learning to laugh again (even at myself)
finding silver linings
wherever I look, no going by any text book, 
and all the better for it

Copyright R. N. Taber 2018; 2020

(Note: This poem also appears on both poetry blogs today given that issues it raises  may well affect us at some point in our lives, regardless of  ethnicity, culture, gender, sexual persuasion or, yes, growing old...] RNT

An Unknown Quantity

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

A reader asks why I am not posting an anniversary tribute to those who died and were injured during the terrorist attacks in London, 7th July 2005. No, I have not forgotten. (Has anyone?) I have referred him to a previous post:
https://rogertab.blogspot.com/2012/07/remains-of-day-or-77-remembered.html

and/or my YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wBo01eRFBKY

Now, today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2011, at about the time my prostate cancer was confirmed. I have revised the preamble accordingly as we are now nine years on, but not the poem since a much earlier revision.

Yes, my prostate cancer saga continues, and I have to say it has helped a LOT in seeing me through the stresses and strains of the Covid-19 coronavirus. A lasting memory from my schooldays is of Mr Partridge, our Religious Education teacher, telling the class that we never know our strengths and weaknesses until they are tested, and inevitably we find out the hard way. I think his words hit home because, at sixteen, I was already discovering signs of both ... the hard way.

l recall my biopsy in February 2011 and having  to wait a month before returning the hospital for the results. It wasn’t too unpleasant an experience and, anyway, it was necessary to find out what kind of tumor is trespassing in my prostate. I was not too worried because my instincts (and body) were telling me that any cancer there is not aggressive. Moreover, some prostate cancers are often so slow to develop they are best left well alone. It is a fact that more men live with prostate cancer than die from it.

The reason I am telling you all this is because I have found that cancer is still a taboo subject with many people, possibly because they are inclined to think the worst and associate it with death. Me, I have every intention of living to a ripe old age. (Here I am at 70+ so not a bad start.) Even so, death, in my experience, is an even more taboo subject for open discussion. Yes, I fear pain. But why should death itself be any less creative a process than birth? Let’s face it. We haven’t a clue, nor will we until our time here is up. Religion may have the answer for some people, but not for yours truly.

I have always been philosophical about these things. For me, the hardest part was not being in control of events. Yes, I hoped the cancer would not turn out to be aggressive and I'd be fine. At the same time, I knew it was but wishful thinking. I had to at least consider the prospect that my biopsy results might be less than favourable. Whatever, I couldn't  do much about it, either way, so there was no more point in my worrying then than there is now. My plan then was (just as it has been ever since) to keep my nerve and stay positive. Never plain sailing, as many bad days (and nights) as good ones ... but ... well, I'm still here to tell the tale so I must be doing something right. Changing my diet to exclude all meat and dairy was a good start.

Having paid for my funeral with Age UK some time ago, made a will, and told everyone I am up for organ donation if I am not too old for it, I can now relax and enjoy myself on the slopes of Mount Parnassus, the Pipes of Pan in one ear and the voices of my late partner, mother, and friends  past and present telling me to be sure and make the best of things, not the worst.

AN UNKNOWN QUANITY

I need answer to no one

nor keep within the confines

of certain rules or dogma

as laid down in any handbook,

manual or legislature;

no one tells me when to come

nor seeks me out

unless no one else on hand

or at the end of a phone 

I may press at the edge

of a crowd, yet it will not part

to let me through, though

I’ll usually find my own way

with comparative ease;

when people hear my name;

though it be but a whisper,

they may well rush to lift-off  

on wings of a prayer

Neither hunter nor hunted,

I wing lark skies, tread the earth

but softly, sail high seas

in pitch blackness, no need

of guide or compass

nor instincts failing or emotions

affecting my destination,

my intention but to make a riposte

of sorts to all life forces

Call me Death, and never fear me,

'live' poetry that's human history

Copyright R. N. Taber 2003, 2020

[Note: This poem is a kenning, written in 2003. An earlier version was first published in an anthology, A Gathering of Minds, Poetry Now (Forward Press) 2003 and subsequently in my collection, The Third Eye, in 2004. I am posting it for no other reason than it gives me as good a feeling to (slightly) revise years on as it did to write it in the first place. ]RT

Posthumous Consciousness, Inspirational

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

Emails from several readers in the past have gently mocked what they see as my unhealthy preoccupation with ghosts. Fair enough, but we must agree to differ.

On the whole, my ghosts inspire me.  (Doesn't everyone have a few that would drag us down rather than lift us up?) There is my late mother, of course, as well as my old English teacher, ‘Jock’ Rankin from whom I learned considerably more than in the course of any curriculum-set lessons about clause analysis.  My old school captain, several former landlords and landladies as well as a work colleague, Val Berry, a wise old bird whom I visited until she died not so many years ago … all these people, to name but a few, have taught me a lot about life, death, and making as much as possible of each new day instead of whinging about (among other things) how time flies and leaves us trailing in its wake.

In the course of writing this poem, I found myself revisiting my favourite ghosts, and continuing to learn from them. I’d had several bad nights with the prostate cancer, was feeling pretty low, and not a little sorry for myself. Ah, but not anymore, though, which says a lot for creative therapy. For me, of course, it’s writing, especially poetry, but one person’s meat is someone else’s poison, and we have a veritable spectrum of options; the arts, walking, gardening, looking after animals and/or pot plants … anything that gives us food for thought and distracts us from the slings and arrows that daily life so loves to let fly in our direction from time to time.

Ah, but for a creative consciousness to inspire us and (hopefully) others along the way, it, too, needs to find inspiration; that's where our favourite ghosts come in, only ever a heartbeat away, as ready and willing to help us out in death as in life ... if only we will let them.

POSTHUMOUS CONSCIOUSNESS, INSPIRATIONAL 

Need to stay positive

when all positive thinkers

have gone to ground,

left me feeling desperate

for a lifeline

A positive outlook

too often seen as the stuff

of wishful thinking

in the face of any reality

under threat

Advised to get a grip

on what’s what, run a mile

from pretending

the worst not happening,

face it head-on

Now, looking the worst

in the eye, frantically trying

to make sense

of some dark, anonymous

senselessness

All but giving up on it all,

mind-body-spirit losing heart

given no one

offering a lifeline but Job’s

comforters

Suddenly, out of nowhere,

a posthumous consciousness

telling me off

for caving in far too easily

to circumstances

I can hear my late mother

demanding, am I man or mouse

to even consider

caving in to prostate cancer,

no fight left …?

Denial on my lips, diverted

by home truths having to admit

she had a point;

now sensing an upbeat heart

re-asserting itself

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

Poetry Live

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

[Update Sept 2, 2017] I am not well at the moment but no worries. Going into hospital soon, but hoping for a short stay and back soon. Meanwhile, I hope you will enjoy browsing the blog/s anyway. You can, of course find poems via the search field in the top right hand corner.]

[Update  March 25, 2017]: Well, the poetry evening is  done and dusted. Not a lot of people came but we enjoyed ourselves and it raised a tidy sum for Prostate Cancer UK. (I have been living with prostate cancer since 2011 during which time hormone therapy has prevented it from becoming aggressive.) There's nothing quite like live poetry.) Everyone seemed to appreciate my choice of gay-interest and general poems and we all got on well during the break which was really nice as some people had only just met for the first time. The arts are meant firstly to entertain and secondly to offer food for thought. Feedback suggests the evening was a success on both counts.

For me, personally, it was hard work but a labour of love so I'm glad I went ahead with it despite being a bag of nerves...which, thankfully, steadied once I got started. This year marks sixty years of getting my poetry into print, given that my first published poem appeared in my school magazine summer 1957.]

I did not have the confidence to read in public for years. However, after a few years of occasionally performing Open Mics at Farrago Poetry evenings in London, I found the self-confidence to accept invitations to give readings around the UK (2003-2014). Only weeks after a reading in 2014, I had a bad fall and have spent much of the last two years learning to walk again. I can get out and about quite well now with the aid of a walking stick, for which I am truly thankful as my left ankle had sustained a complicated fracture and I was warned I might never walk again. Oh, but I love walking and am stubborn enough to defy any harbingers of doom. Even so, I did not expect to give another poetry reading.

Now, this first poem appeared in Visions of the Mind, Spotlight Poets (Forward Press) in 1998 and subsequently in my first collection,  Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001. It is an early piece, written in the summer of 1976 during which I gave an impromptu reading of it in Trafalgar Square to a friend (and several appreciative passers-by who paused to listen.) 

POETRY LIVE

Words

to music, out of words

let the sun rise

in the eyes of that ragged-eared mongrel

curled on George’s doorstep

tongue lolling stupidly

nostrils a-smoke

Words

to music, out of words

let carnival hot dogs

substitute for garden scents,

make easier the stink

of slop-outs in

the gutter

Words

out of choc-smeared mouths

in Bank Holiday sunshine;

kids in glad rags spilling

on the streets like bin bags;

shirtsleeves copper

getting chatty

Poetry

Copyright R. N. Taber 1998; 2017

I never dreamt that 30+ years on I would be reading a selection of my poems there, this time to a global audience via web stream as my contribution to Sir Antony Gormley’s ‘live’ sculpture project, One and Other (2009) sponsored by Sky Arts. To view, click on:

https://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223131109/http://www.oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T    [NB: Sept 19, 2019 - The British Library confirmed today that he video is no longer available as it was incompatible with a new IT system, However, it still exists and BL hope to reinstate it and make it available to the public again at some future date.] RNT

The Tracker or Nature of the Beast

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

[Update 30/11/17: I have been living with hormone therapy for nearly seven years now as well as mobility problems since my fall. Believe me, it ain't easy. Even so, I get out and about as best I can and am still looking on the bright side of life. if only because the alternative is unthinkable. Besides, there are always people much worse off than ourselves. I have some good friends, my life and my blogs so count myself lucky.]

[Update 22/4/17: Following a bad fall in 2014, I was unable to do the Shine (Charity) walk again, but a friend did it for me  that year and we raised a tidy sum for Prostate Cancer Research UK. Earlier this month, I gave a sponsored poetry reading and, again, raised money on-line for Prostate Cancer UK via my JustGiving page. Hormone therapy continues to prevent my cancer becoming aggressive. More than six years on from being diagnosed, I remain a Happy Bunny...well, most of the time.]

To readers that email me now and then to ask how I am dealing with my prostate cancer, I can only say ‘so far, so good.’ I manage it OK(ish) by getting out and about as much as I can, drinking lots of root ginger tea, and making the most of being with good friends, ever thankful for their support; oh, yes, and writing up the blogs while adding new poems whenever inspiration strikes. (Any form of creative therapy is as good a safety net as any while we walk the tightrope that is life.) It will catch up with me one day of course, the cancer, but you can be sure that, in my own way, I'll have given it a good run for its money. Hopefully there will be some while will read my blogs, thereby make contact with my posthumous consciousness, and feel encouraged if not inspired to keep looking on the bright side of life... 

While hormone therapy continues to keep my prostate e cancer from becoming aggressive., I have to admit I get more than a little fed-up with having to pee so often, especially at night when all I want to do is sleep, perchance to dream... 

Now, fear and I are old adversaries; for the most part, we have the measure of, and more or less tolerate each other. Even so, we wage fierce battles now and then whenever it ventures out from that shadowy corner of self-awareness to which I would much prefer it was confined.  Eventually, it admits defeat and slinks back into its corner, but not before having taunted mind-body-spirit to near exhaustion. 

I once confided fear of something (I can’t recall what, but does it matter?) to a teacher at my secondary school 50+ years ago who commented to the effect that to deny fear is to deny the inner self that makes us human.  ‘Deal with it, Taber, and get on with your life,’ he said. ‘It may not go away entirely, but the chances are it won’t bother you anywhere near as much ever again.’ Wise advice, especially as it works...well, most of the time.

Participating in the London Shine Walk for Cancer last year to raise money for prostate  cancer research left me with such a sense of achievement for being able to complete a half marathon even in my late 60s (in 5.5 hours, with pit stops) that Fear retreated back into its corner and has yet to raise its ugly head again. 

This poem is a kenning, sometimes called a ‘Who am I?’ poem.

THE TRACKER or NATURE OF THE BEAST

I journey through life
with companions I would leave
but for clammy fingers
clutching at my sleeve and voices
I would prefer to ignore
demanding my attention, pity,
moral support and more
than I am willing to give, yet
can but do my best

I arrive at crossroads
with companions I would leave
to their own devices
while knowing they would be lost
without me, no map
supplied to help them decide
which way to choose
other than human instinct set
to following its nose

I journey on, on, and on,
companions that would leave me
to my own devices
as obsessed with my keeping track
of the world’s injustices
as with lesser vices charging
a vulnerable mentality
to take responsibility for mind,
body and spirit

Find me, Ego, feeding a fear-curiosity
that drives, and may yet kill humanity

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Riposte to the Darker Side of Nature

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

While only some of my poems are semi-autobiographical, all are personal to some degree or another while I try to leave space enough for the reader to move about within them. 

Today’s poem is a particularly personal poem, given my non-aggressive (so far) prostate cancer, it is also an explanation (of sorts) to those well-meaning, religious minded people who have expressed genuine disbelief ,if not horror, that it hasn’t compelled me to seek out the God of Holy Books.

For a start, I have every confidence in the hospital team responsible for my (hormone therapy) treatment.  Moreover, only as a very young child did I ever enter into any conception of a personified God. My mother did, and I believed her until I was old enough to make up my own mind, convinced at an early age that we make our own Heaven or Hell here on Earth.

As regular readers know, I turned to nature for spiritual reassurance many years ago. Nor do I honestly think it had anything to do with feelings of alienation as I proceeded to confront my sexuality. Possibly, what some call 'God' is nature although I dare say they would argue that He (or She?) created nature for human beings to enjoy. (Yes, enjoy, not attack and destroy.)

Who knows? Each to his or her own, I say. Oh, and isn’t it high time we all started respecting each other’s beliefs, life choices, natural instincts (like sexuality) and stopped fighting amongst ourselves over who may be right and who may be wrong?  Too many people so love to take the moral high ground, they lose sight of morality in the process. It has to be one of life’s greater ironies that sickness and disease provide a common humanity with the one common denominator likely to bring all sides together…if only until it has run its course.

My mother used to tell me that whenever the going gets rough, the only way to think is positive. It was GOOD advice, especially for a young gay lad growing up in a predominantly gay-unfriendly society. (I never make an issue of being gay, but neither do I see any reason to hide the fact, hence a gay-interest as well as general poetry blog because a poem is a poem is a poem just as a person is a person is a person ... regardless.)

RIPOSTE TO THE DARKER SIDE OF NATURE

Gripped by fear,

I could but direct it elsewhere,

yet it keeps returning,

this awful cancer stalking me

like a predator

Away, dark fear,

and let me get on with my life.

Go, feed elsewhere.

I’m only human, but no easy

prey for a predator

Seized by doubt,

I can but trust positive thinking

will yet prevent

this awful cancer turning me

inside out 

Away, negativity,

always the first to undermine me

wherever I lend an ear  

to voices arguing the wisdom

of my choices

Let me not resist a need

for comfort food and fiercer hugs

than ever before

to restore poor self-confidence,

give love its head

Come, Earth Mother,

and never let go of my free hand

as with the other I’ll sign

to mind-body-spirit and the world

we’re not done

Yes, I will survive

whatever this cancer throws at me,

instincts insisting I embrace

all a feisty spirituality has to give

in its place

Let nature have its way;

together, we will no more concede

any disease its V-Day

than see human beings put down

just for being gay

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

On the Incredible Self-Empowerment of Naming Things

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

Like many men, I was terrified of getting prostate cancer in my later years. Shortly after my 65^th birthday, in the spring of 2011, I was, yes, diagnosed with prostate cancer and began hormone therapy.

Although I feel fine (most days) I have had some really weird dreams. The one on which this poem is based was so vivid that I got out of bed in the early hours and made a few notes before I could forget the whole thing. Sometimes I can get back into my dreams, but not on this occasion. As soon as my head hit the pillow again, I was fast asleep. If I had another dream, I don’t remember it.

I eventually woke up around 7:00 am in a cold sweat, vaguely disturbed yet also oddly elated. I felt as if I had ridden the gamut from youth to old age in a matter of seconds and been washed up on a sunny beach, my trusty white steed and me. (I love walking by the sea…)   

Above a louder and even more splendid than usual dawn chorus, I fancied someone was calling a name. In the cold light of day, I couldn’t hear what name, but somehow knew it wasn’t mine; not this time anyway. 

I sat up in bed and said aloud, ‘I have prostate cancer.’

Perhaps that is what the dream was all about, giving my ‘illness’ a name so I needn’t be afraid of it anymore?

Some hours later I caught a train and soon found myself walking by the sea in Brighton (East Sussex). I have done this so many times for so many years, yet those so familiar surroundings seemed like something out of a dream that day, and I felt so much the more reassured for it.

Naming our fears helps us confront them, all the better to get on with living without being distracted by a sense of constantly doing battle with an invisible enemy.

ON THE INCREDIBLE  SELF-EMPOWERMENT OF NAMING THINGS

I rode a pale horse to a castle of sand

gate left wide open,

drawbridge down, so carried on 

and banged at the door,

noise resounding like the weeping

of some tortured wretch

No one answered as I called a greeting

and the door groaned ajar;

not a friendly soul in sight, I entered

the Great Hall where a banquet

called for celebration of someone’s life

(alive or dead?)

Trestle tables were piled high with food

of every description,

yet no one ate from a single silver plate

or drank from silver goblets;

every throne-like chair remained emptier

than a beggar’s pockets

My horse bucked and reared as if sensing

a curse had been laid upon us;

I lost my grip and tumbled to a stone floor

as cold as an icy moat;

frantic, I heard the wretch let fly my name,

among waves of terror

I swam centuries before finally recovering

my surfboard, soon lay panting

at the gate of a sandcastle left wide open,

listening to that wretch weeping,

wondering who it it could be, how on earth 

they knew my name

Suddenly, I saw him and it was like looking
in a mirror, an expression of misery

I could not bear so leapt into the saddle, 
and rode out of the gate, its legend
(C-A-N-C-E-R) less scary for connecting me
with a positive mindset

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2013

[Note: Regular blog readers will know that I have revised this poem several times. So why post it before I am happy with it? I suspect it has to do with my being too close to the subject. Whatever, email feedback has both prompted and shaped any revisions, for which I am grateful, and can only hope this  latest will be the last. It only goes to show, I guess, that a poem is a 'live' art form in the sense that it is capable of metamorphosing as it passes from reader to reader and back to the poor poet who has to try and make sense of it all...]

Going the Distance

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

I have written several poems about my feelings regarding my having been diagnosed with prostate cancer in February 2011; it is not thought to be aggressive, and ‘more of a pussycat than a tiger’ according to my consultant. .

A neighbour (who chose a different course of action) thinks I am ‘courting death’ by changing my mind about having radiotherapy and settling for hormone therapy. He could well be right of course. It is certainly not a decision that would suit everyone. Nor, I have to say, is it one that I have taken lightly. However, I don’t see my decision as courting death, but courting life. Indeed, basic instinct tells me (as it did before I panicked and opted for treatment) that I have a good few years left in me yet. Besides, it is a fact that more men die with prostate cancer then from it. Yes, I could be making a mistake. Let’s hope I’m not, yeah?

Where there’s life there’s love, and where there’s love that’s enough for me. I may not have a partner now, but I still love him; others, too, who have been or still are in my life. I trust them and Earth Mother to see me through as I run time's gamut, sustained by happy memories and creating new ones that may well see me in good stead as I cross the ultimate dividing line that both separates and unites us all.

“Time is the longest distance between two places.” 
― Tennessee Williams - The Glass Menagerie

GOING THE DISTANCE

Death comes to us all,
even if its when, where, how
but as hands on a clock
inviting us to rustle up good times,
and serve them to Memory,
always up for any leftovers
from a favourite dish created
with loving hands, saying more
than any words  

Tick-tock, tick-tock,
hands of an alarm clock usually
moving too fast for us
even as we relax in each other’s arms
after making time for love
before the work ethic demands
we answer its call,
steer a course as best we can
to its shores 

Tick-tock, tick-tock,
hands of cloud clocks inviting us
to run races we cannot win,
but can still have fun for earning a place
in the eternal role call
of winners, losers and also-rans
reeled off by commentators
making love to their microphones
in soundproof boxes 

Life embraces us all,
though we appear to be caught up
in the when-and-why
of various notches on multiple clock faces
forever winding us up
and defying us to get the better 
of time, feed a consciousness
eager for any leftovers from dishes
created with loving hands 

[London: August 5th 2011] 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011, 2019

 

Classic Somerset

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

I remain very positive about my prostate cancer, but can’t deny it gets a little scary sometimes. Right now, writing up the blog, I feel fine. (Yes, I do, really!) I expect to have good days and bad days, but remain determined that the latter shall be kept to a minimum. Physically, I am in good shape and have no pain whatsoever. The battle is more of a mental one; living with the knowledge that the cancer is there inside me. I will take my cue from Monty Python and, yes, look on the bright side of life... Should I falter, a long, leisurely stroll on lovely Hampstead Heath, barely fifteen minutes walk from my front door, invariably restores me to positive-thinking mode.

Meanwhile...

While I am pleased that my new novel seems to be holding its own, I have no illusions about myself as a writer of fiction. I am not a great novelist and never will be, but I’m glad some people think I tell a good story. I certainly can’t compare myself with  writers of the world's classic fiction. All my novels, published and unpublished are available in serial form on my fiction blog. For more details, go to:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2016/05/news-updates-fiction.html

Now, one of my favourite novels as a child was Lorna Doone by R. D. Blackmore and it was from was this romantic adventure novel that I developed a love for Somerset. It is some years since I visited Doone Valley, but some friends have recently returned from visiting it while staying with relatives in the surrounding area. I felt inspired to take down the novel from my bookshelf, blow away the dust from its cover and devour it as eagerly as when I was a child.

Some readers may be interested in other poems I have written about Somerset that I also included in my 6th collection On the Battlefields of Love (2010). You will also find them on the BBC Somerset site:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/local/somerset/hi/people_and_places/arts_and_culture/newsid_8144000/8144465.stm

Oh, but how can I worry about my prostate cancer when spring is here in the UK? There is so much out there to enjoy, not least in beautiful Somerset, and enjoy it I will...

This poem is a villanelle.

CLASSIC SOMERSET

Doone valley, classic fiction

creating timeless images;

one writer-poet’s inspiration

For those with a predilection

for turning nature’s pages;

Doone valley, classic fiction

At Badgworthy Water, listen

out for evil Carver’s rages;

one writer-poet’s inspiration

At Earth Mother’s invitation,

share a Love of Ages;

Doone valley, classic fiction

Celebrating Lorna and John,

(birds sing their praises);

one writer-poet’s inspiration

Cream teas, timely invitations

to revisit R. D’s pages;

Doone valley, classic fiction,
one writer-poet’s inspiration

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011; slightly rev. 2021

[Note; An earlier version of this poem appears in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]