Thursday, 27 June 2013

Doors OR A Journey Through Time


Although I have every confidence in the hospital team treating me for the prostate cancer with hormone therapy, I have days when I could feel myself slipping into a depression about it all. Having taught myself to recognize and acknowledge the signs, I knew I had to act or free fall into the abyss. [The abyss and I are old adversaries, but I like to think I can get the upper hand now so long as I don’t let myself go into denial.]

Now and then, I have a really BAD day and (with some difficulty I have to say) need to think   myself into philosophical mode; from there, it is only a few metaphorical steps into positive thinking mode, and from there but a hop, skip and a jump into writing mode. Today’s poem is the result of a form of self-help therapy much practiced by yours truly.

What is ‘now’? It is always ‘now’. Now is eternal, like time and space. We are ‘Now’. We are from ‘Now’. We are heading for ‘Now’.

What, I wonder, what will our ‘Now’ be like once we arrive at journey’s end, shaped by the choices we have made or left unmade? Whatever, we can but try to arrive at a ‘Now’ that offers a better, kinder existence than its history has shown us (or it) far.

DOORS or A JOURNEY THROUGH TIME

Whenever asked where I come from,
I answer, my mother’s womb,
yet a sense, too, of being somewhere
distant, unknown, as if crossing
mythical territories of time and space
just to get there

When asked about my goals in life,
(prompted by what motivation?)
I have confess I’ve never been sure
which doors are left ajar for us
just to take a peep, our choice, whether
or not we enter.

Some people have made accusations
against me, suggesting I’m sitting
on some rickety, metaphorical fence
rather than face what I might find
should I jump off, explore the potential
for mind and spirit

Stung by the rebuke, I flung them open,
these doors left ajar to tease me,
daring me try translating hieroglyphics
lining Mother’s womb, luring me
into a vast maze of corridors whose dust
will host my tomb

I asked of my self where I come from
and it answered, my mother’s womb,
invoking, too, a sense of having been
somewhere (very) distant, unknown,
crossing vast territories of time and space
just to get here

Now when asked about goals in life,
(prompted by what motivation?)
I have to confess I’ve rarely been able
to decide between doors left ajar 
just for the peeping and others intending
I should enter

On womb, tomb, and in-between doors,
find hieroglyphics writing up 
a (much ghosted) autobiography of life
and death, often taken for graffiti 
on this ‘n’ that door slamming on us
if (never) quite shut

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013


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