After Dark

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

Sometimes we despair of any beauty in the world for being reminded day after day by the media of its ugliness. Fair enough, since we should not turn a blind eye or we risk becoming complacent within the confines of our own personal space; the world is bigger than that. Oh, but then we have only to look out of a window after a storm to witness all the splendour of nature reasserting itself; a kaleidoscope of colour that reminds us it’s wonderful to be alive even though life may sometimes assume the aspect of a bad dream.

Similarly, just as we start to despair of this sorry world, an act of kindness invariably restores our flagging faith in human nature.

Many people, like me, suffer regular bouts depression; mine have struck at random since early childhood although childhood depression wasn’t recognised in those days. (I am 66 now.) For me, it is always the same sensation. I am being relentlessly, mercilessly sucked into murky depths we invariably refuse to acknowledge as denial or some other form of negativity. Yet, even as a child, a passer-by has always come across me just as I am about to drown, and thrown me a lifeline. By the time I’ve been hauled to safety (and it can be a long haul) I’ve arrived at a whole new, positive perspective on life and self...until the next time.

My rescuer is always there for us all, and is called Hope.  At the same time, I,  am a pragmatist; it is quality of life that counts and that will be different for everyone if only because everyone's endurance threshold is different. If I were to be diagnosed with a degenerative illness, for example, I would visit Dignitas in Switzerland all the while assisted suicide remains a criminal offence here in the UK. Others may well be stronger than me or hold religious beliefs that say suicide a sin, but I know my limitations.

Even if the worst were to come to the worst, though, I would never abandon hope. As regular readers will know, I find and take a strong sense of spirituality from nature, and...spring always follows winter. While I cannot accept there is life (as we know it) after death, neither do I believe the human spirit is so easily defeated; something of ours will live on in the hearts and memories of those closest to us, influencing - if indirectly, even unknowingly - their lives.  They, in turn, will pass on something of themselves - of which we are a part - to others; thereby, a sense of immortality.

I decided years ago that if I am ever diagnosed with an illness likely to gorge not only on my body but on my sense of who I am, I will take a one-way trip to Switzerland; rather that than let pro-life campaigners subject me to a  living hell, take a chance on a some unworldly darkness pushing this mind-body-spirit beyond its powers of endurance into a quality of light worthy of a poem.

'The lotus flower blooms most beautifully from the deepest and thickest mud.' - Buddhist proverb

AFTER DARK

Treading lightly among lotus flowers

risen from mud to show this world of ours

there is beauty to be had, even where

it may seem lies precious little more than

the stuff of a slum child’s dream

Opening my heart to those who dare

allow the same, so they may yet discover

there is treasure to be had, even where

it may seem, at first sight, there’s nothing

to inspire even a poor poet

Offering sustenance to those who seek

to strengthen a mind and body grown weak

from treading heavily among weeds

where nature meant to tell a different tale

were nurture called to account

Bringing vision to those who would see

into the murky waters of pain and misery

where the dark is rising, Earth Mother

but waiting (like us) to flower and produce

fruit that is a poem called Lotus

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2018

[Note: I agonised for a long time over the title of this poem, first published as 'Where There's Life' in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

How long Before the Next Bus? OR Fear on the Streets

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

Although this poem was not written until 2003, Stephen Lawrence loomed largely in my thoughts as the death toll among young people subjected to violent, sometimes fatal attacks in London continued to rise; it is still rising. The awful irony is that all the while knife crime remains prevalent, the more young people feel it is necessary for their own protection to carry a knife. 

Stephen Lawrence was an 18-year-old sixth form student. The black British teenager from Eltham, South-East London was stabbed to death while waiting for a bus on the evening of 22 April 1993. It is only recently that two people have finally been convicted of a murder believed to have been racially motivated.

Racism, like homophobia and all hate crime is invariably fuelled by a prevailing gang culture and/or those less discerning socio-cultural-religious bigots among us without whom societies worldwide would far better served. Education is the key; in  schools, colleges and universities, but first and foremost in the home. Tragically, it is far too often the case that education is found wanting in all of these.

As a gay man, I cannot help but get the feeling that homophobic crime is rarely afforded the same high profile as racism among the press, police, politicians or parents. Oh, and why is that?  Does a person’s sexuality make him or her less of a human being than the colour of their skin? Whatever, discrimination in any shape or form is unacceptable in a civilised society.

HOW LONG BEFORE THE NEXT BUS? or FEAR ON THE STREETS

Blood on the pavement where a body lay

and later someone knelt to pray for the soul

of another youth struck down violently
long before his time; utterly senseless crime,
harsh indictment of a society as inclined
to pass by on the other side as rush to the aid

of anyone being attacked, since it could be
for the sake of not being able to buy some acid,
coke, crack, weed, designer gear, the colour
of their skin, a suspect sexuality or even simply
getting kicks out of attacking, maybe killing
someone, given the chances are some in-crowd
says it's 'cool' to look good, act big enough
give old ladies a heart attack, snatch a blind man's
stick for a (sick) joke. Why tempt fate. risk
pitting ourselves against wolves in sheep's clothing
for any of that?

Years on, the pain still tearing at modernity's 

flimsy fabric, as hate ripped a young man's jacket

whose blood at a bus stop tells its own story,

plaque meant as a memorial but also recalling
the vainglory of a fraternity never properly brought
to book, justice gone to ground so we'll never,
walk down any street without a fear shadowing us
that’s persistently perverting its course; no peace
in a sad world likely to stab us in the back any time,
no matter our ethnicity, creed, sex or sexuality,
(easy targets for the perversity of cowardly thugs)
on a street that could easily be mine or yours,
leaving yet another mother, father, sister, best mate
left grieving us, missing us, forever questioning
the ethos of contemporaneity, feeling abandoned
by a society, left watching anxiously for the next bus

that never comes

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2019

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

Gay People Go To Heaven Too

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

Now, as regular readers will know only too well, I am not a religious person and subscribe to no religion. Moreover, I turned my back on religion and put my faith in nature long before I acknowledged, even to myself, that I am gay. Even so, I cannot believe that any God would condemn a person for his or her sexuality or deny them entry to any heaven; it goes against the very spirit of religion and its humanity.

Take the humanity out of religion and what you have left is not worth having.  

Oh, I know many religious minded people will disagree, especially those Christians who choose to take their so-called humanity from the New Testament and their justification of bigotry, intolerance and even hate from the Old Testament. I do know my Bible and the God of the Old Testament bears little resemblance to the God of whom Jesus Christ speaks. How some evangelical Christians can use a few lines from Leviticus to justify their persecution of gay people is beyond me; they are a disgrace to their religion.

Yes, I have said all this before, and dare say will say it again. So why do I keep repeating myself?  It is because I see red every time a gay person gets in touch to tell me how they feel tormented not by their sexuality as such but by feeling must make choice between it and their religion. Bollocks to that! The two are not incompatible as many, many religious minded people have shown me over the years.

It is sickening how many so-called ‘religious’ people, especially certain clerics, among all the world religions, use religion as a weapon with which to threaten people and scare them into denying their sexual identity.

I am so glad I chose nature that gives me everything I was told as a child that religion offers but which I never found.  I was raised a Christian, but at school Religious Education looked at all the world religions. Religion offered me no peace of mind, no sanctuary from the various psychological (never physical) torments I had to endure at home and school. It was nature that sustained me during long, dark years as a troubled teenager coming to terms with his sexuality. Imagine how much greater that torment would have been had I been faced with being ostracised not only by the less enlightened among the heterosexual majority, but also by my religion for being gay. In that, though, I realise now I would have been mistaken.

It is not religion that hounds gay people, only certain, ignorant people. Even so, I have never been tempted back into any religious fold nor ever will be.  Yet, I say again, thank goodness for those more enlightened human beings not only among the heterosexual majority, but also among those people who take their humanity from their religion; where the latter is in no way compromised by acts of humanity that do not discriminate between people for their colour, creed, sex or sexuality.

This poem has not appeared on the blog since 2010 and is here today especially for a young man who wrote anonymously to share his pain at being unable to decide whether to be openly gay ‘for the sake of my sanity’ or  to ‘keep quiet for the sake of my family, friends, and religion.’ 

Are we really living in the 21^st century?

GAY PEOPLE GO TO HEAVEN TOO

A mischievous spirit once asked to see

the golden rule said to be set in stone

that gay men and women should not be

admitted to the ranks of heaven’s own

A religious leader, just passed away,

retorted it was plain commonsense;

others agreed, faith must win the day

(besides, gay people cause offence)

They all began arguing at Heaven’s door,

gay protest drowned out by the noise;

Whose religion means to God the more?

True, no easy choice…

No one noticed for all the brave conjecture

that an angel had opened the door,

but only the gay crowd hastened to enter,

the rest were too busy disputing the score

The mischievous spirit, too, slipped back in,

though not one pious soul saw it had gone;

that no room for bigotry in heaven, a lesson

in Holy Books some readers never learn

[From: On The Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

Mind-Body-Spirit, Mentor to the Arts

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

[ Update: Oct 4th 2017]: We fail to do the arts justice if we persist in seeing each genre as a separate entity. Yes, they are, but they also overlap. A poet, for example, writes with a musician’s ear for rhythm and an artists’ eye for imagery as well as, not infrequently, an actor’s feel for role-playing and a comedian’s penchant for wry humour.

Readers should not be surprised, therefore, that I also write fiction:

https://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/2016/05/news-updates-fiction.html

Now, this poem is a kenning; it last appeared on the blog in 2010 and was included in Forward Press Regionals 2010: South and S.W. of England; it  does not appear in any of my collections. and I am unlikely to produce a hoped-for 8th volume owing to various health concerns. (No worries there folks, am still looking on the bright side of life!)

MIND-BODY-SPIRIT, MENTOR TO THE ARTS

I haunt live theatre,

prefer to leave as soon as the show is over,

curtain barely down,

rather than play the showman for critics

anxious to praise or bury me

as the case maybe in this glossy mag

or that local rag, anything

to be seen earning a living, even

by feeding a gossip column

I haunt live farce

and, no, I’m not that feisty voice on radio

spilling the beans…

about this politician’s gaff or some cleric

caught out in an act of hypocrisy

sure to rock the hierarchy on its haunches,

its spin doctors in a flap for sure,

doing rounds of the rich calling in favours

on grounds it’s for the poor

I haunt music venues,

willing every tenor, alto, bass, and dancer

to make good its integrity

rather than play lapdog to the impresario

who set it all up;

you’ll find me between the notes of a song,

stanzas of a poem, dialogue in a play,

lines of sculpture in marble, bronze or clay,

ground of any painting on display

I am Inspiration, inciting mind-body-spirit

to make an art form of creative therapy

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

Logging On To Life

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

Readers ‘Soraya and Magnus’ have asked me to repeat today’s poem as it is their wedding anniversary today and because 'among all the poems in your collection, this is the one we love most.'  It first appeared in a Forward Press (now Forward Poetry) anthology, My Words Are My Voice in 2009 and subsequently on the blog as well as in my collection the following year.

Here’s wishing Soraya and Magnus a very Happy Anniversary, and many thanks for getting in touch. Apart from the fact that I love hearing from readers, this ageing poet is always grateful for any encouragement that comes his way.  [Well, aren’t we all?]

Now, some cruel twist of fate may cause us to lose some of our senses, even most, but never all. For there is one, not mentioned in the poem by name, but will be inferred by the discerning reader, that will always see us through; it is the human spirit whose resilience, sensibility and passion should never be underestimated.  Oh, and yes, it can and often does make a difference.

LOGGING ON TO LIFE

We look, yes, but how to make sense

of a world turning, no matter what or who,

and how to make a difference?

We hear, yes, but how to make sense

of gobbledegook, no matter what or who,

and how to make a difference?

We smell, yes, but how to make sense

of much doctored scents turning the air blue,

and how to make a difference?

We taste, yes, but how to make sense

of the additives and preservatives hullabaloo,

and how to make a difference?

We touch, yes, but how to make sense

of sticky stuff on a knife bent on killing you,

and how to make a difference?

We can but do our best to make sense

of a world turning, no matter what or who,

and try to make a difference

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[From: On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]

Profile of a Hotshot

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

For a minority of young people, being in a gang is exciting, even glamorous; a life of crime, even violence, brings them local street cred. For some, too, it provides a sense of belonging that, for various reasons, may be lacking at home; invariably, they discover soon enough how seriously flawed this simplistic perspective can be, paying for their mistakes with prison or worse...

There is no excuse for gang crime. A prevailing irony and tragedy lies in the fact that, given an opportunity, most gang members have a positive contribution to make in the very society that condemns them.

There are two sides to every divide and both need to find a way to be reconciled. Society needs to ask itself where it is failing some young people to drive them into a gang culture; what does a gang offer them that it cannot, and why can’t it?

For their part, gang members need to ask themselves what they really want from life and make a bigger effort to find it; they certainly won’t find it by using weapons, shooting drugs or compensating for their own fears by terrorising others. The chances are the false security of being part of a gang, and the price they must pay for exercising their contempt for society's better values, will come back to haunt them in its prisons, those universities of crime that major in the art of self-delusion.

Meanwhile, the majority of decent young people remain under threat of being stereotyped by a mindless minority.

  

PROFILE OF A HOTSHOT

We called ourselves the Hotshots,

my gang and me

Upholding the right to use a gun,

in our constitution

We’d pick fights on street corners

and raid stores

If some little old lady or a war vet

in the way…too bad

We were the Hotshots, graduated

from school to streets

No one could touch us because we

had youth on our side

Looks, girls, designer gear and guns

made us invincible

We even hit prime time News once

(fame at last)

Then a hotshot turned good citizen

and grassed us up

Disbanded now, gone to this prison

or that graveyard

Me, once Mr Fox, now chickenfeed

among old lags

We were the Hotshots, thought guns

were cool

[From: On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

Lost For Words

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

[Update (Oct 2016): Regular readers will know that writing (fiction as well as poetry, but especially the latter,  began as more of a creative therapy than an art form for me. Having been subject to bouts of depression since childhood, writing (and reading) have provided an escape from the harsher aspects of reality while, at the same time, helping to keep its demons at bay. These days, it also distracts me from mobility problems due to a bad fall in 2014 and living with prostate cancer (since 2011) not to mention the usual problems that growing old is inclined to spring on us at short notice. 

Yes, life could be better and I did not anticipate growing old without a partner (I am 70+ now)  but I have some good friends, my writing, my blogs, you,  my readers, and plenty to keep me looking on the bright side of life...]

Now, readers who have been following my fiction blog keep asking if Dog Roses and/or Like There’s No Tomorrow are available in print form or as e-books; the answer is, no.  I had been hoping to upload both as e-books eventually, but ...

Although my fiction blog has not taken off as well as the poetry blogs, it is very gratifying that they are being read at all - especially by so many of you - as neither literary agents nor publishers showed any interest in my  gay-interest fiction; eventually, I gave up on them but continued to enjoy writing both gay and general novels you will find in the blog. I would not have missed that experience for the world. 

Looking for inspiration? Just take a look around you; in nature and human nature, the world is a writer's oyster.

  

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/2011/07/dog-roses-chapter-one.html (A gay rights-of-passage novel)

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/2011/10/like-theres-no-tomorrow-synopsis_3445.html (Not a gay novel, but about a woman who hasn’t given up finding out what happened to  her daughter who disappeared some 20+ years ago)

U.K. readers also want to know  why they cannot order Catching Up With Murder, my black comedy-crime novel (with more than a hint of gay interest, but not a gay novel as such) from (most) bookstores; this is because the publishers (Raider International) do not work with the UK Book Suppliers from whom book stores obtain copies.]

For anyone interested, info about my fiction is available at:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2016/05/news-updates-fiction.html

Meanwhile...

If you enjoy writing in any genre and despair of having writer’s block, you are not alone. I, for one, know the feeling only too well! All I can say is stay positive and stick at it; published or not, creative therapy (in any form) is the best if not only answer to any flagging mind-body-spirit.

LOST FOR WORDS

Watching clouds,

not a face to be seen,

nor rain sounds

like a tambourine

or falling leaves,

more than hinting at grief

for fair Persephone

gone to ground,

though the wind above

lends an ear too,

no stranger to the cries

for a lost love

to old gods above,

but no one left to hear

except the remains

of a humanity caught

with its pants down

The reality, nothing

any different, everything

much the same

Swan on the lake,

pile of whitest down

(no regal robes

or kingdom’s crown);

lark, a mere bird,

drops in long grass

(no ripples across

a green sea or tinkling

of breaking glass);

cars on the highway,

once Caterpillar

at a fair…undercover,

simile and metaphor,

not a good word even

for a heaven where

gain v loss break even

Well of imagination

misted over like breath

on a mirror

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008; 2010; 2016

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appeared on the blog, but was inadvertently deleted; also in  The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.]