Oh, Christmas Tree...

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

December, and a new poem. Over the next few weeks I will be publishing archival posts (on and from both blogs) leading up to Christmas. No, I do not celebrate Christmas, but like many if not most religions and religious festivals, it brings out both the best and the worst in people, challenge enough for anyone, not least a pantheist poet.

I asked a friend whose family, like me, do not subscribe to any religion, why they celebrate Christmas, a Christian festival? "Apart from the religious aspect," he replied, "it is all about peace and goodwill to all humankind, isn't it? That has to be worth celebrating, surely?"  I could not agree more, but peace and goodwill to all humankind is not (or should not) be a seasonal aspiration; both belong to the evergreen family.

Well, hope springs eternal...

OH, CHRISTMAS TREE...

Oh, Christmas tree,
all tinsel, pretty baubles
and presents
for everyone on hand,
lead character
in a play for all the family,
meant to convey
a message of home comforts
and eternal love

Oh, Christmas tree,
tell me what it is you see
from the window
you face, curtains drawn
so rough sleepers
may yet dare to dream
of kinder days,
children playing in the sun,
laughing off the rain

Oh, Christmas tree,
do you even remember me,
one who dressed you
in between a mince pie here,
a sneaky sip
of homemade wine there,
and writing cards
meant to spread love and cheer
at least till New Year?

Oh, Christmas tree,
so soon abandoned, forgotten,
caste off as waste,
not even up for recycling,
your artistry
as artificial as the needles
messing the carpet
and pricking the eyes of all those
Santa Claus forgot

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

Sometimes Dawn Is A Long Time Coming

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

In 2010, a set of unforeseen and unexpected circumstances once forced a close friend of mine to walk the streets of London all night. In my younger days, fate dealt me a similar hand. 

More than once, I have forgotten or lost my keys and been unable to contact friends who either kept my spare keys or would have gladly helped out in such an emergency. At first, I’d panic. In no time, however, I would become philosophical and resolve to make the best of a bad situation. Eventually, though, I confess I’d be past caring.

My friend said he’d felt much the same way. Even so, we agreed that the experience was a learning curve. Moreover, neither of us will ever observe people sleeping rough on park benches (or wherever) during the day, probably having walked the streets all night, in quite the same light again.

Every town and city has its share of homeless people. For my friend and me, it was really no big deal, but for homeless people it is a way of life. What kind of indictment is that on this 21st century of ours? These people need help, encouragement, and incentive to be integrated back into mainstream society albeit, it has to be said, the same society that let them down in the first place...Is it any wonder then that, vulnerable as they are, many are driven to alcoholism and other forms of drug addiction?

This poem is a villanelle.

SOMETIMES DAWN IS A LONG TIME COMING

No wanderer more alone than I,

heartbeat fading fast;

weary streets, indifferent sky

Tears cornered by the inner eye,

defiant to the last;

no wanderer more alone than I

Old Man smiles, asks not why

I look to the past;

weary streets, indifferent sky

Ghosts, anxious to probe and pry,

midsummer night’s die cast;

no wanderer more alone than I

Nature stirs, world reborn, a cry

and dark ghosts dispersed;

weary streets, indifferent sky

Lost and found, the will to try

my best nor fear the worst;

no wanderer more alone than I,

weary streets, indifferent sky

[London: August  2010]

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

Rough Sleeper OR A Thousand Cuts a Day and Counting

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

[Update December 22, 1918: Almost 600 homeless people died in England and Wales last year, according to official figures only recently published for the first time. The figure represents a rise of 24% over five years, according to the Office for National Statistics; these are the first official estimates of the number of deaths of homeless people, which show 84% of those who died were men.]

It is snowing here in London today. In winter especially, but all year round, yoo, let us remember the homeless and do what we can for them; a little, really can go a long way.

In the current economic climate, more and more people are faced with the prospect of having their home repossessed so…there but for good fortune go you or I ...

Incidentally, this poem was written in 1990. As I look around at the homeless on the streets of London, it does not seem to me that anywhere near as much has changed as was promised by the politicians in those far-off days ...

There are, of course, 'career' beggars on the streets, but a discerning eye can usually tell who is genuine and who isn't. We all make mistakes, though. Here in London, I well recall a day I gave money to a street beggar only to spot him get into an impressive-looking car (parked several streets away) a few hours later and drive off! A former 'beggar' I met in a pub once confided that begging financed his drinking and drug addictions for years until he eventually got help to turn his life around.

So ... when in any doubt...don't. [There are other ways to support homeless and other deserving charities online.] Yet, there but for ... could be you or me.

ROUGH SLEEPER or A THOUSAND CUTS A DAY, AND COUNTING

‘Hungry – Homeless - No dole’

says a card beside a begging bowl

outside a busy supermarket;

red-rimmed eyes trying to read

the pavement for signs

of homeless-friendly footsteps

worth a pleading glance

for even half a chance of a cuppa

in some cosy café

A few coins here, a few coins there,

the odd note, a few euros,

or cents, whatever; just enough

to keep a scarecrow in bird seed,

and…

Oh, but what the heck…?

Chatty conversation, hacking

at the neck

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Ritual Slaughter' in my first collection, Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001]

Christmas At The Going Rate

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

This poem was written in 1997 and first appeared in a poetry magazine based in Canterbury before I included it in my first poetry collection.  I wrote it after shopping in the West End of London and being shocked at seeing so many homeless people huddled in sleeping bags in shop doorways, on the steps of theatres, even churches and other religious institutions.

Years on, London, like so many big cities around the world, continues to be haunted by its homeless. It is a sad reflection on the 21^st century, in particular its finely rhetoric-tuned, comfortably-off world leaders in politics and religion/s world-wide. [Does anyone really believe they put the interests of the everyday man, woman and child in the street before their own?]

Although I am not a religious person, I have no problem with (any) religious celebrations although I have to say they often strike me as more than a shade hypocritical  where giving thanks to God often appears to play second fiddle to one-upmanship among family, friends, and neighbours who share the same religion.

Please give as generously as you can afford to charities that help homeless people. 

It has to be said that giving money to homeless people can be a mixed blessing as they will often just use it to buy drugs or alcohol. Most, though, appreciate someone to talk to who can not only sympathise with their plight without being patronising, but also offer constructive advice such as where to go for help. [The nearest public library, for example, will have a wealth of information. During my years as a librarian in public libraries, I often looked up useful addresses that I would then call and hand the phone to a homeless person seeking help.]

CHRISTMAS AT THE GOING RATE

Starling on the snowy bough,

where will you go now 
as you stir your weary wings to fly 

across this sorry sky?

Better off than I, stuck here,

sitting pretty enough

in a world dishing up pity

to its cardboard men…

I pause and you disappear, bells

ringing out Christmas cheer

to celebrate the Church's share

in a saviour for all seasons

who taught the heart needs not reasons

to care about another, rich or poor,

saint or sinner. A local tramp passes.

Good souls pause…

Wiping glasses, hedging bets

on Judgement Day,

doling out a sweet reprieve

of misery, and all for 50p.

Now, let's hurry, we'll be late;

carols at eight (or is it nine?)

Thinly drawn, a twenty-first century’s

cardboard line

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2012

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001.]