In Love and War

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

“Who else speaks for the Family of Man? They are in tune and step with constellations of universal law.“ - Carl Sandberg 

“The same spirits which make a white man drunk, make a black man drunk too.  Indeed, in this I can find proof of my identity with the Family of Man.” – Frederick Douglass

“We all carry inside us people who came before us.” – Liam Callanan

“[On speaking of family secrets:] I don’t know how you heal a wound and not let it get some air.”- Barbara Neely

“There’s always another story. There’s more than meets the eye.” – W. H. Auden

The poem below relates to  a friend's  complaining about an elderly maiden aunt’s dour disposition. “She has as much sensibility as a cadaver,” he would say. A few days after the same maiden aunt’s funeral some years ago, my friend visited me to share the contents of a bundle of letters found tucked away at the bottom of a trunk in the old lady’s attic. They inspired an insatiable interest in genealogy that led my friend, several years later, to track down and surrender the letters to the very love child to which they refer.

Now, I loved my maternal grandparents, but never thought of them as extraordinary in any way until my mother told me how her father had deserted the Royal Navy during the war and joined the army under another name. A family secret, indeed, only revealed when my parents decided to marry. Only then were they told that they were not only the offspring of old family friends, but also first cousins...

IN LOVE AND WAR

Clearing out the attic
after a maiden aunt’s funeral,
found a cardboard box,
tied with string, under a pile
of old newspapers,
a bunch of letters inside,
a war diary of sorts, glanced 
at one, soon reading on more attentively,
reworking my family history

Love letters, exchanged
between a dour, but near relation 
and Joe, an army private;
outpourings of passion and desire
addressing such fears
as have accompanied wars 
for centuries, all the tenderness 
and poetry of lovers among war’s horrors,
dreaming of kinder tomorrows

One letter revealed
a pregnancy, the language of love
excelling, shared hopes
shining through every war-torn page,
littered with crossings-out,
and underlines highly charged
with mixed feelings,
every heartbeat, a near-miss bomb exploding,
love’s defences notwithstanding

Later letters voiced
a birth and death, victims of war, 
messengers of love, hope 
and peace, meaningless to a mother
made to give up her daughter
to a better life than she could offer,
give mind-body-spirit
a fighting chance to discover Happy-ever-After
amongst the aftermath of war

Finally, a faded photo 
of a woman to whom her family
only rarely referred,
a family of which both she and I share
a past-present-future 
beyond a dusty death among archives
testifying to the lives 
of ill-fated lovers this mad, mad, mad world over,
Family of Man, deserving better

Copyright R. N. Taber 2022 

[Note: Useful UK) websites:  https://www.sog.org.uk (Society of Genealogists)   https://www.cityoflondon.gov.uk/things-to-do/history-and-heritage/london-metropolitan-archives  (London Metropolitan Archives]

Private Lives OR A Lesser Known History of Everyman

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

Another revised poem today that I found while rummaging my print files; it has not appeared on the poetry blogs before.

I am still very poorly, but remain Covid-free, am feeling a little better every day, and hope to continue writing new poems and publishing them here before too long.

The poem is a kenning and appears on both general and gay-interest poetry blogs today. 

Sadly, many LGBT folks worldwide still remain fearful of the consequences of their choosing to look the world in the eye wherever bigotry persists in making itself felt. As I've said before - and daresay will again - there is so much more to anyone than their sexuality. I suspect the bigots among us, too, (like many if not most of us) know all about engaging in a tug-of-war between keeping up appearances and bringing certain home truths into the public domain.

PRIVATE LIVES or  A LESSER KNOWN HISTORY OF EVERYMAN

We lurk in personal space
conspire to confuse feelings 
likely to light it up,
expose me for watching them
from shadowy corne
while they dance all cares away,
pretending not to know
I am nearby or why, refusing to cry
over spilt (sour) milk 

We manage the living dead,
calling tunes and pulling strings
who would deny me,
mistake me for such bad dreams
as plague humankind
for infiltrating a mind-body-spirit
that is but weak
where it likes to fool itself otherwise,
and everyone else 

We're no strangers to mortality,
walking daily in such shadowlands
as haunt humanity
throughout its daily sleepwalking,
calling on life forces
least likely to penetrate is defences
see it break cover,
confront and/ or excuse its true identity
for acknowledging me 

We are such secrets as never on the loose
for fear of Truth getting the better of us

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

Configuring the Archives OR Placing the 'I' in History

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

Every day, we make a little history by whatever we say and do or choose not to say and do, or simply forget to say and do, whatever the case may be. 

Come tomorrow, today’s Here-and-Now is already history, a an essential part in the history of our personal space if but a miniscule cog in the rolling wheel that is Earth’s past-present-future …

CONFIGURING THE ARCHIVES or PLACING THE 'I' IN HISTORY

One early spring,
I spotted swallows returning,
and before long,
chicks were feeding in a nest
by my window,
and in no time at all, I'm thrilling
to watching them winging
April skies, bringing such songs of cheer
as the human heart holds dear 

Summer, it came,
and mind-body-spirit on a roll
for taking its cue
from Earth Mother’s delight
in seeing nature
and human nature taking on such
joie de vivre as humanity
chooses for cover, if only to shield its lies
(for fears?) from prying eyes  

Autumn shed leaves,
such as humanity lets tears fall
as wintry days threaten
any winning ways the world
may care to invent
by way of its keeping any falls from grace
out of sight, out of mind,
while few of us as fooled as it likes to believe,
making the most of any reprieve 

Swallows flown south,
a wintry world in mourning for seasons
come and gone,
human nature taking its cue
from a barn owl
last spotted following such instincts
for survival as humankind
feeding on whatever likely prey happens by,
nor excluding the likes of you and I 

Such beginnings, endings, and in-between lives
as configuring all Earth’s archives... 

Copyright R.N. Taber, 2020

 

Amateur, a Self-portrait

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

Few if any of us will admit to not being masters of our fate.Up to a point, we are, of course but human life and nature are as complex as the Here-and-Now we have to try and make sense of every day until our past-present-future reaches its conclusion one way or another. 

A wise old bird I once knew warned me never to play amateur psychologist with my own feelings. Sadly, it is advice I failed to take for many years. Consequently, I developed an inferiority complex and lack of self esteem that I tried to confront and deal with, failing miserably. (Yes, my realising I am gay and growing up in a homophobic atmosphere was part of the equation, but only a part.)

Regular readers will know that I suffered a bad nervous breakdown some 40+ years ago. A married reader who confesses to experiencing much the same asks how I 'fully recovered' and 'got my life back to normal'. The sad truth is I never 'fully recovered although , yes, I did manage to knock my life into shape again, even managed to resume my career (thanks to a lot of help and support from various sources and some wonderful people) after several years of being unemployed and seemingly unemployable. It was tough, but if I was a victim, it was of my own making in the sense that I should have sought professional help years earlier. I suspect my breakdown was mind-body-spirit asking for that help, if somewhat late in the day; it had been damaged and badly in need of fixing for far too long. There was never going to be a quick fix.

Although I have been on an anti-depressant for years, it was being given a second chance that made me determined to to address my personal problems head-on and rise above them.  Returning to work in an entirely new environment where only select senior colleagues had been made aware of my history, proved to be a life-saver. I moved into my present flat, and spent years paying off credit cards used to furnish it. By that time, I was conscious of a growing uneasiness within myself. I needed form of creative therapy, and time to pursue it if I was to have any chance of averting another mental breakdown. I gave up a full-time career to work part-time, made time to write (a second life-saver) as well as creating a social life since living alone and often working long hours was contributing to a sense of depression that needs must always be attended to.

I have not been particularly successful with my writing, but enjoy it, and am happy to have achieved a minor reputation as a poet in the 70+ countries that continue to visit my blogs since I started writing them up some ten years or so ago.

Can I live with being a 'failed' novelist? Easily. The few novels I have written can be read in serial form on my fiction blog; only Blasphemy and Catching Up with Murder were ever published; several literary agents expressed an interest in Mamelon 1 & 2, but nothing ever came of it.  

Happy enough in my later years - since recovering from my breakdown sufficiently to get on with my life - I can well relate to the C.S. Lewis quote: “You can’t go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.”

AMATEUR, A SELF-PORTRAIT

There is a part of me

that no one ever gets to see,

for my living out

its fantasy, a nightmare fiction imposed

on Mind-body-spirit

The mind, it may fight

as best it can to get the better

of forces unknowingly

(and unwanted) hell bent upon infiltrating

the human body

The spirit, it may resist

most dreams dressed up to kill,

yet fall for home truths

last seen feeding on an amateur psychology 

worn on its sleeves

The better part of me

struggles to compensate for secrets and lies

it’s made to house

in a heart hell bent on betraying appearances

behind closed doors

The years, they passed

in tears for my struggling daily to break free

from a mind-body-spirit

that would ransom me to Reason, but Reason

would have none of it

Finally, Reason paid up,

returned me safe and sound to the kind of self

that makes a kinder person

if (still) vulnerable to life forces beyond control 

of you, me, anyone

Now, I grow old, haunted

by the ghosts of those same dark secrets and lies

that held me captive for years,

but there are other ghosts, too, allies in adversity,

come to dry my tears

Such is life and human nature,

last seen seeking to nurture its natural predilection

for love and peace

in a world rarely living up to its promises (or ours)

but… who knows…?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

Skeleton in the Cupboard

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

I was researching my family history some years ago and went for a drink afterwards with someone likewise engaged. He asked me why I was doing it and I confessed it was a form of therapy to help me recover from a bad nervous breakdown; it was still (relatively) early days.  When I asked him the same question, he laughed and commented to the effect that he was hoping to find a few skeletons in the family cupboard. “Mind you,” he added almost as an afterthought, “I’m not sure I like the idea of someone raking over my bones,” and tossed me a knowing wink, whereupon I felt faintly uneasy and changed the subject. We passed a cheery enough hour together, and parted promising to meet up again…which we never did.

Given how we all perceive each other differently, that the media are inclined to put across a view of us altogether differently again should the opportunity arise and various ad hoc reports are likely to be biased if not suspect, depending on time and context…ca we really expect to reach a balanced view of any life history?

Hopefully, the average family history mole will arrive at a balanced perspective, but I can’t help wondering how he or she would feel about someone burrowing into their personal history…?

SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD

I cannot see, hear or speak,
but I know things, feel things, keep them
close to my chest, archive them
so any who care to rummage the files once
the archivist has moved on
may yet discover what it was that I hid
behind closed doors who thought
the better part of valour to keep them shut
on pain of hurt wherever

I can neither defend my actions
nor ever explain, but I feel them, keep them
close to my chest, archive them
to a living and posthumous consciousness
in which we all have a share,
whether or not we choose to pass on
anything of what has been gained,
learned or lost from experiencing the nature
of experience as it is

I will never see, hear or speak
to any who know things, feel things about me
for researching my history
out of a sense of responsibility, curiosity
or simply an affinity with people
suspected of slamming doors on closet lives,
choosing to forget their footprints,
handprints, DNA, even nervy (scary?) scrawl
remain open access

I am a silent witness to all life throws,
for better or worse, in sickness, health, death
and wherever else angels (it’s said)
may well fear to tread if dearly wanting
to prise open closed doors,
research archives history would prefer left
to gather dust for fear they expose
hidden truths, they from whom so much hid
for love of them

I am called many things by many people
struggling to differentiate between good and evil,
erring on the side of the former
wherever possible if only by comparison
with its global counterpart’s capacity
for one-upmanship in every area of human life,
leaving much the same paper
and online trails for any dedicated followers
of home truths to follow

For every family's history in my every bone,
someone exposing secrets of their own...


Copyright R. N. Taber 2018

[Update: Dec. 5^th 2020:  This poem appears in the Genealogists’ Magazine for December 2020. For more information about the Society (London UK) : http://www.sog.org.uk/about/contact-the-society]

Nature, Powerhouse of Secrets

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

We may like to think we live in an open society, yet behind closed doors thrive secrets of all kinds, not least the human kind.

Open or less open, the world’s societies (human and natural) along with all their various families and communities - have nurtured a whole world of secrets since the beginning of time, many to which any human mind-body-spirit may yet have access if it but cares to tap into itself while looking to see, listening to hear ... if not necessarily what it wants or expects to see-hear, given the native arrogance of human nature in supposing itself second to none.

For better or worse, appearances are often deceptive; no more or less true of nature than human nature ...

NATURE, POWERHOUSE OF SECRETS

I have heard a spring rain

cajole the world open up to us

a whole world of secrets

I have heard leafy sunshine

serenade flowers with summers

overflowing with secrets

I have heard autumnal hues
reassuring all the world’s lovers

of keeping their secrets

I have heard a wintry wind
express every intention to expose 

even the best kept secrets

Between its womb and tomb,

peace of mind needs must access

a whole world of secrets

Copyright R. N. Taber 2017

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.]

Sunrise

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

The human spirit deserves a voice; it certainly deserves better than any form or dregree of incarceration, self-imposed or otherwise.

Just as many gay boys and girls, men and women worldwide may find it hard to be open about their sexuality, many if not most people (gay or straight) have feelings they are obliged to hide for one reason or another; nothing gives the human spirit its freedom like coming out of hiding, and breaking the silence, self-imposed or otherwise, that drove it there.

SUNRISE

Gagging on the quiet,
blinded by the dark,
not deaf, though, to wolves
howling for blood

Thoughts, vague shapes
like ink blots
on pages charting molehills
to mountains

Moon, no guardian here
but a mythology
written in charcoal, that reads,
 ‘I told you so…’

Stars, hijacked by a night
in fierce deadlock
with Earth Mother and human
vulnerability

Trapped, lost, a no-hoper
being crushed
to nothingness just for asking,
‘What’s the point?’

Enter, dawn’s weepy light,
Apollo’s first take
on Earth Mother and the human  
condition

Risen to breaking silences,
inner eye and ear
awakening like sleepy egg-birds
to find a voice

Copyright R N. Taber 2015

Figures in a Landscape OR Home Truths, Chief Protagonists in Art Forms

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

Regarding my You Tube channel, it appears that some viewers have not realised they should keep the sound on to catch the poems I read over the latter videos nor that the poem is also included in the description that accompanies each video. Hopefully, this information will add to your enjoyment as Graham and I have a lot of fun shooting the videos and writing the poems. We don’t have a state of the arts video camera, though, so don’t expect a BBC level production:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Meanwhile...

Among all art forms, it is possibly a painting that brings us closest to considering home truths we prefer to keep at bay...? Could that be because all art probes the secrets of nature and human nature that, as we connect with and relate to it, in one way or another, we cause at least some to surface? T

Art, indeed all the arts, are one of the rare occasions when time really does wait for us to make our mark (for better, for worse) and make ourselves heard... whether or not anyone chooses to look, see, hear, listen...

FIGURES IN A LANDSCAPE or HOME TRUTHS, CHIEF PROTAGONISTS IN ART FORMS 

Colours, plain enough

to see, tricks of light

portraying the same scene

if differently, discerning inner eye

homing in selectively

Familiar enough backdrop;

humanity busy scrapping,

hell-bent on settling old scores

under the very noses of arguably

elected ‘betters’

Society stripped of dignity,

its integrity left wide open

to question, hypocrisy ripped

away like ozone, ways of seeing

increasingly less clear

Earth Mother going it alone;

world conforming

to tribal identities, a conflicting

evolution, pictures in an exhibition

up for speculation

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2014

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]

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

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

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 Secret Garden

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

This poem has not appeared on the blog although I posted it on my gay-interest blog back in January 2009.

Gay or straight, we are all entitled to some privacy and deserve respect, not condemnation, for personal decisions we make for reasons that are perhaps best known only to ourselves. A straight couple who read the poem in my collection have asked for this poem to be posted on the blog. They, too, have problem with prejudice. Both are Muslims but one is a Sunni and the other a Shia, branches of Islam historically opposed to each other. As a result, they are in hiding from family and friends.

Few important decisions that we are called upon to make in this life are easily made. Yes, we might think someone has made a wrong decision but it is their decision to make and their life that will be affected by it…not ours. Some people, instead of judging others, would do well to wonder how others judge them.

We all, each and every one of us, need support and encouragement to feel GOOD about ourselves. Only in this way can we do our bit, privately and publicly, for the general GOOD of our particular society and help make the world a better, kinder place; one in which people count for who they are, regardless of colour, creed, sex, sexuality, age or position in life with regard to wealth, poverty, career, vocation or whatever…

For humankind to deserve surviving its custom made slings and arrows, it needs to demonstrate its humanity. As I have said before and will almost say again…take humanity out of any socio-cultural-religious equation and all that’s left is Ground Zero.

THE SECRET GARDEN

Mouth on mine
devouring a lonely heart,
imploring me to start
living again and forget
we were but strangers
in the rain, shy glances
at shop windows
regretting missed chances,
non-starter romances

Hands on my body,
driving lonely avenues,
past secret gardens
blooming with flowers,
fruits of light showers,
lonely hours keeping busy
rather than let feelings
of intimacy get the better
of me; a native sexuality
more a part of me than
hand thrust in glove,
whose familiarity brings
warmth, sensuality
words can never explain
any more than strangers
like us, seeking to come
in from the rain

Penetrating the silence
of my soul, a driving force
I never thought to know
again, bringing truth and life
to my secret garden,
songbirds leading the world
in heavenly celebration
of such perfect harmony,
as you and me

Sexuality, as deserving a flower
as any of due nurture


Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2010

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]