Saturday, 8 March 2014

Promises, Promises...


Several readers have been in touch to question the wisdom of my repeating historical posts on Google Plus.  I had the idea after readers said they would like to read some of my poems again but did not have time to browse the blogs. Feedback suggests that my contribution to Google Plus is quite popular so I will continue, especially as I am not too well these days so not often up to writing new poems. (Even so, I hope to post some new poems from time to time.) Meanwhile, I hope readers will enjoy at least some of the poems I put on Google Plus, perhaps even take an interest in the historical nature of various preambles. Most post will remain on Google + for five days and return again every few months in the hope of catching new readers and keeping the attention of regulars.

Now, if life is a manic roller-coaster ride, love has to be its saving grace, for all its ups and downs. Since we have no choice but get used to the idea that we come into the world  to live and die , we can at least make the best of what falls in-between,  and if that involves entering into a contract of mutual responsibility with Earth Mother as well as the rest of humankind, so be it…

Easier said than done, of course, in a world where only too often nature is perceived as a slave to what humankind so likes to justify as ‘progress’…

PROMISES, PROMISES...

Among angry hills,
where I was promised to worms,
a storm burst
and I stumbled on slopes
of grassy mud
to which I promised every last drop
of my blood
if they would see me safely home,
and then the sun
came out again, opening my eyes
to birds’ wings
and other miracles of nature;
I got headily drunk
on a misty rain, bare feet stalling
where ragged stone
and thistles bent on re-aligning
my personal integrity, demanding  
I do… what, exactly?

Something, someone,
purpose, reason, sense of resurrection
once mist and rain
finally done, restoring the sun
to its crowning glory
though bits of sky haunted still
by clouds emulating
rocks, thorns, unicorns in scattered shapes
and various personae
yelling in the ears to keep running,
running, running…or miss
the last train, promising to get me
to the station on time,
deserves (surely?) promising
in return to see these feet
safely home, tucked up in bed
by nightfall, eyes closing, peace
(of sorts) descending

In dreams, weeping hills touch gently
upon mutual responsibility

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2014

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from the original version as it appears in 1st eds. of A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005; 2nd (revised) e-edition in preparation]




No comments :