A Feeling for Spring

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

“Forgiveness is the fragrance that the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it.” - Mark Twain

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” - Martin Luther King Jr.

“The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.” - Harriet Beecher Stowe 

“For every minute you remain angry, you give up sixty seconds of peace of mind.”- Ralph Waldo Emerson

Reader A. D. asks why I am “… so preoccupied with inter-communication between people, so-called ‘agreeing to differ’ and engaging in discussion even about personal issues where there are clearly radical differences of opinion. “Better for everyone, surely,” he or she suggests, “to let sleeping dogs lie?”  Well, we must, indeed, agree to differ, say so and shake on it. In my experience many if not most such 'sleeping dogs' are badly in need of a wake-up call; being left to sleep on,  thereby likely to inflict such damage on human relationships as not easily mended.

One of the greater tragedies of human nature is the inability or reluctance of many people to confront those against whom they may hold a grudge, invariably for fear of having to endure a bitter exchange of insults, commonly referred to as ‘home truths'.

Both parties are usually to blame, to some extent for broken relationships, but it takes only one to make a start on a healing process.  Many of us, including yours truly, have no idea how to make a start, whether it be with a family member, friend or neighbour, often for fear of being accused of simply making excuses for what has been perceived as unforgivable behaviour, but may well have been a misunderstanding due to circumstances left unshared. 

The longer any misunderstanding or genuine excuse remains silent, refusing to engage in any healing process, the longer any grudge will fester, mind-body-spirit, turning a deaf ear to whatever heart-and-soul is constantly mulling, even grieving over.

True, some broken relationships cannot be mended, but not for want of trying. Better to have tried and failed than never to have tried at all, though, surely? The problem remains, though, that some well-meaning efforts may well be misinterpreted, taking us back to square one. Even so, an aggrieved heart-and-soul may yet find a welcome measure of peace for having dispended with the futility of harbouring grudges.

A FEELING FOR SPRING

I am so much the sweeter taste
and fragrance of life, just for having
shed those darker senses
keeping heart-and-soul from engaging
fully, openly, positively
with a mind -body-spirit struggling
under the growing weight
of  ill-judged expectations or responses
plunging knives into You-Me-Us

Having been given no opportunity
to put my side of things as misunderstood
and left to fester, bad feeling
getting the better of any finer senses 
of fair play, never spoken,
kept hidden in recesses of heart-and-soul
feeding on bitterness,
happiness left to but make the best it can
of the contrariness of being human

I am as that first full kiss or spring,
come to relieve the pain of such wintry days
as we have felt obliged
to endure, no hint of  choice, no voice
for having been unable
to penetrate certain defences, both yours
and mine, now worn down 
by tears for such likely misunderstandings 
as deserving of happier landings

I am Forgiveness, making time for a fresh start,
finally come to flower in the human heart

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

Insomniac

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

As I have said before on the blog, prostate cancer has a mind of its own; sometimes it lets me off lightly with my only having to get up a few times during the night to have a pee. Some nights, though, it will have me up every hour on the hour, clearly determined to get the better of mind-body-spirit’s reluctance to cave in. Last night was one of the latter. Eventually, I gave up trying to sleep and began working on this poem which, ironically, saw me fall asleep for a good five hours although it was already 4 am. 

I suspect it isn’t just the prostate cancer unwilling to let me relax sufficiently to get a decent spell of sleep. The stress of coronavirus restrictions during lockdowns refuses to (quite) go away, despite its implications and consequences for everyone then substantially easing as safety restrictions are gradually relaxed and the vaccination program gathers momentum. We are assured the worst is over and we can relax here in the UK...but is it, and can we? We can but nurture a positive thinking mindset...and keep our fingers crossed. 😉

This mind-body-spirit, for one, plainly continues to nurse such concerns as likely to keep sleep at bay for a good while yet… unless it can keep finding ways to let sweet dreams override any troubled consciousness. Growing old, doesn’t help, but one thing I know for sure. I won’t be attempting to write  poems at 4.00 am too often! 

Good luck, everyone, and many thanks for dropping by, always much appreciated. 

Hugs, 

Roger 

INSOMNIAC 

Unable to sleep for disturbing images
haunting my consciousness, chasing shadows
over my head colluding with moonlight
to transpose into stark images of such regret,
as missed opportunities, time ill-spent
mulling over what-might-have-been instead
of rallying positive life forces enough
to galvanise me into action, make things better,
get real with warning signs 

Oh, but I listened to all the wrong voices,
made all the wrong moves, and now the process
of growing old is fast catching up with me;
all I can do is look back in anger and tears, none
to blame for my actions and inaction but me,
unable to go into reverse gear, left to toss and turn,
yearn for sleep, if only to spare me the agony
of more waking my nightmares as have dogged me
all hours during my later years 

A face at my window, peering through a gap
in the curtains, old man Moon making time for me,
throwing me a wink as if to say he empathises
with age-related issues while not inclined to agree
that wishful thinking will get either of us
anywhere fast, better (surely?) to make the most
of who we are, consider how past positives
may yet bear fruit (if they haven’t already) dismiss
any negatives, too late for tears

“Easier said than done,” I hear mind-body-spirit
retort, but the Old Man’s one good eye plainly hints
at mocking the plight of a human so distressed
that he’d rather count fantasy sheep that any blessings
as bring good times as well as bad (rain or shine)
peace as well as wars, love as well as hate, triumphs
as well as failures - such is the lot of such kith
and kin as ever having to make sense of mixed feelings
held to account by looking-glasses 

I glared at this one-eyed jack for making me feel
worse than I felt already; what could he know about
all we endure for doing our best, being put down
for it, time and again, yet we find ways to rise above
the sneers and stereotypes, graffiti on walls passing
fake news or imaging threats for not consenting to this
to this or agreeing with that, supposedly reflecting 
local opinion, but more likely someone’s paranoia fuelled
by a singularly egocentric social media 

“No need to defend yourself to me,” says the eye
n the chink of a curtain starting to cloud over already,
“I have seen it all, and rather you than me for a life
on Earth, all for the sake of piling up capital gains
(or poverty as the case may be) hardly worth the effort
of giving birth, surely, only to end up an insomniac
with nothing to show for it?”  Now mind-body-spirit’s
turn to mock, “Oh, and what know you of such joys
as love and friendship, celebrations enough to keep worlds
turning, give divisions the heave-ho?” 

The eye disappears, as are the ways of night skies,
as unpredictable as humanity, now here, now moved on
to new places, new ideas, new attitudes, new worlds
of being, seeing, thinking, feeling - a rollercoaster, true,
but such is the fun of any fair, and only right we pay
to try what’s on offer, thrill to a sense of shared good cheer
among crowds come together from communities,
of all shapes and sizes, differences put aside for making time
to take heart from simply being human 

I fell asleep on the rollercoaster, shrieks of joy in my ears,
relieved, finally, to let happy times dry my tears 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

 

Home Thoughts from an Internment Camp

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Today’s poem (another kenning) is not intended to be particularly political, but in the sense that many of us have to live with what can be the very punishing effects imposed by any errors of judgement we may have made in the past, for whatever reason/s.

Now, much is being made of the UK Supreme Court’s decision to revoke Shamima Begum’s citizenship and not allow her to return home. Some see it as an abuse of Human Rights. Personally, I think she abused those by going to Syria in the first place. Yes, she was only fifteen years-old, and possibly ‘groomed’ along with two other schoolgirls who accompanied her. Even a 15-year-old, though, knows the difference between right and wrong, and it was a deliberate choice on all their parts to associate with ISIS.

I do have a lot of sympathy for the woman, but to allow her back into the UK or anywhere in mainland Europe, would present a threat not only to herself but to others. She has terrorist contacts whom she may well now disown, but they will be keeping an eagle eye on her case; should she ever be allowed to return to mainstream western society, it is more than likely that they will attempt to enlist her for terrorist offences. What say will that society have in a matter that could well work savagely and ruthlessly against it?  Is it within the remit of any Court of Human Rights to rule that any society needs must take such a risk for the sake of any individual? I, personally, think not.

Some readers may well think I am being harsh, but the woman has kept company with those who are responsible for the murder of innocent people to the extent that she deserves a life sentence. 

Sadly, hindsight often is a life sentence.

We can regret our mistakes, repent any wrongdoings, even be forgiven by those we have wronged, but our past will always haunt our present and any future we are able to make for ourselves. I dare say most captives under guard in any internment camp dream of what-might-have-been if….

Not without good reason is ‘if’ often described as the longest word in the dictionary.

HOME THOUGHTS FROM AN INTERNMENT CAMP

I can make excuses,
even make a case to be forgiven,
yet what I have done
cannot be forgotten, leaves stains
on my personal history,
permanent scars on the lives of others,
among them,
husbands and wives, fathers and mothers,
sisters and brothers 

What is done is done,
can neither be undone nor repaired
(even in part)
for all I may dearly wish, even try
to make amends
for having instructed mind-body-spirit
to reason not the need,
but obey the dictates of such righteousness,
as seeks no forgiveness 

I was blind and now I see,
was misled by the passion of my youth
for adventure
to side with whom I saw as fighting
a good fight
for the right to have their political aims
taken on board
by a world refusing to listen, thereby deserving
retaliatory destruction 

I am Hindsight, whose punishment fits my crimes,
regret alone, no master key to kinder times 

Copyright R.N. Taber 2021

 

M-E, Margins for Error OR In Denial

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

Today’s poem first appeared in the blog in 2013. 

Many thanks to those of you who have been in touch to encourage me in compiling a new collection; the first draft id ready for proofing.I have made one last attempt to interest a mainstream publisher and will know if they are interested within the next six weeks or so; in the past as you know, I have met with a wall of resistance to publishing a collection that includes gay-interest as well as general poems. Time, though, surely, to wake up to the fact that there is more to any of us than our sexuality … or maybe they just don’t like how I write?

Whatever, I will self-publish again if necessary.

Meanwhile … 

Why is it that even in these hard times of coronavirus around the world, there is always a selfish minority refuse to play their part in helping to safeguard the majority. I di not drive so rely on public transport; time and again I see people pulling their masks down over their nose, sometimes mouth as well, to engage with either their mobile phone or laptop. Everyone knows that that Covid-19 id spread by droplets from the nose and mouth, especially in an confined environment … so, whu? 

I look around and sometimes wonder...if we can’t keep faith with each other, what hope for our keeping faith with ourselves? Whatever, it is down to us, no one else. 

We may blame fate, our therapist, even God...but when push comes to shove there is no lasting escape from our having to take responsibility for our own choices. Nor are we entirely to blame for making wrong choices. No one (thank goodness) is perfect. Even so, it can't help to get to know ourselves as we are rather than we (or others) might have us be...?

“It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.”
― William Shakespeare

“The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be.”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson 

This poem is a kenning 

M-E, MARGINS FOR ERROR or IN DENIAL

Come, child
where I lead, don't be afraid;
listen to the murmurings
of your heart, exercise the finer
learnings of your mind;
start to care, understand why
I, too, am always here
for you, trying to be fair,
even kind

See, child
where I walk and let's talk
you and I, exchange 
home truths before they fester
and die in the bowels
of a soul bent on proving
its very existence
by resisting temporal
magnificence

Hear, child,
any wise words of your own;
feel free to ignore mine
if you suspect they threaten
your ivory tower
of pretension, no protection
against a world its own
worst enemy for a divided
humanity

Hear me, mind-body-spirit, in pain
for a heart in denial yet again... 

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2020

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Know the Voice, Can't Place the Face' in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

 

S-E-L-F, Living with the Enemy

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

Now and then we find ourselves confronting aspects of our past we would prefer to forget, especially any that may have caused distress - however unintentionally - to others.

Years ago, when I was a psychological mess and desperate for some time to think it through and work out a positive sense of direction for myself, I fled to Australia on the Assisted Passage scheme; in so far as any hopes that things would be different, even better, there, I might well have thought myself to be on yet another losing streak. For me, though, the redeeming feature of a venture doomed to failure from the start - not least because of the person I was then – was my meeting up with an old aborigine to whom – for the first time ever – I found myself able to confide my worst fears; I unleashed a string of regrets I had never quite faced head-on, probably because I was too busy blaming them for my state of mind.

He listened. He said very little, but listened. When I finally shut up, we sat in a very comfortable silence for some time until he said, “Regrets are part of life. If they come to haunt us, it’s but to teach us. Whether or not we learn anything, well, that is down to us, no one else.” It was such an obvious comment, yet made more sense than anything had made sense to me for years. (I was 24 years-old.) I could hear my old English teacher, ‘Jock’ Rankin, telling me much the same thing, and wished I had taken on the implications more, but does anyone in their teens?

Regular readers will know that thanks to my aboriginal friend, I flew home a few weeks later, hopefully a better person, definitely a changed one, and more importantly willing to learn from my ghosts instead of hating - and all but giving up on - the part of me that gave rise to them in the first place; a part that is still there, of course, but still learning, and hurting the less so for that.

S-E-L-F, LIVING WITH THE ENEMY

Regret is never enough

for the graver wrongs we do

as sure to haunt us

by day and night, ghosts

of an alter ego we got to know,

learned to hate, and finally cast aside

long, long, ago

Regret is never enough

to compensate for any mistakes

baying at our heels

like wolves, ready to pounce,

do their worst, gnaw to the bone

a body deserving no less for caving in

to being human

Regret is never enough,

cannot ever (quite) make amend

for any hurt caused,

by promises broken, trust betrayed,

a dark side of Everyman seeing to plans

haphazardly laid

Regret, for any impulses

of the worst kind, mind-body-spirit

long since redefined

by such confessions as no one hears,

meant only for the inner ear, and no one

to dry its tears

Regret, enemy-friend nobody wants know,

teaching us, ourselves, to know

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

Note: Frequently, and as recently as only yesterday, a reader complains that I rarely insert full stops at the end of stanzas. I offer no apologies. For me, full stops mark an ending, and a poem has none; it does not even have meaning (for the reader) until he or she starts to take in whatever is meaningful about the poem for them. and thinks on…

L-I-F-E, a Compendium of Mind Games

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As I grow old, I am reminded how true it is what they say about recalling times past more graphically than the day before. Some of my memories are peopled with family, old friends, lovers and colleagues, even those I only ever knew as friendly faces with whom to pass a pleasant evening at a local bar after a long day of getting nowhere fast.

I do not summon these ghosts, rather vice versa, as if to heap me with regret and/or unanswerable questions as to why we no longer see each other. Did we simply drift apart or was there never any question of our staying in touch anyway? In the latter case, why should I recall them at all? What is it about certain people that they leave such a lasting impression on us? I suspect it tells us less about them than about ourselves if we care to probe further which is perhaps why we rarely do…in case we don’t like some of the answers we may come up with?

A prevailing image of memory I have is of two cruise liners; one, carrying us along with those who have truly meant something to us in life (for good or ill) and another carrying those we recall for reasons we cannot or prefer not to articulate. So they - and we - journey across time and space, passing each other from time to time like ships in the night, each with its ‘live’ cargo of assorted shadows.

L-I-F-E, A COMPENDIUM OF MIND GAMES

As I walked into a crowded room,

everyone stopped talking,

stared at me as if I were a stranger

and had no right to be there,

an uninvited guest, gatecrasher, someone

sure to disturb their peace

I approached someone I once knew

to kick-start a conversation,

cue for everyone to start blowing

pretty bubbles of words

that hit the ceiling, burst, spilling questions

on each and every one of us

‘Tell me, how are things in your world

since last we got together?

Why must Time so hoard its past

as if it were a collector 
gathering evidence to prove a point,

as if world history 
isn’t always reminding us of our hits, 
near misses, successes

and failures, kindly meant interference

in other people’s affairs 
as likely to end in tears as assumptions 
that not even the best laid plans 
of mice and men are as guaranteed to see 
the cold light of day as any tall tales that come
and go like furniture and fittings

Silences tickling my ears, like no-answers

to a single question dripping me

like raindrops, leaving puddles in my wake

as I negotiate paths opening up

to let me pass, courtesy of people I’d loved,

let slip away or simply forgotten

No welcome hugs, kisses on each cheek,

only looks probing my thoughts

from bubble faces soaking me in memories,

half memories, pretend memories

for all I know, pulling at lesser heartstrings,

sleepwalking me into other selves

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016

Waves, Metaphor for Life

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

Some readers also dip into my fiction blog, and those of you who enjoyed the first part of my fantasy novel, Mamelon, will be pleased to know that I am (just about) on track for completing the second (final) part by the end of this year.  Sorry for the delay, but I am still experiencing difficulty walking (even with a walking stick) after my accident last year. However, I am learning to manage the pain and get out and about. Better news, though, is that hormone therapy continues to keep my prostate cancer at bay. Gotta look on the bright side of life, YES.

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/mamelon-chapter-1.html

Now, regular readers will know I love the sea. For me, it is one of nature’s finest metaphors for life; love, war, peace, spirituality, inspiration, fulfilment, regret…a potpourri of its more splendid aspects while, at the same time, acknowledging the starkness of its reality and the comfort of home grown illusion.

 Photo; from the Internet

 W-A-V-E-S, METAPHORS FOR LIFE

Waves, splashing

against me like a meeting

of old friends…

now showering me with kisses,

now running away…

just as you did towards
the end of our living together,

considered sinners

We'd no more giving

for each other, only the pain
of recalling (in tears)

how once we were - one life,
one love, twin waves

embracing the same shore,

flotsam spread across pebbles

like prayer beads

At every heartbeat,
fragile fingers trembling
at each fastening

and unfastening - of desires
rising, tumbling...

like waves lingering
but briefly at deserted shores,

crumbling sea walls

Left listening out for your calls,
but only seagulls...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2015

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from an earlier version that appears under the title Waves in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.]

The Hurt Garden

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Most if not all of us have a hurt garden where we prefer not to go in waking moments. Sleep, though, invariably has other ideas …

Dreams may well leave us confused, but mind, body and spirit have a way of making make more sense of us there than any waking moments.

THE HURT GARDEN

Blades of grass

tossing to and fro in the wind

like restless sleepers

trying to make sense of a kind

where logic and reason

have no place, square up to facts

of human nature

from which its indigenous hosts

would run away

but nature will ever have its say

in dreams, struggling to make sense

of us

Stems of flowers

swaying to and fro in a breeze

like drunken crowds

on losing their heads to whims

where logic and reason

have no place lest they make more 

of human nature

than excuses its indigenous hosts

from home truths

put aside, inclined to have a say

in dreams, struggling to make sense

of us

Dead leaves

drifting here, there, everywhere

like lost children

looking for a place called ‘home’

where logic and reason

concede its predilection for love

of human nature,

lend its indigenous hosts access

to life forces

in denial, ever finding their way 

to us left struggling to make sense

of dreams

Birdsong,

signalling a love of life and nature

to practised ears

in the market (for a guide of sorts)

where logic and reason

have a place, but are never enough

for human nature

whose indigenous hosts ask more

of its humanity

than dream litter left in its garden

on the assumption they will clear up

the mess

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015 

(Another) Poem in the Making OR Postscript to a Love Affair

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Update (August 2016): A number of readers have asked if I plan to publish a separate collection of my love poems. Since no publishers have shown any interest, I guess the answer has to be ‘no’. However, most are on the blogs even if they have been excluded from collections for one reason or another.

I have also been asked to repeat the link to an interview I gave a postgraduate student of multimedia journalism: https://r224e31251.racontr.com/index.html

Meanwhile…

A friend once commented that all his greatest regrets had one thing in common...love. How many of us, I wonder, might well say the same?

(ANOTHER) POEM IN THE MAKING or POSTSCRIPT TO A LOVE AFFAIR

When you are lying very close to me

and my fingers are playing with your hair,

I could stay like this through eternity,

so full, this poet’s heart, of love and care

The warmth of your body inspiring me

to write sonnets on the walls of my heart,

my spirit rising to such ecstasy…

it can never contemplate we should part

Alas, part we must, and this spirit weep,

though these eyes stay dry or you may discern

how I dream of us, awake and asleep,

for some lessons some lovers never learn

Yet, missing you keeps you a part of me,

and our lives, though separate, poetry

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2014

[An earlier version of this poem (slightly revised here) appears in 1st eds. of A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005; revised edition in e-format in preparation.]

Lines on a Carthorse

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I wonder...how many of us pause every now and then to look at something (or someone) and see something (or someone) else?

Photo (Internet)

LINES ON A CARTHORSE

Green patch, bursts of sunshine,

retired carthorse munching

contentedly away at a spread

of dandelions

Light breeze in a solitary ash

washing down a dusty heart

with tactile thoughts inclined

to haunt like romantic songs

played on your guitar dedicated

to the pair of us, could well

be now, fancying that I glimpse

a lock of red hair at the edge

of a teasing, passing cloud whose

oh, so-familiar ears, eyes,

nose, lips, turned to another

I didn’t see what was happening,

lost sight of listening, forgot 

to look at what I saw, mistook hazy

infringements of personal space

for a lazy contentment, happiness

unaffected by the world beyond

that perimeter fence I constructed

with loving care, either assuming

we'd want the same things or maybe

too scared to ask, unknowingly

afraid of getting it wrong, ending

up alone

Retired carthorse, last seen munching

on dandelions by a solitary walker

shot down in a green patch by bursts

of sunshine

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2010

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Observing Life, Anchor Books [Forward Press] 2000 and The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; revised version appears in CC & D poetry magazine, Scars Publications, U S., 2010.]

H-I-S-T-O-R-Y, Time's Footprints

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Sometimes, we can be walking along without a care in the world, and then we spot something, as often as not quite trivial, that triggers a chain reaction taking us to places we would have much preferred to avoid…and once there, struggle to find our way back again.

It is true to say that time's footprints are sometimes those of hobnail boots, all but obliterating any prints that have gone before although, as an open heart is to bigotry, so humanity is to inhumanity, and all the more capable of regeneration. 

H-I-S-T-O-R-Y, TIME'S FOOTPRINTS

Scraps of a letter floating down a gutter,

pricking the occasional comfort zone

Wondering about blue ink stains, inwardly

debating the when, whose, and why

Doesn’t matter, of course, all history now,

heading in pieces for the nearest drain

Yet, someone had once made time to write,

feel, read (send?) decide to throw away

Secrets passing between lovers found out,

and punished, disowned…ever forgiven?

Friends, family, stranded on opposite sides

of some socio-cultural-religious divide?

Had someone discovered, betrayed, turned

finer feelings into anonymous ink stains?

Tearful, over scraps of a letter, potentially

sucking the life out of any one of us

Bad memories eagerly mowed down by rolls

of thunder, over anxious to leave no trace

Rain! Gutter, a river, scraps gone to sewage

under a city that stinks of rotten secrets

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]

The Gatekeeper's Song

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While we are all sitting on fences, tearing them down or maybe even trying to mend some, I wonder what The Gatekeeper thinks about it all...?

THE GATEKEEPER’S SONG

They turned their backs on me

or was it I who ran away…?

Memory, it so likes to play tricks

on us, rather than let us see

what really takes place in corners

of the heart we rarely seek out,

for fearing what we may find

in holiday snapshots and behind

words in letters read in anger,

birthday cards left unsent, never

recognising the danger of years

passing so quickly till we’ve only

such poor excuses and regret

as conscience cares to permit shine

in darkest corners of the mind

where, yes, we’d so return a while,

have love take us that last mile

where stubborn feet still refuse to go

though heart and soul never left,

and would set us free, let us see all

the heart deserves to know

No, not free from nature's finer ties

(never that) but, rather, set out

in tablets of stone, supposedly less

likely to break than any we shape

in a clay that may please human eyes

for moment in time, but hardens

(not as we imagined) to a perspective

on dark corners where sometimes

pain seeks solace, yet finding none

in unused icons of human hearts

left but to gather dust like old photos

Better, surely, to air home truths

(even after years of running away)

if only to deny the world its pleasure

in exposing us along tired lines

of letting live but to die another day,

no matter where any blame let lie

nor we (or they) be straight or gay?

Time to open the gate before it’s too late

to live to love another day…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010, 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010; slightly but significantly revised, 2019.]

Bailiffs On The Doorstep OR Comeuppance

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

http://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223121732/oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T [I am often asked for this link to my poetry reading on the 4th plinth in Trafalgar Square, my contribution to sculptor Antony Gotmlry' s One and Other 'live sculpture' project in 1999. For now, at least, though, this link needs the latest Adobe Flash Player  and works best in Firefox; the archives website cannot run Flash but changes scheduled for later this year may well mean the link will open without it. Ignore any error message and give it a minute or so to start up. The video lasts an hour. ] RT 3/18

I have been more than a little anxious about getting my biopsy results next Wednesday. I dare say that is why I recently dreamed I opened my front door to Death. Ah, but Earth Mother slipped past him to stand beside me. Now I feel confident of getting the better of him ... for now, at least.

A friend recently confessed he did not know what to say to me, whether to wish me luck with the biopsy or ignore the subject altogether. I could only say that it is always nice to know we feature positively in other people’s thoughts.

Whether on the world stage or in our own living rooms, we are called upon time and again to make choices which, as often as not, find us stuck between a rock and a hard place. Do we speak up or say nothing rather than chance making things worse (or better)? Do we let actions speak louder than words ... and risk making things worse (or better)?

Perhaps we should ask ourselves for whom we risk making things worse or better? Are we motivated by altruism or self-interest?

BAILIFFS ON THE DOORSTEP or COMEUPPANCE

There's a banging
on my door, but what can I do?
No point in my turning
a deaf ear, everyone knows
only too well I'm living here
(Door forced ajar)

Who does he think he is,
presuming so to call Time’
before I'm ready?

I will appeal to a kinder nature
to grant my reprieve,
for I'm not ready yet to leave
this place, despite
its worst flaws, neglecting peace
in pursuit of wars
on those who would avoid
well-trodden paths
of reason and need, seeking
only to feed themselves,
procreating in their own image
a mirage of Fate when,
in truth, only themselves to blame,
though the world rise
eagerly enough to its bait, lured
by a glare of Public Relations
designed to fool us all into thinking
altruism rules OK

Oh, but let them, bang away;
none may enter here, I'll keep
a foot in the door

Better the damn door
left ajar, let Earth Mother
slip in (hopefully)
with a reprieve for any part
I've played in faults and flaws
at other people’s doors

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011