Epiphany On Hampstead Heath

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

Hampstead Heath has not seen any snow (yet) this winter, but I went for a stroll there only yesterday afternoon in brilliant sunshine, and ...it felt GOOD to be alive.

Photo: Hampstead heath in Winter

EPIPHANY ON HAMPSTEAD HEATH

I stood on Parliament Hill

watching children playing in the snow,

wondering where, oh, where

did my childhood go? And the rosy faces

became those I used to know

I walked on Parliament Hill

though a shrill wintry wind sure to blow,

sounds of laughter in my ears

of long, long ago but faded soon enough

among tears I’d come to know

I paused on Parliament Hill

admiring London’s heady New Year show,

wondering where, oh, where

did Santa go? But in a vast maze of streets

that in time I came to know

I descended Parliament Hill,

among sledge marks churning up the snow,

to a coming of age… where

the carefree days and ways of my childhood

may haunt but dare not follow

At the foot of Parliament Hill

I made my way home, thoughtful and slow,

mindful of an epiphany…when

I embraced the cheers and fears of adulthood

on the Heath, one January snow

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

Making Peace With Mortality

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

Well, here we are at the start of 2012. I will be posting new poems and any for which readers particularly request from time to time over the coming months and my thoughts will be with you all.  I hope you will continue to enjoy browsing the archives. My fiction blog will continue on the usual twice weekly basis, and I will start posting another serial when Like There’s No Tomorrow ends; if you care to take a look sometime, you’ll find it at: http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com

My friend Graham and I will also be uploading new poetry-on-location videos to my YouTube channel as soon as spring arrives: http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Now, someone once told me that the older we get the farther back we look as there is less to look forward to.  Possibly, but I find looking back inspiring. Thankfully, memory becomes more selective as we get older and better able to home in on the good memories while glossing over the bad. Well, that’s how it is for me. Even the torment of a gay youth when being gay was still a criminal offence in the UK gives way to better times; such going on my first Gay Pride march here in London, meeting some wonderful people and no longer having to feel scared of my sexuality or less of a human being for it...

I so wish that feeling on all gay boys and girls, men and women worldwide.

One day ...

Now, regular readers will know that 2011 was not a good year for me. I was diagnosed with a low-medium growth prostate cancer in February. It wasn’t until November I learned that a course of hormone therapy has been very effective and I may not need it again for a good five years or so. By then, I may need radiotherapy, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. The hormone therapy has not been without side-effects, one of these being a urinary problem. I haven’t had a decent night’s sleep for months, having to get up sometimes as many as ten or more times in the night to use the toilet! Oh, but there are many people in this sorry world of ours with far greater problems, so who am I to complain?

So, no, not a good year, for Roger T, but it could well have been a LOT worse so I am working hard at being very philosophical and counting my blessings. After all, those of us who have food in our bellies and a roof over out heads have every reason to be thankful.

London will, of course host both Her Majesty the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee as well as the Olympic Games this year so it should prove a good year for sporty types and monarchists. Yes, well, I am not sporty in the least, and although I have every respect and admiration for Her Majesty, I suspect I’m a monarchist by default since I have never been happy with the idea of the UK becoming a republic. [Ask any political historian and you’ll soon find out why.]

Whatever, here’s hoping for a better, kinder year ahead for everyone.

MAKING PEACE WITH MORTALITY

I saw an old man

looking in a toyshop window

just as the first snow

of winter was falling on passers-by,

and all the toys there

started singing and dancing

as if they understood

January Sales are on, someone

might buy them

for the love of a child who would

give them a home

I saw the old man

step into the toyshop window

through a curtain of snow

though winter already turning harsh

on passers-by,

and the singing-dancing toys

made him welcome,

nor did it matter that he was old

and they were toys,

since spreading love and peace

is down to all of us

I saw the old man

wave his hands, and kick his feet,

arthritis forgotten,

keen to show he’s still young at heart

and even the cruellest winter

cannot quite obliterate a spring

that will last forever 

as long as one toyshop window

nurtures its seeds with pride,

recalling even the dourest cynic

to a teddy bears’ picnic

His face at the window,

sight blurred, sweet-tasting tears

like rain to spring flowers,

the old man bade cheerful goodbyes

to the fun-loving toys

filling the shelves, leathery face

wearing a knowing smile

acknowledging more mistakes

than a shaggy dog’s hairs

and age as no more or less than

the sum of its memories

Between lines on his face

(for anyone who cared to read)

tales worth the telling,

lessons to be learned and passed on

to each girl and boy

by their favourite toy as we grow,

how though it (like us)

may fade, like the first flower

of spring, each New Year

offers us the potential to effect

repair and renewal

You’ll have guessed that man was me,

making peace (of sorts) with mortality

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Yes, What ...?

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

I once remarked to a friend that people can be are such a puzzle, to which he promptly replied that it probably was because we are such a puzzle to ourselves.

Ah, probably...

Sometimes we find it hard to express ourselves in words; if we are fortunate enough to be painters or musicians, we can often express ourselves better through those genres, certainly our deeper feelings.

At other times, we may express ourselves perfectly yet still be misunderstood because those with whom we wish to communicate choose to put their own interpretation on what we say rather than try and understand what we mean.

But what do we mean and do we ever mean quite what we say? Oh, but how often do we wish we had expressed ourselves differently!

Our use of weeds, paint, music, whatever...these all open up pathways to meaning that all parties concerned are free to follow; sometimes we are fortunate enough to follow the same path, and meaning is established. Yet, even where meaning is not fully established, the chances are our relationship with the other party will have entered a new dimension; one we are likely to explore whether consciously or subconsciously, and in so doing discover more about each other than before the dialogue began...even if we are not quite sure what, exactly.

YES, WHAT ...?

If I’d said this, or that,

said - what?

If I’d done this, or that,

done - what?

Tortured souls crying out

their guilt, left

hanging in some limbo

to - rot?

What good purpose, that?

None.

We cannot (ever) change

what’s done,

bring back loved ones

long - gone?

No, but here in the heart,

forever

willing us to live again,

move on;

Nothing, said or done then

would - what?

Have eased whose pain,

whose guilt?

Choices, rarely plain, but

ours alone

will take us here, there,

where?

No one to blame having

chosen - wrong?

Who’s to say, play judge

and jury?

Enough, surely, to be …

what, exactly?

[From: A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]

Frost On The Glass

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

I well remember how, as a child, I would wake some mornings, sun shining on my window where Jack Frost had painted all manner of shapes and scenario; these would fill me with such a sense of wonder and delight that I was sure to be thinking positively by the time I jumped out of bed, game to take on a new day, whatever...

Nothing has changed. but for the wintry realisation that I'm more years older than I either feel or care to count.

FROST ON THE GLASS

Snow leopard 
pacing its territory;
Eagle circling
its prey, wolf howling 
to its kin

Avalanches 
stirring, poised 
to destroy
even as we watch, 
listen, wait 

Abating now,
dark winter's cruelty;
humankind
left hugging pillows,
half an eye
on window panes
writing up the poetry 
of winter

Consciences
stirring, poised
to wake up
if much preferring
to sleep on

Yet, not too late 
for Apollo
to light up
our darkness, see us
through it


Copyright R, N. Taber 2009

The Snowflake

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

A BIG thank you also goes to those of you who have expressed pleasure at the videos my friend Graham and I have uploaded to YouTube; we probably would not have continued without so much encouragement. Oh, the hits are relatively small compared to videos uploaded by others, but, yet again, surprising for poetry videos. I only hope you have enjoyed the poems as much as Graham’s photography: We only have time to publish a few each year but be sure there are more in the pipeline.
http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

To those of you who are enjoying the fiction blog , I hope you will continue to enjoy the story lines I plan to serialise during the years ahead; there will be a mixture of gay-interest and general titles since, as with poetry, I don’t see them as separate genres within a genre. [It is always particularly rewarding when heterosexual readers get in touch to say they have enjoyed a gay-interest story like Dog Roses or a poem like Three Little Words]:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com

Meanwhile ...

Truly, a thing of beauty is a joy forever. Now, ever looked closely at a snowflake? It is beautiful, only for a moment in time, yet saved to our personal space forever ...

[Image from the Internet]

Here's wishing you all, dear readers, a greater share of happiness, peace and love... whoever and wherever you are, and whatever the season of your life.

THE SNOWFLAKE

I spotted a snowflake on a leaf,

watched it settle for seconds there,

and in those precious seconds saw the face

of my love appear

Eyes that glittered like the snow

smiled back at me as you used to do,

and in that smile I relived the happy times

we’ve  shared, sad times too

By the light of a solstice moon,

snowflake and leaf began to dance,

and their togetherness recalled how we met,

not quite by chance

Lips as red as a robin’s breast

kissed mine, like a breath of spring

gently insisting that you to me and me to you

are its life, love, everything

You were my snowflake on a leaf

seconds before a feisty white flurry

interrupted our waltz, Earth Mother insisting

we home in on eternity

I spotted a snowflake on a leaf,

watched it settle for seconds there,

and in those precious seconds saw the face

of my Christmas appear

[London; December 2011]

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

The Dancing Snowmen

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

Today’s post appears on both blogs. After all, weren’t we all children once, we adults who should be pulling together to make the world a kinder, safer, better place for children everywhere?

Now, they say we discard the whimsy and magic of childhood once we grow up and start making our way in the real world.

Oh, yes? And what do ‘they’ know...?

(Image from the Internet)

THE DANCING SNOWMEN

I was rudely awakened 

one Christmas Eve by the rapid beating

of my heart and a tugging

at one frayed, striped pyjama sleeve,

but there was no one there,

no one at all, and then I heard someone

calling my name, ran to the window

and looked up into the sky

where snow was falling, moon blinking

between cotton wool clouds,

but no sign of Santa

so it couldn’t have been him getting

up to his old tricks

I looked down on the garden,

could not believe my eyes, the snowmen

dancing there, carrot noses

like the glow of old coal fires, chestnuts

where eyes should be,

lips reminding me of scarlet ribbons

I first heard tell of in a song

played on the radio only yesterday,

while on their heads

the snowmen wore hats of all shapes

and sizes, the sort

found in an attic. Me, I was already

lost in the magic

I shinned down a drainpipe,

didn’t feel cold at all, soon jigging away

at the Snowmen’s Ball,

a passing owl hooting its approval,

Man in the Moon

showing his face now and then, torchlight

in a steady, sleety rain,

looking for Santa, last seen heading...

(could be for my room)

so I’m saying goodbye to my new friends

returning, oh, so quickly

to where everyone’s favourite story ends

and its magic begins

Where childhood innocence dead and gone,

the dancing snowmen live on...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

A Robin's Take On Winter

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

Now, regular readers will know that I love the villanelle poetic form almost as much as I love robins...

Once, when I woke one Christmas Day and was feeling sorry for myself as I’d be spending the first Christmas on my own since my partner died, I heard the sweetest sound. When I pulled back the curtains, it was to find a fat robin singing its heart out on my windowsill, its red breast bursting with a pride and joy that touched me as no other birdsong has before or since. Unperturbed by my presence behind the glass, the bird I still think of as ‘my’ robin did not instantly fly off, but stayed as if to treat me to the performance of a lifetime.

We had little together, my partner and I, but I can look back on them with pride and joy rather than despair for never having found anyone with whom I wanted to share my life ever again; we were evergreen kindred spirits, and he will always be a part of me. It could have been so different, that Christmas, but for ‘my’ robin not only reminding me that life goes on even during wintry days, but also there is beauty to be had there, and not to be missed.

This poem is a villanelle.

A ROBIN’S TAKE ON WINTER

Among stoic evergreen, a robin’s peeping,

singing in answer to a snowman’s call;

world weeping, Earth Mother but sleeping

Hungry winter days, a fine harvest reaping

of summer’s illusions autumn let pile;

among stoic evergreen, a robin’s peeping

If Heaven. its duty watch, faithfully keeping,

why do its tears freeze even as they fall?

World weeping, Earth Mother but sleeping

Bleak though the landscape, albinos leaping

like children grabbing time to be playful;

among stoic evergreen, a robin’s peeping,

Where a silvery twilight stealthily creeping,

interlopers quick to grab its treasure haul,

world weeping, Earth Mother but sleeping

As sand in a hourglass relentlessly seeping

via cracks in some amateur’s crystal ball,

among stoic evergreen, a robin’s peeping;

world weeping, Earth Mother but sleeping

 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011