http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
This poem first appeared on the
blog in 2016.
Since the onset of the Covid-19
coronavirus, many people around the world - both sexes, all ages, especially
those living alone - are now experiencing
loneliness for the first time in the lives; the need to self-isolate, social distancing,
the loss of loved ones to the virus … all are impacting on our lives to some
degree or another. Some of us feel supported by friends, family and neighbours
while others are made to feel they do not even have that reassurance and
comfort to draw upon. Whatever, we are all having to get used to living in a
changed world … and change, itself, can be a tough nut to crack, even for the
most resilient among us.
Loneliness is not only a sad
condition but can also make a person bitter if he or she is not careful to keep
a balanced perspective. We poets write about it, but it’s every lonely person’s
private hell and there’s nothing poetic about it all; the poetry comes with
hindsight after finding that someone special, often when and where we least
expect it.
Thankfully there are many ‘special’
people in this world; those who care enough to lend a helping hand (without
being asked) or even just make contact by letter, email or much appreciated
phone call where they sense it may well be needed. Far too many people either
wait to be approached or take offence because someone hasn’t approached them;
invariably, there are reasons behind human behaviour, about which many of us don’t
think to ask or even consider before taking offence … and not the least of
these reasons can be loneliness, a feeling that too few of us are willing to admit.
How long two lonely people having
found each other will stay together may be anyone’s guess, but it’s a sure bet
they will enjoy a taste of their own private heaven. Needless to say, the
heart, too, has its seasons, of which the most joyful (at any age) has to be
spring.
Ah, yes, I remember it well ...
RITES OF SPRING
It was a winter of the heart,
craving spring, hungry for summer,
wondering where they’ve gone,
those sounds of laughter haunting
the ear? Why a pillow by mine
and no one there? I’m walking down
a street and all I see is feet,
protesting about being on their own
too long, falling in with others,
insisting it is where they belong
Seasons passed, cycle of pain
turning me, clockwork clown, going
through the same old motions
of getting by (fixed smile, dry
eye);
till one night during Happy Hour,
there you were. For a while we took
comfort in drowning together,
letting our glasses relate the way
life's meant to be, you and me
against the world till... (maybe?)
True to say, in each other’s arms
we agreed to stay a while, no weeds
deceiving passers-by but flowers
bright as daffodils after April
showers,
tail
of a comet on the Milky Way,
favourite songs played over and over
by a late DJ till everyone’s running
for cover but us, left savouring
dreams
to share, richer for richer, no
poorer
for chancing our luck then and there
Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2020
[Note: An earlier version of this
poem appears in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly
Books, 2004.]