A Life in the Day of Mind-body-Spirit

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

“Make the most of your regrets; Never smother your sorrow, but tend and cherish it ’til it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh.” ~ Henry David Thoreau

“Age has no reality except in the physical world. The essence of a human being is resistant to the passage of time. Our inner lives are eternal, which is to say that our spirits remain as youthful and vigorous as when we were in full bloom. Think of love as a state of grace, not the means to anything, but the alpha and omega. An end in itself.” – Gabriel García Márquez  

“Look closely and you will see almost everyone carrying bags of cement on their shoulders. That’s why it takes courage to get out of bed in the morning and climb into the day.” ~ Edward Hirsch

“Happiness quite unshared can scarcely be called happiness; it has no taste.” – Charlotte Bronte

Now, as each day passes, my 77th birthday looming (in December) I am often hard pressed to keep looking on the bright(er) side of life. I so miss being young, fit, able to make plans and feel confident that I will be well enough to not only carry them through, but also enjoy and learn from them. I miss having friends around for cosy chats and a laugh; many have moved away now and mobility problems make travelling difficult.

Ah, corny though it may sound, the human spirit really can keep us young at heart and soul, if only we will let it, Rarely (if ever) easy. We can but try, even if, as life itself invariably proves, it’s a case of ‘win some, lose some…’

A LIFE IN THE DAY OF MIND-BODY-SPIRIT

There are times in any life
when the flesh is weak, but the spirit
remains as strong as ever,
whatever its reasons or seasons,
be it a spring, summer, 
autumn or winter of mind-body-spirit;
it perseveres, encouraged
by a heart-and-soul, wiser beyond its years
to sources of human tears

There are times in any life
when waking after a poor night’s sleep 
leaves the body too weary
to even raise a smile at dawn’s rising
above early mist and cloud,
trying to force its way to half-open eyes 
and ears, through drapes 
at windows obscuring Everyman’s perception
of life, love, regeneration…

Finally, though, mind and body
takes its cue from what lends it sense,
sensibility and stability,
from birth to death, whatever in-between
may lie in wait, ready to pounce
and test us to limits sure to weigh heavy
on any host body, 
all the love attending it beseeching its survival
of Humanity’s heart-and soul

Alas, not every ear that hears
can comply with every caller’s bidding;
no call, though, is ever in vain,
no matter of the human outcome be loss,
and pain, in whatever form;
living, partly living, or stored in Memory’s
vault of eternal springtime,
there remain such ways for all selves to choose,
every which way, then…loose?

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

I, Temptation

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

″You are young,’ replied Athos [to d’Artagnan] and your bitter recollections have time to be changed into sweet remembrances.” – Alexandre Dumas (The Three Musketeers)

“This world is but a canvas to our imagination.” - Henry David Thoreau 

Poetry might be defined as the clear expression of mixed feelings. – W. H. Auden.

“All art forms are in the service of the greatest of all art forms: the art of living.” - Bertholt Brecht 

“You can’t really move forward until you look back.” - Cornel West

I was an avid reader from an early age. I first read Dumas’ swashbuckler novel when I was about 10 years old. For all its swash and buckle, it was the quotation above that aught my eye and struck a nerve. I had bitter recollections even then and doubted whether, even in the course of time, they would eve become ‘sweet remembrances.’ 

Time would prove me both right and wrong. While I continue to be haunted by ‘bitter recollections’ from time to time, these have, indeed, been mostly eclipsed by ‘sweet remembrances. ’Sadly, ten years of hormone therapy for my prostate cancer has deprived me of many instances of the latter; some, I can recall vaguely, of others I have no memory at all. 

The same, it is true to say, can also be said for any ‘bitter recollections’ with which even a failing memory would continue to disturb me but for a creative spirit that is quick to dismiss them, replacing them, if not with ‘sweet remembrances’ in any detail, at least with the spirit of them on which I continue to thrive by courtesy of a creative imagination. 

Now, poetry may well be a form of creative therapy, but it is also an art form. I feel privileged to access each, even as my growing old and accompanying health issues threaten daily, but in vain, to deprive me of both..

I, TEMPTATION

I can make you feel good
or I can make you feel so bad
like you’ve been had,
taken in by so strong a feeling
that’s swept you away
on winds of such desire there’s no escaping,
come willpower’s unresisting

You need to let me pass
let mind-body-spirit be a friend,
and listen well to all
it has to say about staying loyal
to its kith-and-kin,
for knowing a heart-and-soul will be grieving
the company you’re keeping

No battle compares with one
set to undermine better instincts,
give a persuasive alter ego 
pride of place, albeit under cover
of lies and deceit
in such a hellish darkness as defies confession
to make way for absolution

Yet, I will have my wicked way
with you, pour scorn on hindsight’s
attempt to wipe your tears,
haunt any positive-thinking mindset
throughout whatever time
would have mind-body-spirit live with its shame,
a posy of thorns by any other name

Now, however long it may take
to make reparation for any mistake
that’s a sacrilege, surely
against all one purports to hold dear?
Such lessons to be learned,
though they weep us on repentance’s tough rack,
as teach the art of moving on, not back 

Whoever considers walking out
with me needs must give due thought
to tackling the task
of repairing any likely damage done
a fairer, kinder, truer self,
last spotted shadowing an existential imagination
by way of addressing potential salvation

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

A Life in the Death of a Leaf

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

“Solitude is independence.” – Hermann Hesse

“In solitude, the mind gains strength and learns to lean upon itself.” – Laurence Sterne

“If you’re lonely when you’re alone, you’re in bad company.” – Jean Paul Sartre

“Solitude is a good place to visit, but a poor place to stay”. - Josh Billings (alias Henry Wheeler Shaw)

“Loneliness is the poverty of self; solitude is the richness of self.” – May Sarton

Now ,even as a child, I enjoyed a close relationship with nature, the more so when on my own and unavailable to intrusive interruptions.  I did not need to be in a wood or by the sea or even outside my own room. Books and their authors were not only my friends, they were my mentors too; it would only take word or a phrase and I would be transported, across time and personal space, where alter ego would feel free to make a case for… whatever.

The only drawback was – and, I suspect, always will be – that I learned more about myself than anyone else would ever see; warts ‘n’ all….😉

A LIFE IN THE DEATH OF A LEAF

Alone and feeling lonely,
like the only leaf left on a tree
that’s been battered
by an autumnal wind raging 
at… what, exactly?
Whatever, having me empathise,
with a leaf on a tree
I'd barely noticed before, yet, suddenly, 
we are as one, we three

“It is but the way of things,
murmured the tree “that I lose
my dear companions
through those seasons of my life
that our Earth Mother 
would have  them kept safe
for future generations 
to look to see, hear to listen and pass on,
all the wiser for being reborn.”   

A fine calm and quietude 
came over me, lonely no more,
in a splendid solitude
for witnessing a gust tug the leaf
from its tree, each farewell
a burst of happy-sad 
on this heart-and-soul, grown closer,
in all truthfulness, to the bitter-sweetness
of evergreen life forces…  

Copyright R. N. Taber 2022

A Sunset...

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

Photo by Graham J. Collett (See Note below)

“Just because the sun is setting in your world, do not think that it sets everywhere; just because the sun is rising in your world, do not think that it rises everywhere!” - Mehmet Murat Ildan

 “Don’t forget: Beautiful sunsets need cloudy skies.” -  Paul Coelho

“Every sunset brings the promise of a new dawn.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

“One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.” - William Shakespeare

Now, like many if not most people, I love sunsets. They make me think about the world and how I can better relate to it; especially at such times as that relationship leaves much to be desired, they provide food for thought as can offer any positive-thinking mindset with a kinder insightfulness... should it care to partake of at least a fair portion.

A SUNSET

A beautiful sunset,
settling on an unquiet mind,
promising sweet dreams
on pinkie clouds like doves’ wings,
metaphors for peace
and goodwill to all humankind,
less scary eruptions
of fretful silences into politic pieces,
custom boundaries

A gentle twilight,
settling on an unquiet mind,
lulling the better part
of humanity into a sense of security;
but a passing moment,
one for heart-and-soul to imbibe,
taste a natural beauty
on the tongue, instead of raw cynicism
passing for sophism

Come nightfall,
such starry silences winking
and blinking at us,
for giving the nod to kinder times,
such as glorious sunsets
allow passers-by inclined to place
the pace of life on pause,
time to look up and around, breathe it in,
prepare to pass on...

Daybreak, sunlight
rushing to wake dreamy eyes,
yesterday’s sunset
keeping its promise? We can but trust
nature and human nature
to enlighten mind-body-spirit 
as heart-and-soul advises,
should we care to listen, make what we can
of the art of being human

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

[Note: Graham, a close friend also shot the videos on my YouTube channel: https://www.youtube.com/user/rogerNtaber ]

L-I-F-E, Mixed Messages OR Any Human Heart

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blogs in 2012 under the title, 'Any Human Heart'.

Now, we do not ask to be born. We are born, literally, at our parent’s pleasure.  I don’t subscribe to the view that we owe our parents anything. Where there is love between parent and child, it will reap its own rewards.  Where there is no love between parent and child, the child has absolutely nothing to feel guilty about.

Regular readers will know that I support euthanasia in certain circumstances; not, though, when a person is depressed and unable to think clearly. I tried to commit suicide many years ago in the course of a severe nervous breakdown. I am so glad I failed. At the moment, we are still in the thick of a pandemic, and I know some people are feeling desperate; my advice, for what it's worth, is hang on in there because life will get better for all of us if only eventually rather than improving the quality of our Here-and-Now as and when we would dearly prefer.

Yes, there are times we may regret being born, especially when an ever growing disparity between the world into which we would like to live and the one we are stuck with sends us hurtling into a downward spiral of despair; thankfully, the human spirit is better than that although it, too, will have its bad days nor (for good or ill) is it immune to temptation.

The workings of the human mind and spirit are complex, all the more so for the contradictory nature and sheer persistence of the human heart is search of something ... better, kinder, whatever.

Hopefully, humanity can learn from the graver mistakes made in its history rather than thinking it can rewrite it or, worse, block it out and inadvertently go on to repeat the same mistakes ...

This poem is a kenning.

L-I-F-E, MIXED MESSAGES or ANY HUMAN HEART

Running the gamut of life

and love has only brought me pain

like some fine autumn leaf

turning gold (once green) battered

by October winds and rain,

souvenir of a spring badly let down

by an unkind summer yet again,

no silvery light able to make good

Apollo’s absences

Striving for meaning in life

and love has only left me as confused

as nature by global warming

causing bird and beast to change

habit and habitat

(little if anything the better for that)

while humanity chews fat

over a thinning polar ice, dying trees

and sickly skies

Seeking to move on in life

and love has only made me realise

I kicked off as a child

from lies in a poem read aloud in class

about a God in His Heaven

so all’s right with a world struggling

to feed its children,

as if any religion could ever make good

poverty or starvation

I am that heart whose first beats at birth

are welcomed by a kinder Earth

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012, 2020

Seeing Red

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

Preparing a new collection of poems, as I am, is proving more stressful than ever before, probably because - like most if not all of us - I am already stressed out by the Covid-19 pandemic. I keep coming across poems that are fine as far as they go … but strike me as not going quite far enough in saying what they mean to convey. Today’s (considerably revised) poem is such a case. I hope you will enjoy it as a poem offering food for thought, while bearing in mind that the poet’s own thought processes are as if feeling their way through an early morning mist right now.

I confess I’ve always had a great affinity with mist, a curiosity with and certain expectations for whatever it may reveal, especially as it lifts like the stage curtain on a play. Invariably, we human beings will need prompting, by mind-body-spirit no less, in whatever drama places us there in the first place, whether it be romance, tragedy, comedy, tragi-comedy, wicked satire … or a combination of all three. Most likely, the latter, bearing in mind the various parts we needs must play, each and every one of us comprising an all-star cast in a common humanity, called upon to play our part by a variety of life forces - love, hate, jealousy, regret, joy, grief, pain … to name but a few. That’s life. We can but address its various ways and means in an even greater variety of circumstances if only to have alter-ego whispering in our ear that we did well, but could have done better.

SEEING RED

Shades of red, colouring global reasoning

with a world of differences;

shades of red, colouring needs to weather

climate change;

shades of red, confronting world religions,

denying political agendas;

As I opened my eyes, I’d see but red, colour

of lives left bleeding;

as I opened my heart, I’d see that same red,

the agony of missing you;

though I open my mind, more shades of red,

chasing lost opportunities

Red, too, shades of last sunsets waiting upon

all human choices;

red also, on the flag that covered your coffin,

bugler, playing you home;

red, these lips that will never kiss yours again,

yet reassure generations

Shades of red, nurturing a growing disillusion

concerning ‘society’

Shades of red, humanity’s blatant stereotyping

its natural diversity;

Shades of red, confronting a history of shaping

 a much-divided humanity

Now, as I open my eyes, I still see red, a colour

of lost horizons, yes,

but opening up my heart to a splendid rainbow,

the sum of its colours

declaring an affinity with an only too human rage

to live, and win through it all

  

Copyright R.N. Taber 2007, 2020, 

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title ‘Red’ in Accomplices to

Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

Insight, the Twinkle in Time's Eye

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

Rarely are our thoughts processed more intensely and tested than as we ponder questions about life and death, especially the latter if only because it represents The Great Unknown and we human beings prefer to know (for sure) what we are up against. Throughout our lives, we have at least the semblance of some control, but over the time and nature of our death we have little or none. More disturbing still, what happens once we are cut free of a life that so loves to play us like puppets on a string and go into free fall? Something or nothing…?

Those who subscribe to a religion think they have the answer while those of us who don’t take hope from nature’s cycle of renewal.

Whatever, thinking about such things, homing on any conclusions (however arbitrary) we may reach and acting on them, is probably as good a preparation for life and death as we can aspire. 

There is much to be said for the old adage, look before you leap, but it has to be said that the looking eye does not always see; it is the inner eye, as prompted by searching thought, that is more likely to home in (or not) on not only what is it looking at but also looking for.

Looking, finding, reworking, making reparation, whatever ...  life, art and science owe much to its wannabes and wanna-knows. As for what anyone really thinks about all they see and hear, few will ever get to know unless they have access to his or her personal space.

INSIGHT, THE TWINKLE IN TIME'S EYE

Squatting on a patch of waste land,
imaging the growing emptiness
of wishful thinking feeding streams
of consciousness running through
alleys, backyards and housing estates,
watching the living and the dead
vying for time's favours in diaries
and poems they were always meaning
to write

Addressing the insubstantial nature

of shadows, inner sight focusing

on the human spirit playing host to body

no more or less than the flow of blood

feeding its veins as myth's muddy waters

close in, re-assessing attitudes scrawled

in everyday graffiti or glued to pasteboard

points of view; scientific, religious…

(does it really matter?) ever attempting

to win us over by fair means or foul

since that first day at school, now exposed

for the saddest, cruellest trick of all

Articulating on life as mind-body-spirit 

preparing mind and body to chance

a coming of age, despite envious gods

and their petty tyrannies if upstaged

by human selfishness, stuff of immaturity
feeding an ego-led imagination
(Oh, and whatever happened to that?)
and leading us astray who so love to think
we know it all

Focusing on and interpreting the purpose

of one starry eye watching out for us

who are frantically rummaging mortality,

for a kinder fate (surely?) than to be left

drifting in full view of old gods gathered

to gloat, our humanity come less than right

for running the gamut of human history

posed by selective readings between lines

of cautionary tales told by one, Jonah,

from the belly of a whale last seen spouting

gobbledegook to hunters well up for the chase

no more or less than for its own sake

Mind-body-spirit, cultivating the wry twinkle

of all-seeing eye

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2016

[Note: This poem has been revised from an earlier version that appears under the title ‘Death Star’ in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber 2010.]

I-D-E-N-T-I-T-Y, Parts of a Whole

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

A reader has emailed to ask why I frequently refer to mind-body-spirit as a whole in my poems (and subsequently in the Labels column for the purpose of word searches) rather than mind, body and spirit as separate phenomena if only for convenience or (as I see it) paying lip service to convention.  The poem below is by way of offering an answer. 

We are all of us different, each in our own way, and it is our differences that make us human.The inner eye discerns this, that, or nothing at all; the body has different demands depending on how we prefer to define our sexuality; the human spirit turns on how the sum of those differences occupies our personal space whether (or not) inspired by socio-cultural-religious conventions written on tablets of stone. 

Like the human heart, the mind-body-spirit is a free country; sadly, for many people, it is only truly accessible by way of personal space, that part of us where Freedom really keeps its word; people may well do their best to intrude, even force an entry should we not wish to let them in, but no one can altogether usurp or even destroy it however much they might try. 

Those who would (and do) exploit our weaknesses, invariably underestimate our strengths; strengths supplied by mind-body-spirit as a whole, not its parts. Whether we identify as Gay, straight or transgender, human nature is likely to harass us from time to time because it is a complex organism for which there is no standard template; fortunately, that whole comprising mind-body-spirit provides an open-all-hours sanctuary from its worse aspects while encouraging us to appreciate and enjoy its kinder side. Moreover, something about it is clearly capable of infiltrating human thought in the form of remembrance after it ceases to occupy the human form; death as loss, is hard on all of us, but as a posthumous consciousness it may well continue to inspire is ... if we let it.

We are, each and every one of us, the sum of our parts; it is, of course, the whole that really counts; we should not dissect to make a point, homing in on any those parts with which we may take issue, although human nature being what it is, we are often inclined to do just that.

This poem is a kenning.

I-D-E-N-T-I-T-Y, PARTS OF A WHOLE

I am Mind, part of a whole

bent on solving crises,

finding ways to neatly avoid

the slings and arrows

of human nature, rise above

even its worst flaws.

look on the bright side of life,

through thick and thin, stay true

to a kinder philosophy

I am Body, part of a whole

whose every heartbeat

is listening out for like souls

made to run the gamut

of prejudice, discrimination,

and, yes, even worse,

finding solace in those sins

certain world creeds and cultures

oh, so love to hit out at

I am Spirit, part of a whole

where personal space

provides the ‘live’ poetry of peace

and love insisting Mind

and Body direct the inner eye

where it needs must go

to avoid jumping to conclusions

comprising circumstantial evidence

provided by stereotypes

I am Mind-Body-Spirit, the person

often dissected for being human

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

On the Nature of Love

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

I have often heard people say they feel they have missed out on love, and it saddens them because they feel life has left them feeling incomplete.  Perhaps they have never been ‘in love’ or a partner has died young or a lover may have let them down in their eyes…

Whatever, love is neither so easily defined nor confined to the context of being ‘in love’. As I have said before on the blogs (and dare say will say again) love takes many shapes and forms that can be as real, inspiring and life-shaping as a lover.

Me, I haven’t had a steady partner for many years and we only had a short time together, but knowing him was a learning curve in many ways, not least in learning to take nothing for granted, especially love. It is possible, even likely, that platonic love between good friends can be as enriching in its own way as the love shared by lovers. A love of certain places or simply for travelling and experiencing new places can be wonderful nor less so the love of home life and everything it means to us, even if we rarely if ever step out of that particular comfort zone.

Different people want and need different things from life, but so long as we keep our eye on love, and always remain aware of and nurture its presence, the least likely we are to ever look back on our lives and find them wanting.

Few people, in my experience, can say they feel wholly fulfilled, Yes, I envy those that can, of course I do, but we should never let envy of others blind us to our own blessings, even when the latter sometimes seem somewhat thin on the ground; be assured they will pick up, but only if we open up to them, fill our senses with them, see them for what they are through our own eyes, not someone else’s.  Yes, I know it’s pretty obvious, but SO many people fail to see the proverbial wood for trees planted by someone else.

As for sexuality, it embraces love, yes, but love is bigger than that, and anyone who believes in love needs to be big enough to admit it, socio-cultural-religious prejudices notwithstanding, or they are 
hypocrites...to say the least.

‘Where there is love, there is life.’ - Mahatma Gandhi

ON THE NATURE OF LOVE

Hey, listen out…

Hear that lasting beat 

whose remit to feed

the sweetest memories

to a hungry heart.

long after its life force

carried away

on wings of a day set aside

for sorrow

Hey, look there…

Discover cloud shapes

whose remit to relay

best (and worst) times

to an inner eye

long after losing sight

of friendly faces

to hands on a wall clock

stuck fast

Hey, have a smell…

Where grass is greenest

and leaves bring

the scent of summer roses

to the mind

all but closing down

in keeping

with a winter all but gone

to earth

Hey, get the taste…

For honey on the tongue

on what we may

liken to a ‘soul’ having left

its lasting imprint

on such as we may care

to call ‘spirit’

in the lamentable absence

of a poem

Ever get the feeling…?

Earth Mother, nurturing

the beauty

of our seasons going

full cycle,

constructive comment

even on dreams

of each hopeful tomorrow

left unfulfilled

Hey, reach up, touch…

Where the heart beats out

its hopes

for such peace and love

as may or may not

run true, but much the more 

worth the dreaming

for filling all my senses

with you

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016

On Discovering the Bitter-Sweet Poetry of Time

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

As I grow old(er) - I am 70 now - I think less about actually dying than about how about much time I might have left in this life, determined (in my own way) to make the most of and enjoy it.

Incidentally, on the subject of enjoyment, I am always delighted to hear from readers who live in or are visiting London and express an interest in meeting up for a chat, whether over a friendly beer or two, a meal or just coffee. Feel free to email me any time.

Now, writing, especially poetry, may well be my preferred form of creative therapy to keep my old adversary depression at bay (which it does, very effectively) but it has also been a learning curve; hopefully it may be of some interest to someone someday to track that curve from my early to later poems. Whatever their impressions or end verdict, I would hope to get at least some brownie points for having attempted the curve in the first place. This is why, over the next few years, I hope to make revised versions of my poetry collections and novels available as e-books on Google Play to anyone who may be interested; all are on my blogs, but I can’t see them remaining on the Internet indefinitely once Time has disposed of me as and when it will.

Who knows, and what does it really matter anyway? All that really matters is that, each in our own way, we not only enjoy, but also at least try to make some sense of the Here and Now. Otherwise, what chance of our own customised cameos of life’s bigger picture ever finding a place in Time’s endless tapestry of Memory? Moreover, given the integral part the natural world plays in it, all the more reason to preserve what harmony remains between humankind and nature before the later (in time) lets it irretrievably slip away.

ON DISCOVERING THE BITTER-SWEET POETRY OF TIME

It’s a long road that winds

past the cemetery, and sometimes

I’d take a shortcut by graves,

flowers, yew trees, headstones

wiped clean or left to weeds, mosses,

history and memory

Surrounded by an enemy

called Death (so near, yet so far…);

Should I fear or be resigned

to its inevitability, let it undermine
Earth Mother's call to be true, alive

to the Here-and-Now?

The whistle pursing my lips,

a cheeky breeze in sentinel trees

sharing old jokes in the ear.

joyful shriek of starling’s return 
to the nest, flower heads following

my every move, smiling 

Oh, but I'll open up my heart

to a sun that means us well, waking
all of mind-body-spirit
to the eternal landscape of beauty
kindling peace, hope and joy, meant
to reassure us of eternity

No cause to suspect of nightfall

any less of a helping hand from nature

to preserve life, and for every petal,

stem and root that wind, rain,

or human hand displace, more on call

(in time) to take their place

In no time at all, at iron gates

and passing through, Death behind me

(barely a thought) while a rose

in the gutter where I turn

into my street brings tears to my eyes

for its loss forever

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'A Matter of Time' in  A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.]

A Growing Sense of Where Reason Fears to Tread

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

As I grow old (born 1945) I can’t help wondering if I may well have made fewer mistakes in life had I put more trust in heartfelt sensibilities and less in the (arguably) devious designs of reason.

Whatever, what is done is done and can never be undone although (sometimes) compensated for if only in part…provided we have (or can find) the heart for it.

A GROWING SENSE OF WHERE REASON FEARS TO TREAD

Days, weeks, years,

stretching across a wasteland

like a disused rail track

where ghosts play

at mind games to confuse us

about time lines

Time lines, in a haze

of remembrance playing fast

and loose with Memory

where conscience

pulls our strings and leads us

into shadowy places

In shadowy places,

wandering as lost and alone

as a child whose parent,

but for one awful moment 

in time let fall the clinging hand

into unbearable space

An awful vacuum

this freedom once longed for

with, oh, such passion,

meant to fire the flames 

of ambition, not made scapegoat

for an untimely burn out

Responsibility, moral

obligations where bucks stop

at a scary self-searching

where none so blind as dare 

not see block any home truths

demanding a voice

Home truths, eroding

comfort zones, pulling rugs

from under feet bent

on standing up to be seen 

scoring points over alternatives

and so-called 'betters'

Alternatives, for better

or worse, we’ll never know

unless given a voice, 

allowed to speak, make a case

for setting mind-body-spirit free

from dogma's chains

Mind, body, human spirit

stretching across a wasteland

like a disused rail track

where ghosts play football 

with 'live' heads, scoring off-side

more often than not

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016, 2019

Rites of Passage or Overkill?

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Life, death, it’s an eternal balancing act...for nature as well as for humankind.

It's down to us to maintain a reasonable life balance, but the rise in obesity among children as well as adults in western societies suggests we should, well....think again.

Let's not underestimate the power of the natural world either in compensating - in part, at least - for its own darker forces, of which humankind happens to be the worst. We may like to think we do as reasonable a job of compensating for its as well as our own way of life, but could it not be that climate change and endangering (if not eliminating) various species is a memo from Earth Mother, to each and every one of us, to...think again?

I am reminded a something a teacher told the class on my very last day at school. "Education is a learning curve. Try to leap before you have learnt, and you'll soon find yourself in deep shit." Everyone laughed but, of course, it is no laughing matter.

RITES OF PASSAGE OR OVERKILL?

On the crest of waves like surfers poised to head
for home in a swirl of raging sea

Nature re-birthing us, milk at the breast, feeding
the best traditions of human spirit

Dark forces, expecting Everyman to take a fall
against all evidence to the contrary

Everyman going it alone on a lion’s back asking
humanity to find it in itself to follow

Survival, greeting applause (hearts and minds)
if only for a sublime moment in time

History, inclined to lose its footing and leave it up

to the arts to restore a balance off sorts

Humankind, surfing a primeval wisdom, drafting
and redrafting pacts with its nemeses

Copyright R. N. Taber 2003; 2017

[Note: An earlier version of this poem first appeared under the title 'Balancing Act' in an anthology, Watch the Dawn, Poetry Now (Forward Press) 2003 and subsequently in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.] 

Lines on the Extraordinary Nature of Ordinariness

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‘I’d love to write poetry, but…how do I find something to write about?’ people often ask.

Well, try looking all around and letting your senses loose on sight and/or hearing and/or smell and/or touch and/or taste...

[e.g. See also: 'Puddles' ]

The chances are the inner self will respond, and that response is called inspiration.

As for a choice of genre into which to channel inspiration, whether it is writing, music, art...just go for what appeals to you most and never be afraid of someone trying to put you down for a poor result (there will always be someone) because there is no such thing as a poor result where someone has put their inner self on the line by creating something. Success is relative, and a bonus; it is finding inspiration and learning to use it as a creative tool that counts. 

My personal experience, as someone who has suffered serious bouts of depression since early childhood, is that making this particular journey is also very therapeutic.

LINES ON THE EXTRAORDINARY NATURE OF ORDINARINESS

Clouds, magic carpet rides

away from it all…

Birdsong, calling to mind

bathtime rituals

for potential divas to woo

an audience, willing captives

of imagination  

Grass, littered with daisies,

sunspots of memory…

Trees, leafy arms signing,

telling us off for things

we’ve done, forgotten, never

meant to happen

A broken fence, urging us to

repair old friendships…

An empty chair, in memory

of someone who’ll never

sit there any more, words in

the air left unsaid

Crisp, clean pillowcases, all

to ourselves…

Watching a damp patch on

the ceiling spread,

fill the eye like a weepy sky

passing judgement

Ordinariness, the extraordinary
nature of poetry...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2014

[Note: This poem has been revised (2014) since its first appearance in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]

First Symphony, Play On ...

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Who can ever forget the first time they made love, and discovered that religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality...? 

'If music be the food of love, play on...' [Shakespeare, Twelfth Night]

FIRST SYMPHONY, PLAY ON ....

Our very first lovemaking 
saw me nervous, shy,

and very unsure of myself,

scared you might

feel let down, disappointed

in me, that I wouldn’t

send the same electric shocks

through your whole body

as you were passing into mine

with every deft caress,

each lingering kiss on my lips,

gently tongued apart

for strawberries and cream

on as glorious a summer’s day
as to waken the dead

My fears, they melted away

the more I felt at ease 
and safe with you, learning 
how best to respond 
to the all-inspiring rhythm 
of a your nakedness
teaching me that same symphony

of sex as composed

by the twin spirits of Passion
and Desire, worshipped 
by lovers across all time and space;
fine men and women 
creating brave new worlds
for future generations to explore, 
and leave their mark

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.]

Trailing Roses

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I have written several poems about roses; they were my late mother’s favourite flower, and are mine also.

  

TRAILING ROSES

Dawn, a golden haze

among trailing trellis roses;

trees, dripping rainbows

on grasshoppers signing in

another day

Rooftops, sheets of glass

where birds pause to preen

a feather or two before

taking off to help usher in

another day

Bubble wrap skies, cue

for sleepyheads to wonder

why on earth heaven

is raising the alarm for just

another day

Sun rising, world trailing

after trellis roses like a lover

left for dead…

yet to rediscover fool’s gold

another day

By noon, trellis roses

getting up the noses of those

who know no better

than to repeat their mistakes

another day

At dusk, nature playing

its daily nocturne to anyone

who cares to listen,

dares even show a sad world

another way

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

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

The Zen of Discernment

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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]