An Autobiography of the Human Race

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

We are all past-present-future in the flesh. We inherit certain genes and much of our approach to life is taken from historical figures who have made a deep impression on just as we, in how we live our lives, make an impression on others for better or worse; family, friends, casual acquaintances, even complete strangers. It only takes one moment in time when something we say or do strikes a chord in someone’s life that will play out forever.

We won’t all make the national archives, of course, but there is another, more extensive to the point of being inexhaustible archive that is the human mind-body-spirit, that key player in human nature that should never be underestimated; whoever and wherever we are, whatever our socio-cultural-religious background, gender or sexual persuasions, it is the backbone of a common humanity that has seen the human race also rise above all history has thrown at it, just as it will continue to do, even as the C-19 coronavirus continues to impact on us all.

This poem is a kenning.

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE HUMAN RACE

I walk with ghosts, night and day,

a presence as real to me as my own reflection

greeted in mirrors, shop windows,

still waters in dream-places keeping memories

and sometime companions alive,

urging mind-body-spirit like voices in the ear

egging urging me on, regardless

of any obstruction fallen or placed in my way

whether by accident or design

I talk with ghosts, night and day,

and they listen without interruption, just a nod

or shake of the head occasionally,

sufficient to persuade or dissuade any thoughts

to action or inaction gathering pace

demanding I look again or press on, regardless

where inspiration has landed a hit,

missed its mark altogether, deserves discussion

or better left to gather dust

I bare all to ghosts, night and day,

far more even than to those who know me best

if only because I dare not share

any part of me that takes its cue from the dead

for fear of being misunderstood

or (worse) denied a voice, left with less of a life

to speak of than even a ghost,

reduced to a skeleton in someone’s cupboard,

exhibit for some eager archivist

I am that past-present-future making of humanity

what it will, and am called History

Copyright R. N. Taber 2018; 2020

[Note: This post/ poem also appears on my gay-interest poetry blog today.]

Nature v Human Nature (Winner takes All?)

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

‘It’s a life for a crust!’ my mother would often exclaim with mixed amusement and stoicism to us kids.

More than half a century on, and growing old, I understand only too well what she meant.

An earlier version of this poem has appeared on the blog before; in 2000, at the turn of the century, it was published in an anthology the same year and has resulted in a number of emails from readers (of all ages) to say how much they can relate to it. Some years on, I have to say I don’t find much changed for the better ... 

Oh, well, c’est la vie.

My maternal grandfather would often say "Better a plodder than a plonker be." Oh, and why not? We plodders are (on the whole) a happy breed if struggling sometimes to rise above the chaos of battles between nature v human nature. We try to make the best of things, refuse to be cowed (for long) by the worst, and trust common sense will (eventually) impose a benign order (of sorts) on our surroundings ... whoever and wherever we may be in a century that has come far, but still has as much to learn about as from nature and human nature, not least regarding the (all-inclusive) art of nurture.

NATURE V HUMAN NATURE (WINNER TAKES ALL?)

Can’t get on a bus, schoolkids

won’t walk half a mile;

stuck on a train, points failure,

(blame the weather);

arrive at work later than usual,

half the staff phoned in sick;

Start to get things done - and

the IT system goes down;

mad rush to meet Management’s

deadline, only to discover

it's been extended yet again;

no relief (or lunch break);

long afternoon, more than ready

to make the Home Run, left

fuming how quirks of modern life

always ganging up on me

Soon, feet up, relaxing (I wish!)

but family strife, no easy life;

a stressful stroll through streets

paved with fool’s gold,

feeling old, and youths sneering

at wrinklies in designer gear;

cyclist hurtling along the pavement

sends shoppers running for cover;

resentment boils over. I stand firm;

cyclist takes a nasty tumble;

a cop across the street rushes over,

takes my details, warns me

I’ll get a letter, says folks my age

really should know better ...

Oh. and when did mind-body-spirit

ever let age get the better of it?

Peace at last on a quiet hill as dusk

settles on this, my cruel city;

world without pity, but so beautiful;

kite flier, taking on a rough wind

with laughter, joy and pride, proof

(as if any needed) of humanity's

predilection for turning a blind eye

and/or deaf ear as and whenever,

the better to give mind-body-spirit

every chance of making good

and breaking free of what 'society'

would have us take for gospel,

since that’s the way it is, we can take

or leave it ... except we can't, won’t,

because humanity has a conscience,

that would have the last word

Much as a swallow will fly warmer climes,

shall the human heart wing kinder times  

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2020

[Note: An earlier version under of this poem first appeared under the title ‘Citizen 2000’ in an anthology, Through Life’s Window, Poetry Today [Forward Press] 2000 and subsequently in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001.]

The Zen of Discernment

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

As we go through life, how much do we discern regarding the nature of our surroundings, and how much do we take for granted?

This poem is a villanelle.

THE ZEN OF DISCERNMENT

Like ghosts, our years pass us,

(the mixed blessings of memory)

as hauntingly beautiful as stars

No lesser regard for science

than Earth Mother’s finer poetry,

like ghosts, our years pass us,

Images of laughter and tears

finest art can only ever but copy,

as hauntingly beautiful as stars

No hopes wing more precious

than family and friends in harmony;

like ghosts our years pass us

Come birdsong to fine old trees,

so joy and pain creating our history,

as hauntingly beautiful as stars

As centuries turn nature’s leaves,

so each human heart creates eternity

like ghosts, our years pass us,

as hauntingly beautiful as stars

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

[From: Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012]