A Global Consciousness

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As the COVID-19 coronavirus continues to make its presence felt around the world, many if not most of us are having to deal with mounting pressure, not least in the form of mental health issues as financial constraints pile up along with an incredible number of  C-19 victims; many of the latter will survive, but many others, sadly, will not. Testing times, indeed.

Every death is a tragedy at any time, but worse now as only a very limited number of family members and friends (if any)  are allowed to attend funerals, and none at most cremations. Grief, though, cannot be put on hold, and the word is that we are all in this for the long haul. 

As time passes and social pressures mount, tempers may well fray and it has been suggested that a degree of social unrest is inevitable. To this, I can only emphasise that it is down to each and every one of us to do our very best to keep a lid on things, lead by good example and prevent this awful global crisis from undermining that human spirit in all of us which is capable of rising above and thereby getting the better of even the most heartbreaking situations.  Never easy, in the best of times, and about as tough as it gets in the worst. 

Let's be kind, yes, to ourselves as well as each other?

Several readers have been kind enough to ask how I, personally, am coping. Well, I'm just taking each day as it comes, trying not to lose too many marbles and constantly awarding myself proverbial kicks for memory lapses that result in my misplacing, forgetting and losing things! So far, so good, though, as I have no virus symptoms and suspect (hope) I had the mild version in early January.

Thinking of and rooting for you all here,

Digital hugs all round,

Roger

A GLOBAL CONSCIOUSNESS 

World falling apart,

or so it feels as we look around

at all but deserted streets;

no folks chatting on corners

or children playing;

shuttered shops, bars, restaurants;

Coronavirus spreading,

World running a gamut of hope and fear

as if at war

Front-line foot soldiers  

doing battle with an invisible enemy,

improperly kitted out,

going way beyond the call of duty;

doctors and nurses

used to looking mortality in the eye

putting their own lives

on the line for want of effective protection

against infection

Nature and humanity

caught unawares, having to improvise

in kitchens and farms,

companies, big and small, taking a fall

yet none so despairing

as on the Home Front, family and friends

grieving, tearful,

while drawing (still) on nature’s inspirational

arts of survival

Societies shutting down, any sense of crashing

tempered only by a gift for positive thinking

Copyright R. N. Taber April 2^nd 2020

Metaphor, Defining and Redefining Human Nature OR The Landscape of Anxiety

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Now, life is relatively short and time very precious. We are all in it together, all with the same responsibility to keep our streets clean and free of litter. I look around sometimes at the rubbish on our streets and am brought close to tears for witnessing so much human waste, thoughtlessness and disrespect for the safety and well-being of others ...

The old saying is so true. A little thought really does go a long way, especially during these difficult times as the Covid-19 virus continues to spread around the world.

"There is a strange interdependence between thoughtlessness and evil". - Hannah Arendt

“Carelessness does more harm than a want of knowledge.” – Benjamin Franklin

“A metaphor is not an ornament. It is an organ of perception. Through metaphors, we see the world as one thing or another.” ― Neil Postman

METAPHOR, DEFINING & REDEFINING  HUMAN NATURE or THE  LANDSCAPE OF ANXIETY

Orange peel in the gutter, apt comment

on most human failings

Bird droppings, metaphors for nature's 

perspective on humanity

Dog poop, left by animal lovers without

a thought for anyone else

Celebrity snappers vying to get one over

on the more popular press

Images ripped from newspapers, flapping

like manifestos at elections

Bounty hunters, tracking our every move

on social media databases

Raindrops, Earth Mother's tears for death
on the streets, hate crime...

Blood stains, graffiti on a Wall of Silence

("Well, it wasn't me, guv ..."

Orange peel in the gutter, poet's testament 

to a growing sense of anxiety

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2016

[Note: A earlier version of this poem under the title 'Waste' first appeared in CC&D poetry magazine, Scars Publications (US) v 191, 2008 and subsequently in On the Battlefields Of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]

Clouds

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As a child (born 1945) I was stroking a cat one day, happened to look up and could make out a cloud in the shape of a cat. I asked my mother what a cat was doing in the sky. She told me that cloud is a gauze curtain that takes many shapes through which God can see what we humans are up to on Earth. Rain, she added for good measure, is His tears because he rarely likes what He sees, especially when little boys misbehave.

I was very close to my mother. She was a very Christian woman, and although she was far from being one of those people inclined to inflict their own views on others, her words put me off religion forever if only because I did not like the idea of any God spying on me; nor did I much care for the implied threat that I should behave myself … or else. Even so, her words haunted me for many years as I grappled with various concepts of religion and God, eventually discarding both in favour of nature. Nature would offer the young (gay) man I became, a sense of spirituality that came free, no strings (or dogma) attached yet contained within the organised chaos of a time frame-cum-continuum to which the Muse in me could easily relate.

It took me many more years to even begin to articulate on that offer, but was happy to settle for the warm glow it awoke in me and the subsequent poetry it has never ceased to comfort, teach and inspire. Whatever our race, creed or sexuality, we are all but human and - where we like it or not - we are all in the swim of life together. 

This poem is a villanelle.

PHOTO: from the Internet

CLOUDS

Cloud cover

come another dawn

(like cats' fur)

All a-shimmer

(a lonely, weepy sun)

cloud cover

Quicksilver

heavens for everyone

(like cats' fur)

‘Live’ mirror

(humanity looking in);

cloud cover

Analogies

demanding our attention

(like cats' fur)

Fine promises

caught out on the turn?
Cloud cover

like cats' fur

Copyright R. N. Taber 1999; 2016

[Note: revised (2016) from an earlier version that appears in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; revised ed.in e-format in preparation.] 

You-Me-Us, a Growing Passion

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I am not getting on too well with either my fractured ankle or the hormone therapy for my prostate cancer, but writing love poems always cheers me up. Although I have not had a partner for many years, the memory of our love always lifts my spirits whenever they hover at the edge of some abyss and contemplate going into free fall...

One of my favourite songs is 'All The Way', beautifully sung by the late, great Frank Sinatra in the movie, The Joker is Wild; it starts, 'If somebody loves you, it's no good unless they love you/all the way/ through the sad and lean years, and all the in-between years, come what may...

Neither love nor passion are reserved solely for people, of course; places, pets, books, works of art (creating as well as viewing) we can so easily fall in love with these, and over a lifetime such love can just as easily become a passion. Nor should we ever forget or underestimate the role of platonic love in our lives ... 

"Love is the wisdom of the fool and the folly of the wise."

- Samuel Johnson

"Love without passion is dreary; passion without love is horrific."

-- Lord Byron

Love, though, can be something of a lottery, and you have to be in it to win it.

YOU-ME-US, A GROWING PASSION

I built a sandcastle for you,

but you kicked it down with infant feet,

and made me cry buckets

I wrote a love poem for you,

but you threw a typical teenage tantrum,

and tore it into tiny pieces

I composed a pop song for you,

and everyone loved it except the person

for whom it was intended

I painted a portrait of you,

but you didn’t care for the way I see you,

and cold-shouldered me

I made a solemn promise to you

that I’d love you forever, no matter what,

and we kissed

We made love together, bonding

with eternity, transcending a born intimacy

and centuries-old creativity

Together, we built a castle

to withstand all temporal waves, reaffirm

the spirituality of creativity

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

[Note: This poem first appeared under the title 'Making Sure of Love' in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]

Witness for the Prosecution

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This is a poem about the darker side of London. Tragically, it could equally apply to just about any major city or large town in the world where we pause and look around sometimes, despair, and demand not only answers but also action.

Glossy tourist brochures may like to pretend otherwise, but most places, like most people, have a dark side. Perhaps we should open our eyes to it more often?  Yes, we should enjoy exploring these places. London and other great cities across the world have much to offer the discerning visitor. At the same time, is not forewarned, forearmed...?

WITNESS FOR THE PROSECUTION

I’ve seen all ages on a city's streets
beg coins for bus fares or worse,
even steal a blind woman’s purse,
mock a one-legged man’s affliction
then yell “Persecution!” at passing
coppers for trying to do their duty
by some council estate community
suffering daily from the traumas
of kids without conscience, let alone
good manners (fat chance!) bent
on leading the locals a rare dance,
skipping school, drinking, smoking
this ‘n’ that, setting themselves up
as victims of society once caught out,
 all the more pitiable for having slipped
through Propriety’s safety net

No matter ethnicity, gender or creed,
this new breed of street urchin
whose familiarity with Human Rights
racism and other discrimination
would be admirable but for their using it
(more often than not) to turn tables
on any decent citizen resolved to support
law, order, and everyday commonsense,
though as likely to receive rough justice
from the law courts as back streets…
Knives - and guns - not unfamiliar sights
so no wonder fewer of us willing to say
what we may well have  heard or seen out
of fear for family and friends being made
to pay, no hold barred where any criminality
pitted against social responsibility

Oh, and what do the mayors and PM make
of all this? Oh, plenty to say, a limitless
supply of token gestures as we city dwellers
grow ever more anxious for answers

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007

[This poem has been slightly revised from the original version as it appears under the title 'Witness for the Prosecution' in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

Engaging with the Inner Eye

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'The best part of beauty is that which no picture can express.' - Francis Bacon

'A thing of beauty is a joy forever: its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness.' - John Keats (Endymion)

It is the inner eye that sees most. I used to know couple who, to all outward appearances, might well have been described as ugly, yet they entertained a lot and friends always enjoyed visiting them  because they were such warm, friendly people who not only took a genuine interest in others, but would always lend a helping hand and ear to anyone in need. Their physical appearance was irrelevant; after a few minutes chatting with either of them. one forgot it as an inner beauty shone through.

Beauty is, indeed, in the eye of the beholder.

ENGAGING WITH THE INNER EYE

There is a beauty in ugliness

only they can see

who can warm their hands at hell’s hearth

and still feel an affinity

with nature

In the ugliest of creatures

there beats a heart

and will to live more splendid than anything

thought up by the art

of egocentricity

In the foul-smelling swamp

of human desire

left to its own devices for want of any insight,

find a lotus flower

shaming us

Yes, an ugly side to beauty,

often seen as worldly,

invariably posing for the press at hell’s hearth

and claiming an affinity

with nature

There is a beauty, too, in beauty

that’s a rare poetry,

braving the daily cat-walk of green-eyed gods,

yet can still feel empathy

with beggars

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]

Observations on the Human Nature of Cats

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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 1^st editions of The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; 2nd (revised) e-edition in preparation.]

Universal Soldier

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Today’s poem has appeared on the blog twice; in 2007 and 2009. I am repeating it again for no other reason than I feel a need to let off steam.  Hopefully, new readers and those who never have time to browse the blog archives will enjoy the poem and regular readers won’t mind becoming reacquainted with it. Mind you, I cannot (and don’t) expect everyone to like every poem I write...

I am coping with hormone therapy for my prostate cancer, but with some difficulty. I dread going shopping on my own. Some days, it seems that everywhere I go I am a target for abuse, the more so for refusing to take being treated badly with a nod and a smile as if that’s perfectly okay. I can’t wait to get home, sometimes close to tears and falling apart, to let several cups of tea help put me back together again. [Mind you, my mother did warn me that as you get older, you become more and more invisible...] Oh, well it is what you come to expect when you live in some areas of London. So why don’t I moved away? Well, I can’t afford to, and besides why should I?

What is it about humankind, I often wonder, that our need and desire for peace of mind is invariably undermined by someone else’s appetite for conflict? I guess the trouble is, the latter often if not always provokes the same in us.

It doesn’t even take a war, not here in London anyway. You might glare at someone for nearly knocking you flying because they are on their mobile phone so you are expected to get out of their way, but weren’t quite quick enough, and the next minute you are on the receiving end of a stream of verbal abuse. Or you are crossing the road and someone walks right in front of you causing you to stumble. (It is your fault, of course.) Or you are on an escalator at a London Underground station and someone in a hurry pushes you so you fall but (hopefully) avoid a serious accident. You protest and are either ignored or, again, verbally abused for being in the way. Or you are coming out of a shop, and some cyclist who thinks he or she has every right to ride on a busy pavement sends you sprawling and rides on without a care. By the time you are nearly home, the slightest thing is likely to trigger rage, and then someone suggests you need anger management.

An average week (if not day) in the life of a pensioner in London...

Yesterday a little lad about 6 years-old was playing on the floor in a store where I was queuing. Apparently, I knocked his head with my basket. The mother laid into me verbally as if I had done it on purpose. She demanded I apologise in such a way that I stormed out of the store without purchasing my items rather than stay within an inch of the woman and her children another second. Maybe she was right and I was wrong. Whatever, it was the last straw in a chain of events that made me feel like going to war with the entire human race; end-game, annihilation.

Today has to be a better day...Well doesn’t it...?

UNIVERSAL SOLDIER

Wrestling in the womb
with thoughts I cannot know,
feelings unable to show,
I start to grow…
the way of all humanity
that’s gone before, a personality
and identity to call my own
though I take my place
in a world anxious for a face,
to place here, there, 
within the easier confines 
of a history classroom taught, 
and purpose-built

Wrestling in the womb
with thoughts I cannot know,
feelings unable to show,
I continue to grow…
a microcosm of all human
endeavour, facing the complexities
of fate without a murmur,
one to one with God
without fear of the world’s
goading icons, relishing centuries
of silence brought soundly
to bear upon Man’s first cry,
'War, war, war!'

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]

The Squirrel

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I don’t have a garden now, but look out on one and love to watch the antics of squirrels and other wildlife. I often wonder what they make of us...???

THE SQUIRREL

The sun, it shone like a torch among shadows
as we walked misty paths, a friend and I,
observed by a grey squirrel scratching its nose
with its paws, curious perhaps about humans
(why male and female on hind legs, baring claws?)

We parried words in that fast dimming twilight,
guided by the anger in each other’s eyes,
observed by the grey squirrel scratching its nose
with its paws, curious perhaps about humans
(why, even come eventide, making so much noise?)

Sun and shadows, they surrendered to a frosty night,
and stars looked down on us with much the same
curiosity as the squirrel, finished scratching its nose
with its paws, given up caring about humans
(now warring, now hugging or taking other liberties)

Now, whenever I see a squirrel scratching its nose,
I wonder…whatever happened to us?

[From: Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]