Lost in Translation

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

In response to this poem, someone once complained that I 'seem to be suggesting that being gay is as natural as God intended.' Well, the poem lends itself to various interpretations (as a poem should) and if that's theirs, I am delighted to have at least giving a religious bigot some food for thought.

When it comes to the various Holy Books and the attitudes they convey towards gay, bisexual, and transgender men and women, I know many people feel the same as me; much has been lost in translation or, as often as not, deliberate misinterpretation. Too many people have too great a fondness (reliance even) on a stereotyping which not only confuses important issues but, worse, is put forward as a truth, Time and again, I have heard people trying to justifying an attitude that beggars belief, not least because it has its roots in stereotypical caricatures, especially when it concerns LGBT issues. I am not disputing everyone's right free speech, but let's at least get our facts right, yes?

We all occupy a mother’s womb. I will never believe the love there is conditional to our turning out the way some parents’ preoccupation with various socio-cultural-religious conventions try to impose as. indeed, they have done very successfully since the beginning of time. Thank goodness for a natural capacity of the human heart for rebellion against such constraints; it may well have lost a good few battles and will surely lose a good few more, but is as sure to win the war for  common humanity as day follows night.  

It was once put to me by a work colleague that poetry - no more or less than other art forms - is all about self-indulgence. I beg to differ. Poetry - no more or less than other art forms - is all about finding out who we are; nor is it a definitive 'we' or first person persona for, as the metaphysical poet John Donne points out, 'No man is an island entire of itself...' (Meditation XVII)

Whatever, be it in reading prose or  poetry, appraising a painting or a person, the chances are few if any will come to the same conclusion, and even greater are the chances of any one person reaching the right one; we are all made up of many parts. The arts - among which feedback regarding my own suggests poetry is often considered the poor relation - attempt to reach at least some of those parts, the sum of which makes us who we are.

There can be no perfect interpretation of mind-body-spirit, but we can at least try to lose as little as possible in translation, and allow for human error ...

LOST  IN TRANSLATION

When people ask where I came from;

I answer, my mother’s womb,

so why am I so haunted by a sense
of having been somewhere else,

distant, unknown, as if I’d crossed
mythical territories of time and space
just to find my way here?

When others ask if I have a ‘real’ goal
in life, I confess I’m never sure

which doors are left ajar just for me

to take a peep (our choice, enter

or not) and may let a still, small voice
out of time and space persuade me to try
the safer (better?) path

Sometimes I am even accused of sitting

on some metaphorical fence

rather than explore secret passages

of the mind, and the doors open
to tease me, dare me enter, have a go
at translating the ages-old hieroglyphics
lining Mother’s womb

Yes, I have a ‘real’ enough goal in life

if prompted by a poet’s feeling
for wrestling with the hieroglyphics

between womb and tomb,

writing up an alternative autobiography
of my life and death than trust local graffiti
on doors kicked shut

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2016

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]