Sea and Sand OR Rediscovering the Art of Positive Thinking

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

Todays poem first appeared on the blog in 2015. Now seemed as good a time as any to repeat it as there can rarely have been a time in the lives of many of us when positive thinking was harder or more essential as in seeing us through the Covid-19 coronavirus pandemic.

Sometimes, we do our best, and yet it never seems to be enough for some people while others simply take our efforts for granted.

Yes, it hurts when all we seek is a little encouragement, and all we seem to have to show for it is grains of sand.

It is so often the case that people do not mean to cause hurt, yet fail to see their comments as a parody of their finer feelings towards us.

We all need to think before we speak sometimes, learn to acknowledge and trust our better instincts, formulate our ideas with care instead of (all too often) falling prey to so-called 'public opinion'.

Easier said than done, though, this refusing to either rush to judgement on others or let ourselves fall victim to those rushing to judgement on us.

Whatever, praise is no endgame in itself but a by-product of succeeding - as far as anyone can - in finding and being true to ourselves as opposed to more or less repeating what others may have said and done, however much we may admire them for it; being inspired by someone enough to follow  in their footsteps, on the other hand, is something else altogether. 

I suspect Nietzsche makes a valid point when he says: “So long as men praise you, you can only be sure that you are not yet on your own true path but on someone else's.”  ― Friedrich Nietzsche

SEA AND SAND, INSPIRATION or REDISCOVERING THE ART OF POSITIVE THINKING

Alone on a beach

among restless white ponies

panting heavily,

rearing at me for they know

a storm is coming,

although not yet a while;

time yet to let me see

the Old Man smile as I drop stars

through tearful fingers

relentlessly measuring out

the rest of my life

Air hot and stale

like the stillness of a coffin,

funeral prayers

long since dead and gone,

tossed to playful waves

as we’d throw a much-loved dog

a bone and watch it run,

tail wagging, anxiously homing in

on its reward

for whatever, only ever needing

to deserve praise

No bones here,

only flailing limbs of ghosts

in dark water

striving for landfall, but sure

of nothing,

like flotsam and jetsam taking turns

to see which will

fall into loving hands anxious

to shape an art form

if for no other reason than leaving

its mark... 

What to do?

Needs must…choose well

or wait for a stampede

to render me less than hoof prints

in the sand,

all human potential left

to natural erosion

unknowingly hastened by fishers

of men rushing to judgement

if for no other reason than needing

to deserve attention

Nothing for me here,

but rage and pain in a pool of stars

at my feet,

urging me to leap a feisty pony,

let it take me where it will,

escape not only storm but wreckage

as sure to follow as day

follows night and tides of humanity,

the course its nature sets us

if for no other reason than failing

to find peace...

Yet, treasures to be had,

sparkling views of sea, sky and sand

filing the inner eye

with memories of (far) kinder times

filled with faith in dreams

nurturing mind, body and spirit

no matter where the spotlight

on everyday lives may choose to fall,

urging that we follow the course

nature sets us if for no other reason

than deserving each other

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2020

contemporaneity, gender, human, identity, imagination, life, love, mind-body-spirit, nature, personal, poetry, positive, relationships, self-awareness, self-confidence, society, space, spirit, thinking

Last Orders OR A Fond Farewell

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2015.

Now, coronavirus restrictions are driving me up the proverbial wall and, yes, look likely to do so for some time; even as restrictions are relaxed, nothing will (ever?) be quite the same again. At least I have had time to get used to that proverbial wall in the sense that hormone therapy (for my prostate cancer)  has been driving me up it since 2012.  I have arthritis to deal with as well, in my left foot where I fractured the ankle after a bad fall in 2011 and also in my neck. I manage both okay(ish) but it ain't easy in your 70's (I will be 75 later this year) or at any age.

The hormone therapy not only makes me want to pee a lot day (and night) but also affects my memory and, latterly, my whole personality in the sense that I make mountains out of molehills where I used to things in my stride. The blogs help. As well as enjoying the company of readers from 70+ different countries, writing them acts as a form of creative therapy that encourages my old self to stay alive and kicking. I did get upset when a reader contacted me to say he had seen my gay-interest blog called 'sick' on social media, but not for long; it takes all sorts to make a world, warts 'n' all. Being gay is as much a part of me as being human while being human makes me as free a spirit as anyone; in my case, it  also makes me a poet with a responsibility, as I see it, to draw on nature and human nature in all its shapes and forms.. I rest my case...

Time is precious; past, present and future. One day, (hopefully not for a good while yet) the Grim Reaper will pay a visit, and my blogs will eventually disappear from the Internet.  Now, the blogs are the only record of my revised poems as well as many others that have not been published and are not included in my collections. I therefore intend, over a period of time, to publish revised editions of all my print novels and poetry collections in e-format so ...watch this space.

Meanwhile...

During my short time in Australia some years ago I met an elderly aborigine who attempted to explain the aboriginal concept of 'Dreaming'. In short, the Dreaming expresses a timeless concept of moving from ‘dream’ to reality which in itself is an act of creation and the basis of many Aboriginal creation myths. (It is significant that none of the hundreds of Aboriginal languages contain a word for time.) I cannot begin to express much of that myself, and would not presume to try. Even so, it is a concept I suspect any poet can easily relate to, especially one who firmly believes in a posthumous consciousness in the sense of spiritual 'presence (or ghosts) as I do.

Of all the love poems I have written, this has to be one of my favourites. A sudden need to revise the original as it appears in my collection was like a cry from the heart, reminiscent of Cathy's ghost calling to Heathcliff in Emily Bronte's classic novel, 'Wuthering Heights'. [Oh, yes, in case you hadn't guessed, I am, among other things, an incurable romantic, always have been, and make no apologies for it.]

LAST ORDERS or A FOND FAREWELL

May the last ‘live’ art I see,

be a lark dropping from the sky,

my last breath but endorsing

its love song, life force of nature

and human nature

May the last my senses inhale

be a heady fragrance of flowers,

my last dream, awake-asleep,  

recreating a collage that’s our life

in picture poems

May the last thing I ever feel

be the sensual touch of your skin,

the last of Earth we ever share

our toasting love in its finest wine,

sealed with a kiss

As the good earth calls ‘Time’

on all its children sooner or later,

so shall its ghosts call its bluff,

addressing the human spirit’s remit

for immortality

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002, 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem this poem was first published under the title 'Last Orders' in an anthology, A Ray of Light, Poetry Now, (Forward Press)1999 and subsequently in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]

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.]

Love, Testament to Life OR Au Revoir, Mon Amour

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

There will be no blog entries for a week or so after today while I make time to start preparing a new collection; it is now ten years since Tracking the Torchbearer appeared under my own imprint. (Oh, and, yes, they did sell well and I even made a profit albeit a small one.) I also need to start work on new editions of earlier collections as a number of poems have since been revised, often only slightly, but always significantly. Only one (U.S.) publisher has expressed any interest so far, but messed me about so much that I withdrew my submission; others did not want to include gay-interest as well as general poems, and I will not compromise on this. Being gay is an integral part of who I am, but it is only a part, and we are all the sum of our parts. I may not publish  print editions again, though, but upload as e-books, but time enough to cross that bridge as and when I come to it. Hopefully, some of you will enjoy exploring the blog archives in my absence.

I will try and post a new (or revised) poem from time to time, although, like so many people around the world - not least those of us who live alone - I have to confess to lockdown fatigue at the moment. As I suspect I had the milder version of Covid-19 back in early January, and count myself fortunate, everything I do still seems to be taking much longer.

Take care, folks, and many thanks - as always - for the pleasure of your company.

Meanwhile ...

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2016. At the time, a reader who had been browsing blog entries and emailed to ask why on earth I should think anyone reading a general poetry blog would be interested in a gay relationship. Fair enough, except that poetry is about human nature as well as the natural world; most of my gay-interest poems only appear on my gay-interest blog, but I happen to think the occasional entry here is not as inappropriate as ttis reader plainly thinks. Like it or not, there are many LGBT men and women in the world, and we are no less human (or naturally so) for that. Why must so many people rush to judgement on others, a judgement often based on shallow stereotypes? Being gay is an important part of a gay persons' whole identity, but it is only a part; what about those other parts that make us who we are?As for why I publish the poem here, I guess I live in hope that stereotypical and bigoted attitudes will eventually bee seen as fake news; there are many gay-friendly straight people out there who don't have a problem with a person's sexuality because it is the whole person they are happy to call a friend. Besides, there is nothing wrong or unusual (or immoral) about the ages-old principle of agreeing to differ ... is there?

Regular readers will know that my partner was killed in a road accident many years ago. He was not my only love, but the only person with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life, no reservations whatsoever. Sadly, we did not have long together, but his love has inspired me (and my poetry) ever since.

Now, there is nothing romantic about death, but neither is death any match for love.

I will be 75 years old this year. For me, it has never been so much the case that that time heals as that any brush with mortality makes life all the more precious while the pain of loss serves to remind us that we are, indeed, very much alive. It is a philosophy that has also served me well since I was diagnosed with prostate cancer in February, 2011. 

"Why should I fear death? If I am, death is not. If death is, I am not. Why should I fear that which cannot exist when I do?" - Epicurus 

LOVE, TESTAMENT TO LIFE or AU REVOIR, MON AMOUR

I have kissed Death on the cheek as it slept,

let a flow of memories course my veins

while Hope, past a grieving heart, it crept,

ghost rider tugging gently at the reins

I have kissed Death on the lips as it rested

where nature's tides may flow no more

but neither its finer spirit’s growth arrested;

songs of love and peace, no talk of war

Life called out my name as I would leave,

its firm, kind, touch wiping away a tear,

prising my fingers but gently from its sleeve,

for conceiving its eternal watchtower ...

Fear not as Death calls, or where it takes us; 

be sure of waking among Memory's flowers

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2007; 2020 

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in my collection, Accomplices to Illusion, Assembly Books, 2007; this post also appears on my gay-interest 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.]

Guess who's Coming to Dinner OR Party Piece

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

Time changes many if not most things about us, for better or for worse, yet there are aspects of human nature that remain steadfast; whether or not we choose to let them see the light of day or keep them under wraps, though, is another matter.

An American acquaintance returned to the U.S. last year. In latter days, whenever I visited, his delightful budgerigar's cage was always covered with a cloth. Once, I asked why. He grinned, and confided that he often talked to it and it had been known to name names along with random aspects of conversation best left for his own ears only. Among other things, he had very strong views about Donald Trump's presidency which I share; I would have so loved to lift that cloth, but sadly the bird died before an opportunity presented itself. 

Why hasn't the man spoken out about years of injustice towards African-Americans and other ethnic minorities, vowed to stamp out police brutality all but commonplace in some parts of the U.S.? He clearly can no more judge the mood of the people any more than a significant number of other senior politicians around the world.

“Strong minds discuss ideas, average minds discuss events, weak minds discuss people.”
― Socrates

This poem is a kenning.

GUESS WHO’S COMING TO DINNER or PARTY PIECE

My favourite party piece,

lives in disarray, any willing

to help clear up the mess

giving up in despair while others

would steal my limelight

with various blotted copybooks

and dirty laundry like bailiffs

banging on doors, demanding dues

(to even old scores?)

Everyone's worst enemy,

often inflicting pain even when 

a person's best interests 

at heart. Ah, but whose? Few, indeed

can look me in the eye,

swear altruism, no ulterior motive,

for playing mind games

with hidden truths too close to home

for comfort

Colour me right or wrong,

add subtle shades of light and dark.  

as appealing to the con artist 

in us all as acknowledging the efforts

of a creative spirit privy 

to the heart's persuasion, called out

for a coward when playing safe, 

yet hedging my bets, anxious to play fair

for appearances sake

Call me Gossip, everyone’s favourite sinner,

an open invitation to dinner

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010, 2020

Stressed Out OR Engaging with Covid-19

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

A reader has asked me to repeat the link to my YouTube channel where I read poems over videos shot my best friend, Graham; he is a graphic designer and we are hoping to exhibit some of my poems written during the C-19 pandemic along with appropriate graphic art-work. Fingers crossed …

Sadly, for various reasons, we have been unable to create new additions for some time:

https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=UUSdhLgPQOsng2Xz8n5m0ViQ

Another reader asks how I can “… write about a ‘common humanity’ when so many of us are as different as chalk from cheese.” Well as I have continued to put it to blog readers for a good 10 years now, our differences do not make us different, only human; nor would humanity be so divided were more people and societies only more willing to agree to differ and find (other) common grounds for making peace instead of war.

Nothing exacerbates differences of opinion than being under stress so I suspect there is many a household across the world struggling with divisions erupting left, right and centre among family members and any friends whom social distancing allows them to see. A Muslim neighbour commented just the other day to the effect that in spite of all the horror inflicted by the C-19 coronavirus “We are all in it together, a Family of Man for once instead of a bunch of stereotypes causing more pain over a far longer period of time than any virus.” I get it, don’t you?

Hopefully, once we have either defeated or at least learned to control the spread of C-19 (rather than its controlling us) many if not most of us will look back on what continues to run like something out of a horror story and remember how we were, indeed, all of us in it together, regardless of ethnicity, culture, religious or (yes) sexual persuasion. One in the eye for the bigots perhaps, enough to cause a change of heart? Yes, well, they do say hope springs eternal …

Lines from a 19^th century novel seem to me to be as appropriate now as it was then:

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.” 
- Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities

How can I possibly suggest that this could, in any way shape or form, be interpreted as ‘the best of times’? Well, we are all in it together, aren’t we? The pandemic is the worst crisis the world has had to face since World War 2; we pulled together then, too, and this time Germany is not the enemy, but pulling together with us; a common humanity that, hopefully, will continue to work together long after the Covid -19 coronavirus is a thing of our distant past.

STRESSED OUT or ENGAGING WITH COVID-19 

Another day,

rise ‘n’ shine, willpower

touching base

with an alter ego

that’s long since lost sight

of any get-up-go

Another day

of waking up to memory

playing tricks on me;

Where is whatever,

and who moved it anyway?

(Not me, surely?)

Another day

on old Forget-me-Not lane

(a wistful sigh);

logging on to images

that would mean the world

should I recall why

Another day

of shopping locally, list left

at home (of course);

chatting with folks

whom I do my best to place,

for better, for worse

Another day,

walking a few laps of the park

if only to keep fit;

social distancing

making sure of no seat in sight

for tired feet

No park keeper;

C-19 guidelines abused by egos

guaranteed

to defy regulations

likely to cause inconvenience

and hurt pride

Another day

of people being people, all things

left unequal

but for mind-body spirit’s

being equal to the task of rising

above it all

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

T-i-m-e, Life Forces

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

An old saying insists that, ‘It’s ‘a man’s world.’ Maybe that’s true, maybe not, for there is another that suggests, ‘Behind every great man is a great woman’. As for how we define 'great' I suspect it has to do with goodness; if goodness is as great as any of us can aspire to, not all greatness is synonymous with goodness.

Whatever, we live in a world for which I suspect we have mostly women - past, present, and future - to thank for its (and our) ever aspiring to a kinder world and common humanity, all the better for its feminine side looking beyond the Here-and-Now to host such peace and love as all the best dreams are made of, including one called Progress...

T-I-M-E, LIFE FORCES

Seasons come and go, Hope,

nurturing root-leaf-flower of its thought 

in a garden of peace and love

Earth Mother, complementing

time's healing touch in a thousand ways

while its seasons come and go

Nature, human nature, playing host

to all living things, its ghosts left sighing
over every missed heartbeat

Human arts and sciences lending 

a sense of shared responsibility in caring

for a each and every one of us  

Seasons come and go, World asking
of nature-cum-human nature its sacrifices

for a kinder, unprejudiced ethos

As life forms put through their paces,
nature and human nature invariably at odds,

find a woman called Hope regenerating
dream-gardens of peace and love

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013;2020 

[Note: A slightly different version of this poem first appeared on the blog in 2013.] RNT

Facing up to Life

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

Like many if not most of us, I am close to desperation as the Covid-19 coronavirus persists even though there are signs that it is starting to abate. I miss being with friends and am finding my own company increasingly unbearable. Only by engaging with an inner self that has always been a more positive thinking force than its human host, am I able to recover sufficient  self-confidence to not only face the day ahead, but even write a poem.

I have always been plagued by self-doubt. As a child and young person at school many years ago, any self-confidence I was able to muster would soon be undermined by one thing or another. My perceptive of ‘pitch’ deafness was not diagnosed till my early twenties, and this did not help; time and time again, I was made to look a fool by not hearing or mishearing what people said, whether they be family members, friends or school teachers. I had no way of knowing how the pitch of someone’s voice or surrounding acoustics could affect how I perceived what someone said and, in turn, what response was required. When I realised that I am gay, I was almost as inclined to put myself down for it as most people were in the 1950’s, and many still are although they might well deny it for fear of being seen to contravene any equality and /or political correctness legislation.

While I can only speak from personal experience, I have had many a conversation with people of all genders, ages and socio-cultural-religious backgrounds who, for whatever reason, have had battles with self-confidence all their lives; hopefully, we ain more than we lose, bit it is invariably the latter that continue to haunt us.

So how do we overcome a lack of self-confidence, faith in ourselves, and any subsequent self-consciousness that makes us wish the earth beneath us would swallow us up in certain situations? My Religious Education teacher,  a Mr Partridge, who ‘regretted’ but did not hold my inability to identify with religion against me, told me on the day I left forever that “Those unable to reach out to God, for whatever reason, have no choice but to reach out to themselves, that is to say the inner self. The chances are, they will touch and draw upon such physical and spiritual life forces beyond all understanding.” I was sceptical the time, but now in my 70’s, I have to say it is among the best advice I have ever received.

When nature and/ or human nature takes you to the edge of some existential abyss, take heart, dear readers, look to your inner self, and you may well be pleasantly surprised at what you may find there.


This poem is a kenning. …

FACING UP TO LIFE

Let good times roll,

and find me responding

in kind as, indeed,

much the same whenever

life they take a turn

for the worse, although be sure

I will default to positives

before the harshest negatives will get

the better of me

See bad times persist,

and find me smiling through

if only to conceal

an everyday struggle within

to rise above however

mind-body-spirit defaulting

to autopilot by way

of blocking any such feelings likely to get

the better of me  

Yet, there are such times

in the human condition effecting

system failure,

demanding I call on whatever

native skills as left me

to restore working order,

rise above any sense of failure likely to get

the better of me

Above all things, I, Inspiration am set the task

of encouraging mine host to but do as I ask

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2020

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

When the only Way is Up

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

Sometimes we seem to be going nowhere fast, and haven’t a clue what to about it. I felt that way for years. Plans I’d made about becoming a librarian after leaving school depended on my passing at least two A-level exams, but I only passed one. I drifted into my early 20’s with no clear sense of direction and finally decided to migrate to Australia. This didn’t work out, either, but gave me time to take a long, honest look at myself and work out a positive plan of action; this depended on my returning home as it became clear there was no future for me in Oz. As it happened, I couldn’t get a job and soon did just that. I signed up for a course of teacher training in Canterbury, but my first teaching practise made me realise that a hearing problem should not be underestimated. As luck would have it, I was able to transfer to the local university, finally graduating with a good degree in English and American Literature; this, in turn, made me eligible for a postgraduate course in librarianship.

Career-wise, I seemed to be on an even keel at last, but was still grappling with a sexuality I had been raised to believe was ‘sick’ although no longer a criminal offence for consenting adults since 1967. It would be another few years and a bad nervous breakdown later before I would not only be entirely at ease with being gay, but also see my sexuality as a sure positive rather than a defensive one, certainly no negative.

It would be four years after my breakdown before I was eventually able to get a job in my chosen profession, and have never looked back. The only fly in the ointment was a pressing desire to write, and there just weren’t enough hours in the day. In 1993, cutbacks in Local Government spending meant some compulsory redundancies while everyone else at the library where I worked was offered voluntary redundancy. I decided to be positive, accept, and work part-time. Again, I was fortunate enough to get enough work to support myself and try my hand at writing fiction and poetry until I retired in 2004. I didn’t become a best-selling novelist, but have a modest reputation worldwide as a poet and have no regrets. I see gay-interest poetry and fiction as alternative voices of the same genres and have enjoyed exploring and sharing both on my blogs. I only wish I had emerged from my deaf-blind chrysalis years earlier; no butterfly here, but a psyche with which I am no longer anywhere near as unhappy as I was some 50 years ago.

I once commented to an old friend how I felt lost and had no idea even what path next to take in a life that was...a mess. "Well, Roger," he said, "When you reach rock bottom, the only way is up so hadn't you better make start? The sooner, the better by the sound of it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

Right!

WHEN THE ONLY WAY IS UP

So near, so far, dreams
in the heart desperate to break out
and go live, make themselves known
to an unsuspecting world

So near, so far, thoughts
fit for a positive mind-set playing
fast and loose with a vulnerable psyche
all but unfit for purpose

So near, so far, aspirations
persistently put down by jeers pulsing
a self-esteem deaf-blind to the landscape
of human potential…

Deep breaths and first steps,
picking up the gauntlet thrown down
by die-hard naysayers and doom-mongers
with little or no imagination

Learning the art of persuasion,
pitting it against any nemesis of faith
in the power of positive thinking to prove
a worthy winner over all else

A rush of adrenaline for playing
an active role in life’s amphitheatre
rather than sit with live ghosts in the gallery,
left wishing and hoping in vain

Bit between the teeth, not a time
to be resting on laurels, can do better,
need to take on new roles, new challenges,
critics welcome to any field days

So near, so far, nightmares haunting
a psyche afraid of being measured out
for better or worse according to expectations
thrust upon it by false impressions

Here-and-Now, assigned a lead role
in a past-present-future psyche poised
to explore the rolling see-hear landscape
of human potential

Copyright R. N. Taber 2018

Helping Hands at Cliff Edges

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

Regular readers will know that I am having a hard time dealing with various health issues at the moment. No matter how aware and /or reminded we may be that there are many people out there a lot worse off than ourselves, it is small comfort in the circumstances and does little or nothing to ease our own distress. Selfish? Probably, yes, but I suspect it is human nature to see little further than our own problems from time to time.

I have often said that various forms of creative therapy can save us from going into free fall; the arts have a central role here, but so, too, do crafts, gardening etc. For me, of course, it has to be poetry, and – for better or worse (for the reader, that is) – I practise what a preach. 

We all know, and it goes without saying (doesn't it?) that, in the absence of Apollo, and as someone’s family member, friend or neighbour we all have a supporting role to play from time to time in their lives … well, don’t we?

HELPING HANDS AT CLIFF EDGES

Hanging on,

wanting, needing to let go

but for old habits

kicking in where life instinct

ever made itself heard

even to deaf ears, mind-body-spirit

older than its years,

risen above its tears for fears

of living nightmares,

fingertips clinging to cliff edges

above an indifferent sea

Hanging on,

wanting, needing to let go

but for happy times

in the company of loved ones

haunting me;

cinema of mind-body-spirit providing

private viewing

intended to kill tears for fears

of living nightmares,

lend fingertips at this cliff edge

a helping hand

Hanging on,

wanting, needing to let go

though an old stand-by

making its presence felt yet again,

climbing up my spine;

no nasty creepy crawly thing, this,

but bent on killing off

tears for fears of living nightmares

with positive thoughts,

lend fingertips at any cliff edge

a helping hand 

Hanging on,

wind turning southerly now,

as if anxious to prove

a kindness exists beyond any stormy gusts

as buffeted me here,

reminding me that hope springs eternal

and love never dies

in a mind-body-spirit up for more

than alien sentiments

bent on sending it to The Edge

ever bargain for

Safe, if shaken,

but still on dry land for taking

Apollo’s helping hand,

up for a marriage of mind-body-spirit

with a past-present-future

acknowledging errors, working on any flaws

of (human) nature,

taking heart in playing its part

(however small)

in keeping a kinder perspective,

resist free fall

Copyright R.N. Taber, 2020