A Poet's Blog: Roger N.Taber shares his thoughts & poems...

Thoughts and observations by English poet Roger N. Taber, a retired librarian and poet-novelist.- "Ethnicity, Religion, Gender, Sexuality ... these are but parts of a whole. It is the whole that counts." RNT [NB While I have no wish to create a social network, I will always reply to critical emails about my poetry. Contact: rogertab@aol.com].

Name:
Location: London, United Kingdom

Sadly, a bad fall in 2012 has left me with a mobility problem, and being diagnosed with prostate cancer the same year hasn't helped, but I get out and about with my trusty walking stick as much as I can, take each day as it comes and try to keep looking on the bright(er) side of life. Many of my poems reflect the need to nurture a positive-thinking mindset whatever life throws at us.

Thursday 29 May 2014

Landfall, Human Spirit

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

We have no choice regarding our being brought into the world; all the more reason, in my opinion, why we should be allowed choices regarding how we live and even leave it. I, for one, would not want to stay if my quality of life (as I see it) was such that I felt unable to give to or take from it as I would like.

We should never underestimate or shrink the capacity of children and young people to think for themselves, the more so as they grow into a subtle if inarticulate awareness of the world into which they have, unasked, been brought. The better, greater part of instinct, if nurtured with loving care, will always be the cornerstone of humanity nor is it entirely lacking in nature.

Now, I have always maintained that quality of life is more important than life itself while how an individual assesses his or her quality of life will vary considerably since we are not (yet) a race of clones. As for so-called ‘success’ and ‘failure’, they are very overrated and far less important than aspiring to goals where the very process of aspiration helps make us (hopefully) better and kinder human beings.

Everyone sees life differently and wants different things from it. We should respect that at every level of society; home, school, workplace etc. Children and young people are not vessels for the aspirations of parents or teachers; they have minds of their own and should be encouraged to develop the moral stamina to make their own way in life.

Why do I refer to the human spirit when I subscribe to no religion? As my mother once told me when I said I did not want to go to Sunday School any more, religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality, and she was a Christian. Moreover, it is a spirit that endures long after death in the form of a posthumous consciousness whereby something of us, by word or deed, lives on to be passed on in turn by someone somewhere who may not even have known us well, if at all. [No religion has a monopoly on immortality, only its own interpretation of it.

LANDFALL, HUMAN SPIRIT

Faces, competing
to offer a helping hand
where I cower
in my corner from wind
and acid rain eroding
a world ever whimpering
in pain

Hands, reaching out
to drag me into the world,
urge me stand tall
among rats running rings
around human beings
looking on and/or placing
bets

Hopes, aspirations
and pipe dreams staking
a claim on me, tossing
fistfuls of straws where left
to surf a perfect storm
on my own, make for a safe
haven

Eyes, closing, as sure
as the world’s blood, sweat,
and tears customizing
its tee-shirts with this or that
social, cultural, political,
or religious divide, no place
to hide

Ocean of voices,
a crashing hypocrisy urging
I strike a balance,
take its swell in my stride,
do tin gods proud,
last spotted strutting cloud
nine

Landfall, blanket
of noises (potential choices)
and new senses
wrapping me in silver foil
to keep me warm
and safe from harm, peace
in our time

Waking refreshed
and inspired to sail on whatever
life throws at me,
stay true to mind-body-spirit.
each new day
reassuring me it's OK
to be gay

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2014 

[Note: An earlier version of this poem under the title Waters of the Womb first appeared in an anthology All Our Tomorrows, Triumph House (Forward Press), 1999 and subsequently in Poetry Monthly (43) the same year before I included it in Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]

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Wednesday 28 May 2014

An Affinity (of sorts) with Ghosts

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

We need to measure time in seconds, minutes, hours and days etc. to give our very existence a semblance of structure; similarly, we need language to communicate and try (at least) to make sense of it.  Time and again, though, I get the feeling we are working from false premises. Certainly, means do not necessarily justify ends which, in turn, as often as not, prove to be unfit for purpose. They may well satisfy some of us some of the time, but what about the rest of us and all that leftover time?

For a bigger picture than even the most detailed archives convey, we can but try to read between lines we so love to draw in sand (and the arts) if only to explore the spaces and establish an affinity of sorts with the immeasurable and indescribable…

The emotions invoked by death are immeasurable, not least because death itself remains beyond even the most creative imagination. Better, surely, if and when we are made to face the indescribable, to focus on we can describe and share by way of giving voice to and in part reliving the joys whose loss threatens us with free fall?

Memory helps, of course and is an infinite source of comfort as we recall happy  times spent with loved ones; a bitters-sweet comfort some might argue as there can be no adequate compensation for their loss and absence from our lives; for me, memories, dreams, daydreams and yes, poetry conjure up the spirit of a person which, albeit posthumous, is as much a part of me as it ever was ...

AN AFFINITY (OF SORTS) WITH GHOSTS

Where wintry days  
would have left us hanging
by dark memory’s thread,
returned to life in the flicker
of a sparrow’s eye seconds
before closing its Here-and-Now
on a world where death
attends creatures great and small
by way of their inclusion
with as select a company of ghosts
as inspire peace and love

Shadows, a gathering
of ghosts around weepy graves
littered with fading flowers,
a pooling of a-political policies
of positive thought to share
without fear or favour with eyes
to see, ears to listen,
lips able to move (no strings)
human hearts engaging
with aeons of having to learn
and unlearn, human minds
discovering and rediscovering,
shaping and reshaping,
working and (ever) reworking
parodies of human nature,
cartoons giving home truths a run
for their money

Earth Mother, lending us
an affinity with ghosts so voyagers
across time and space
may follow such tracks as mock
a humankind obsessed
with a Here-and-Now vulnerable
to its vanity’s attempts
at measuring the immeasurable
if only for sanity’s sake,
its worst fears last seen dissolving
into a rainbow, rain clouds
already parting to let the sun back in,
bring hope where there is despair,
give any heart wings to fly wherever,
share love and peace
among all the world’s winners and losers,
each to their own

I took poor sparrow
in my bare hands, clinging
to life in a sticky heat,
faint pulse denying death
its victory until nature
in its greater wisdom giving
the nod to its passing
an evergreen memory in us
of its winging free of time and hour
in every beat the heart skips

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014; 2019













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Monday 26 May 2014

Heartlands


Life offers a variety of landscapes, each one a challenge; how we react to these challenges,   defines who we are…but never believe that is written in stone; we all have choices and, yes, we all make mistakes.

While some mistakes can never be properly rectified, and may well haunt us all our lives, we can at least try and compensate for them. Never easy, but a small price to pay for peace of mind if a fragile one, yet strong enough, too, to survive the cut and thrust of human nature in response to which, for good or bad, we shape and reshape our very identity from cradle to grave...

I once asked a friend why he loved so exploring and didn't the potential dangers worry him ? He shrugged. "It's in the blood," said, but the trick is to know when and where to stop. That's in the blood, too," he added with a disarming grin. A good enough template for life for anyone, I thought at the time...and still do,

Oh, and as my mother would often tell me, the only way to think is positive ...or it's downhill all the way.

HEARTLANDS 

Forgotten dreams, lost causes,
a mountain of broken promises
daring us climb and conquer,
save ourselves and each other;
higher we climb, farther away,
yet bringing us closer every day
to a scary, grey, loneliness,
weeping landscape of distress

A faery mist issuing a threat
to those seeking an easy way out,
nature is not (yet) done with us
in denial of its greater mysteries;
kind faces in clouds beckoning,
frail ego and willpower conspiring
to revive an all but dead hearth,
kiss the sky and inherit the earth

Ghosts, sharing our tears,
wiping clear a window on years
that have not been kind to us
nor we to ourselves or each other;
parting now, eyes wiped dry,
Apollo advising let live, let die,
time to descend the mountain,
into the heartlands of its creation

Forgotten dreams, lost causes,
a mountain of broken promises
daring us climb and conquer,
save ourselves and each other;
no easy way up or even down
only (potentially) peace of mind
in scaling peaks of desperation,
making peace with imagination

Fearful, yes, yet anxious to be seen
colouring grey landscapes green

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010


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Saturday 24 May 2014

Getting it Wrong


I often look at contemporary UK society and don’t like what I see; more litter louts; more people strung out across pavements so other cannot pass; more folks on the MP3 players or mobile phones who have no awareness of their immediate surroundings and expect everyone else to get out of their way; more elderly people having to stand on crowded trains and buses where the majority of those sitting down are under thirty-five; even more occasions when it’s a case of first in the bus queue and last (if at all) to get on the bus…the list is endless.

My first boss at a public library where I worked after leaving school (in 1964) told me that a public library is a microcosm of society. It is so true. You meet all types in libraries. As many if not most public library services in parts of the UK have gone into freefall so, too, has society. Good manners, for a start, seem to have flown out of the proverbial window. Few people say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ any more, but take any services rendered, even everyday acts of kindness for granted. On the streets of London, the majority push, shove, everyone for themselves without as much as an ‘Excuse me please’ or a ‘Sorry, I pushed you into the road or against a wall. If you complain, the chances are you will be verbally or even physically abused. The last time I shouted at a cyclist riding on a busy pavement who sent me sprawling as I came out of a shop…I was told, ‘F***k off, you old fart!’ Needless to say, I continue to protest.

Life is a balancing act, I guess; we can get it right some of the time (even most, with any luck) but few if any of us can expect its scales to weigh in our favour all the time...however hard we try.

Thankfully, there are many exceptions to bad apples; if we look hard enough, we will see the bigger picture, and find some lovely people out there…

GETTING IT WRONG

Bus stops, anarchy;
assault-by-default on mad,
rush hour trains

Death on our roads,
date rape in bars, gun law
on angry streets

Disabled access
in key places leaving  much 
to be desired

Perverts coasting;
hypocrites anxiously taking
Communion

Minority groups,
milking political correctness
for all its worth

Human rights,
where the machinery of justice
badly need oiling

Imagination, 
getting the better of worsening 
world scenarios

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appeared under the title 'All the Wrong Pieces' in an anthology Upon Reflection, Poetry Now (Forward Press), 2004 and in  A Feeling for the Quickness of  Time by R. N. Taber  (2005)]

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Monday 19 May 2014

Ghosts, a Posthumous Consciousness


Yes, I believe in ghosts just as I believe in an all-embracing posthumous consciousness or presence to which each of us contributes and in which everyone plays his or her part in a spiritual dimension that does not even recognise so has no need to measure any human concept of time. I do not mean 'spiritual' in any religious sense either, but in a far wider, more inclusive sense and continuum than it strikes me any 'closed shop' world religions can offer.

GHOSTS, A POSTHUMOUS CONSCIOUSNESS

I have sat with Greats
at a round table, chewing flesh
off bones

I have fought at battles
won and lost, seen vultures pick
the bones

I engage with political
and religious leaders in disputing
old bones

I’ve been good and bad,
done right and wrong, all for a bag
of bones

I have shared a beggar’s
patch, withering looks freezing up
the bones

I have lain in The Road,
and felt the wheels of time crushing
my bones

I urge the young to learn
a thing or two from the home truths
in their bones 

I urge the old to live, let live,
and breathe fire for the next phoenix
rising


Copyright R. N. Taber 2014





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Saturday 17 May 2014

First Symphony, Play On ...


Who can ever forget the first time they made love, and discovered that religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality...? 

'If music be the food of love, play on...' [Shakespeare, Twelfth Night]

FIRST SYMPHONY, PLAY ON ....

Our very first lovemaking 
saw me nervous, shy,
and very unsure of myself,
scared you might
feel let down, disappointed
in me, that I wouldn’t
send the same electric shocks
through your whole body
as you were passing into mine
with every deft caress,
each lingering kiss on my lips,
gently tongued apart
for strawberries and cream
on as glorious a summer’s day
as to waken the dead

My fearsthey melted away
the more I felt at ease 
and safe with you, learning 
how best to respond 
to the all-inspiring rhythm 
of a your nakedness
teaching me that same symphony
of sex as composed
by the twin spirits of Passion
and Desire, worshipped 
by lovers across all time and space;
fine men and women 
creating brave new worlds
for future generations to explore, 
and leave their mark

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]

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Thursday 15 May 2014

I, Person [Not Box]


No one likes to be stereotyped, and I mean anyone not just gay men and women. 

Worse, is being subjected to verbal/physical/ psychological abuse simply because we don’t tick the ‘right’ boxes; right for some people, that is.  So what can we do about it? 

As a child, I was sometimes bullied and teased (by adults as well as peers) because I had a very bad lisp. I finally confided in someone and asked what I should do. ‘Don’t do anything,’ I was told, ‘just be yourself, and when these nasty people see they are not getting to you, they will get bored and stop. Too often, we only see what we want to see in others, for better or worse. The trick is to let everyone know that what they see is what they’ll get, end of story. The chances are they will respect you for it. They may not like you, but they will respect you…’

Years later, this advice served me in very good stead when I came out as a gay man.

This poem is a villanelle.

I, PERSON [NOT BOX]

Be brave, and to the self be true
(none of this playing a part);
let others see, for looking at you

Bigots, though (relatively) few 
leave good folks sick at heart;
be brave, and to the self be true

We all run life’s gamut, it’s true,
(few of us make a good start);
let others see, for looking at you

Gossips have little better to do
(innuendo, a poison dart…);
be brave, and to the self be true

Get a life, and then see it through
(challenge the stick, try carrot);
let others see, for looking at you

Just rewards may well seem few,
(don’t let it break your heart);
be brave, and to the self be true;
let others see, for looking at you

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009


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Sunday 11 May 2014

Deep River OR Fishing for the Twinkle in Time's Eye


A friend who, like me, lives on his own, commented that he would so love to find someone special with whom to share his life, but simply didn’t have the time, what with work and seeing to the shopping, laundry, keeping the house clean and everything else that needed to be done. Fair enough, but how often do we wonder how other people manage to find the time for leisure activities and generally enjoying life? If the answer is often, then we need to make time too or risk life dumping us in some metaphorical river carrying us along with the rest of its human waste…  

We are often told that the cut and thrust of modern life is all about prioritizing. (How managers and supervisors, not to mention politicians love that word!). Well, making time to get a life needs to be a priority, too, surely? Oh, of course things (relationships?) don’t always work out as we'd hoped (in my case, more often than not) but there is so much in life to miss out on; we need to pause for thought, and then make time to GO FOR IT. True, we all have our limitations, but as a teacher at my old school once pointed out, limitations are a challenge not an excuse.

My dear late mother once told me, ‘Always make time to reflect on life because it’s food for thought that makes the feast all the more enjoyable.’ Wise words, indeed!


DEEP RIVER or FISHING FOR THE TWINKLE IN TIME’S EYE

A man by a river is always there,
often fishing, now and then sketching
or gazing into the air as if watching
birds in flight only, invariably,
there are none in sight as light on a face
all grizzled and worn (at first sight)
seems to shed all trace of care,
take on a saintly profile, a beauty rare,
sublime, less in thrall to time
and place than the river passing us by,
emanating centuries of loving, dreaming,
despairing of ever finding whatever
we dare not cease seeking if half scared
of naming, growing weary of hoping,
trying to express in the ways we look, talk,
pressing on regardless, feeling alone
even in crowds, begrudging time to pause
for breath (forget positive thinking)
half expecting to find Someone ‘out there’
(but where, and if we do, what then?) 

‘A strange man,’ people mutter and move on,
few pausing to ask why he’s always there,
by a river, often fishing, sometimes laughing
or just gazing into thin air (at what, ghosts?)
deflecting a general incapacity of native curiosity
to translate into… an oral perspicacity leading
to whatever, but something (surely?)
that has to be better than this mere moving on
like a river ...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2014

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


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Saturday 10 May 2014

The Walker OR Creative Therapy for Couch Potatoes


I can confirm that spring here in the UK is not the season it used to be; blame global warming, tricks of memory, whatever…

A neighbour remarked only recently that, ‘Before we know it, winter will be here. Our weather these days is not only unreliable, but so defeating...’

Defeating...? I beg to differ.

THE WALKER or CREATIVE THERAPY FOR COUCH POTATOES

I’ll walk among trees today,
watch leaves fall, even hear autumn
calling

I’ll cross green fields,
catch a flypast of swallows not (yet)
for turning

I’ll stroll a feisty twilight,
a soft, golden glow like altar candles
flickering

I’ll confess a world not done
with me yet on a moon, for its lovers,
still rising

I’ll take each season to task
for any joyless echoes among choirs
sweetly singing

I’ll resist any erosion of senses
by a north wind bent on giving tears
an airing

I’ll let Earth Mother embrace me,
feel loved where waves of loneliness
breaking

I’ll defy body, mind or spirit
to defeat me notwithstanding worldly
nemeses


Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

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Friday 9 May 2014

Observations on the Human Nature of Cats


When I was much younger (I was born in 1945) I used to play with a local stray cat that would cadge food, shelter, and affection from just about anyone, until it grew old and didn’t want to do much other than laze around yawning for much of the time.  Every now and then, though, it would throw me a knowing look as if to say, ‘I may be getting old, but I can still climb trees in my sleep. One day you’ll know what I mean.’

Yes, well, that cat never said a truer word…


[Photo from the Internet]
  
OBSERVATIONS ON THE HUMAN NATURE OF CATS

No feeble cat, I haunt people and places
I have loved, glimpse in smiling faces
a hint of pain and weariness but quickly
overcome by a strength of spirit
and zest for life, feeding me the same
though I am lost for words, cannot
name this feeling in me that puts a spring
in my step, clears blurred vision, warming
bones that have seen better days

Home cat, alley cat, pedigree, strayed,
pacing the same boundaries laid
when the appetite for territory strong
and I made my presence felt among
peers, not always for the best of reasons
it has to be said, but my seasons
well spent, better instincts no less reliable
for feeling my way when Top Cat disagrees
for seeing, sadly, through misty eyes

To each living thing, a time must come
to set the spirit free, surrender
all temporal claim to a body seen us
through good times and bad,
made grave mistakes, done us proud,
no undoing or (ever) going back, 
on chances given us to make amends, 
live and let live among old enemies, never
having to forgive old friends

Black cat, white cat, tricks of light;
tiger, tiger, burning bright…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2014

[Note: An earlier version of this poem (under the title Year of the Cat) appears in 1st editions of The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; 2nd (revised) e-edition in preparation.]


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Thursday 8 May 2014

Moon Under the Water, a Timely Encounter with Hope



I am often asked for a CD of my poetry reading on the 4th plinth in London's Trafalgar Square in 2009 as my contribution to Antony Gormley's One and Other 'live sculpture' project. There are no CDs of participant’s but I have posted a link to mine below. Be warned, though, the whole thing last an hour. (To watch others who took part, simply remove my name from the end of the link and browse.):

http://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223121732/oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T [For now, at least, this link needs the latest Adobe Flash Player  and works best in Firefox; the archives website cannot run Flash but changes scheduled for later this year may well mean the link will open without it. Ignore any error message and give it a minute or so to start up. The video lasts an hour. ] RT 3/18

Now, we all have our ups and downs, the latter possibly at their worst after nightfall and in the early hours. As for getting through the darker, rougher, landscapes of life, be sure Hope is on hand even when we feel most abandoned and alone; we have but to acknowledge her...

MOON UNDER THE WATER,  A TIMELY ENCOUNTER WITH HOPE

She strolled as silent as light
to stand by my side;
together we watched moonlight
surf a rolling tide

She took my hand, held it tight,
said not a word
as we watched a jaded starlight
across the water glide

She led me to the water’s edge,
shadows dipping low,
night train sobbing on a bridge
like a war widow

She squeezed my hand, let it go,
trod softly on moonlight,
its sylph-like waves grieving so
for the death of night

She did not call on me to follow
yet I heard her voice
filling a heart left dark and hollow
for given no choice

She sung a song of truth and lies,
urging I live life to the full
where moonlight’s bridge of sighs
gives way to dawn’s chorale

I returned home, day’s light clear
if cheeks stained with tears,
mail train raising a hearty cheer
for the world’s survivors

[From: Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012]


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Wednesday 7 May 2014

Ghosts, a Love Story


Today’s poem has not appeared on the blog since 2008 and was written for all lovers everywhere whose love, for whatever reason, is frowned upon by family, friends and those who would have us in a socio-cultural-religious stranglehold,

It is high time certain people put their socio-cultural-religious bigotry aside and accepted the fact that we are all equal in a common humanity and that none of us can help with whom we fall in love. Here in the UK, for example, many immigrants bring their historical prejudices with them; the result is many scared boys and girls, men and women having to tread on eggshells between the world from which their families came and the one in which they are growing up. [Multiculturalism is a fine concept in theory; in practice, it has a lot to answer for.]

Love does not recognize the various socio-cultural-religious differences and self-perpetuating boundaries that many societies around the world are inclined to do, including some that profess to be democratic.

As I have said before on the blogs, we should all of us always remember that our differences don't make us different, only human.

GHOSTS, A LOVE STORY

At the farthest edge of twilight,
wrapped in a misty sky,
we’d haunt the shores of love,
you and I

We’d pause at its quiet places,
fall into each other’s arms,
enjoy Earth Mother’s embraces,
employ her charms

Let kisses tasting of yesterdays,
closing on us like stars,
shape all the world’s tomorrows
set aside for lovers

Our bodies joined as day to night,
we’d surf life’s raging sea
at the farthest edge of a twilight
hinting at eternity

Come splendid night, we’d lie
and wonder at its glories;
each star, a kiss shared by lovers
in other centuries

At daybreak, dreamers waking
to walk where angels fear
for love where there for the taking,
its enemies ever near

On a cruel sea of local dissent,
among wreaths of flowers,
we were dispatched prematurely
to the stars

At the farthest edge of twilight,
wrapped in a misty sky.
we‘ll haunt the shores of love,
you and I

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2014



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Sunday 4 May 2014

War and Peace, Elements of the Human Condition


I have been watching the BBC2 TV series, Generation War: Our Mothers, Our Fathers that follows the lives of five German friends during World War II. It is an apt reminder of not only the horrors of war but also how the real victims of any conflict are those ordinary men and women, on both sides, struggling to survive and left to pick up the pieces both as it progresses and when it is all over. Events in various parts of the world today - Syria and Ukraine to name but two - are a cruel reminder of history’s penchant for repeating itself.

This year, 2014, is the 100th anniversary of the outbreak of World War I. It is especially disturbing, therefore, even if only (dangerous) rhetoric, that President Arseny Yatseniuk of Ukraine should be accusing Russia’s President Putin of trying to start World War III. He also warned the crisis in his country could spread throughout the rest of Europe. We may like to think such a thing could never happen, but history tells us differently.

People fight, initially at least, because they believe or are led to believe they are in the right and any opposing force has to be in the wrong. It is one of humanity’s greater tragedies that there are at least two sides to every conflict, and that we believe or are led to believe we are free to choose if only for freedom’s own sake. Yet, win or lose, the Mandarins of Power, for all they may well undergo a cosmetic transformation,  remain free to stoke the ashes, penetrate the dust, and go about their business in much the same way as before…

Last but never least, of course, many if not most of us find ourselves at war with the inner self for one reason or another, peace of mind attainable only at a price we are not always willing to pay.

WAR AND PEACE, ELEMENTS OF THE HUMAN CONDITION

Ready to fight,
kill or be killed for the right
to live, be free,
and let others, too, go free
from whatever cage
imposed on us by powers that be
last glimpsed haunting
shadowy corridors, responsibility
taking cover in morality

In the thick of a war
against the inner self, denying
mind, body, and spirit,
intent only upon survival
of the fittest,
no time to consider the weak
and vulnerable except
to defend a moral high ground
for their sakes

Battles lost or won,
history will make out it was all
for the best
in the longer run of humanity’s
kinder attributes,
winners and losers joining forces
to create a better world,
take a more constructive view on
bettering its betters

Ashes, to ashes, century to century;
opposing forces, same cover story


Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

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Saturday 3 May 2014

Sweet Mystery of Life (and Death)


We all have dreams, and some come true. Many dreams, though, remain just that...dreams. Even so, life goes on. Yet, getting real, being positive, and moving forward does not mean having to live a single dream behind. On the contrary, the likelihood is that  every dream that finds a place in mind, body and spirit will continue, each in its own way, to inspire us to be a better person. 

I recall having a nightmare as a child. My mother reassured me that it was only a bad dream. 'There's good and there's bad. You have good dreams, too, right?' she said. I nodded. 'So trust the good ones to get the better of the bad, and you won't go far wrong,' I can still hear her whispering in my ear although she died nearly 40 years ago. 

Gay or straight, no one can take our dreams away from us and any who criticize, even condemn us for going along with a dream come true, especially in the shape of someone to love, quite simply hasn't a clue...

This poem is kenning.

SWEET MYSTERY OF LIFE (AND DEATH)

I cherish hopes of spring,
nurture them like misty showers
encouraging flowers to grow,
buds on trees to come to blossom,
fruit or leaf, as they will
though some fall foul of a sudden
gust of wind or children
come to make sport with nature’s
finer talent for creation

I sing a song of summer
though autumn leaves consigned
to compost heaps
where swallows desert the places
that gave life to their young
and the likes of me poems to pass on
though winter sure to teach
us lessons in survival even a robin
can but do its best to learn

Winter come and gone,
hopes winging on a swallow’s return,
lifeless branches budding
nature returning me, also, to a life
badly bruised by winter’s
show of not even caring if we last
or fade, you or I, especially
given unlooked for intervention
by forces natural or human

But let me, the dream inspiring you,
in my own way, like spring, run true

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

[Note: This poem  first appeared in an anthology From Coast to Coast: a Forward Press Regional Collection in 2010, and subsequently in my collection Tracking the Torchbearer (2012) under the title A Question of Trust.]

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Friday 2 May 2014

First Impressions


Have you ever wondered what a baby thinks as he or she opens their eyes for the first time in a mother’s arms? Okay, a baby can’t talk, but who says we can’t think for ourselves even from the very start? We feel reassured, safe...

Ah, but for how long?

It is one of humankind's greater tragedies that many children are born into an environment that will give them neither the love nor care they deserve.

With luck, we are welcomed into the world with love. A sense of the power of love passes from mother to child, and will stay with us always.

Yes, with luck. Sadly it is not the same for all of us, and we have to look elsewhere to discover the power of love for ourselves. Some of us do, others never will. There are so many unwanted children and young people in the world who deserve better.  I have known some people who have gone through the Care system and not only survived, but done well for themselves. Yet, I have also known others who have ended up spending most of their lives in and out of prison, never knowing that wonderful sense of belonging peculiar to family life and being loved as a matter of course, no matter what. My own family life was flawed (whose isn’t?).Even so, that immeasurable sense of belonging helped shape my formative years in a very positive way.

A sense of belonging should never be underestimated. Tragically, it drives some young people to become part of a street gang; gangs are often seen as a substitute family, albeit a poor one. I once knew a family whose children became involved in a local gang culture. When one of the sons went to jail for a gang related offence, the parents saw it as a wake-up call, moved away and set about mending their broken family life. That was years ago. All the children have turned out well and take their own parental responsibilities very seriously; their children will never want for love, care, and a positive sense of direction.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

The first thing I saw on opening my eyes
was a love in my mother’s face
I hadn’t yet learned the words to describe,
but sensed I was in a safe place

The first thing I felt as I opened my eyes
was my mother’s arms cradling me;
I hadn’t yet learned the words to describe,
but sensed it was a good place to be

The first thought I had on opening my eyes
was that this was but the start 
of living by and learning words to describe
the love in Earth Mother’s heart

In a world without words, only its first cries
find reassurance in well-meant promises

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

[Note: This poem was first published under the title Opening Up to Love in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]


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Thursday 1 May 2014

In Praise of Lacework


Regular readers will also know that it is now more than three years since an MRI scan revealed a growth in my prostate. A biopsy revealed it was cancerous. However, the cancer was diagnosed as non-aggressive and regular hormone therapy continues (so far) to keep it from becoming so.  Meanwhile, I can only do what I have done since early childhood and trust nature to do its best by me.

I take great pleasure and reassurance from gentle strolls on nearby Hampstead Heath; its quiet grassy slopes and lively pockets of trees; signs and sounds of the seasons as they come and go; glittering ponds alive with the chatter of ducks, swans, and moorhens...

Since I came to live in the Kentish Town area of London nearly 30 years ago, I have often gone to the Heath with a view to letting its sensual beauty invade my senses, experience that ‘Oh, but it’s so good to be alive!’ feeling with which Earth Mother has sustained me through just about every crisis in my life; even when I attempted suicide during an extended period of severe mental breakdown some 30 years ago, she brought me back from the brink.

My late mother used to urge me to ‘listen for, watch and learn from nature.’ Moreover, ‘Far better,’ she’d say. ‘...to retreat into nature than into yourself.’ That was many years ago and her words ring as true to me now (at 68) as they did when I was a child.

In the language of flowers, the yellow rose is for remembrance.  (See also my poem, The Zen of Yellow Roses) Yes, I often look back at happier times in my life and those who made it so, and feel inspired to make the most of each day left to me rather than nurse regrets for what might have been…

This poem is a villanelle.

IN PRAISE OF LACEWORK 

Go where the wind blows
(across time and space)
fair petals of a yellow rose

See how each cloud shows
a non-judgmental face;
go where the wind blows

Be as the fallen seed grows
risen to beauty and grace,
fair petals of a yellow rose

See how Earth Mother sews
dreams into wintry lace;
go where the wind blows

Ghosts of a time that knows
and keeps safe our place,
fair petals of a yellow rose

Hear a lark in its last throes,
pass on its plea for peace;
go where the wind blows
fair petals of a yellow rose

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009


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