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 30 December 2021

Mother, Mine (Alice Maud Taber, 1916-1976)

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

Hello again, folks, from London UK

I hope you all managed to enjoy the Christmas spirit in spite of the pandemic and its new Omicron variant raging all around us.

For many families who have lost a loved one to Covid-19 or for any other reason, Christmas, like birthdays and other family gatherings make us all the more aware that someone is missing; it can be a painful experience, but as time goes by, we learn to live with happy memories of that person, always with us in spirit if small compensation for their absence.

For example, I still miss my mother who died in 1976, but her indomitable spirit remains a part of me and has helped me through many a personal crisis. The poem below is the Dedication poem that precedes my collection, A Feeling for the Quickness of Time; it has been significantly revised since publication in 2005.

As regular readers will know, many of the poems in my collections have been revised in the course of appearing on my blogs and I am hoping to publish revised editions before the Grim Reaper comes calling; if not, a close friend has said he will see to, it if we can find a publisher. All my collections include a gay section and no UK publishers have showed any interest, so I self-published limited editions under my own imprint; many copies went to public libraries where I am pleased to say they issued well. As a poet, I am no household word nor ever likely to be, but this general poetry blog has passed 202,012 views and the gay-interest poetry blog has had nearly 170,000 views, so many thanks again, dear readers, for being regular visitors.

Sadly, we LGBT folks - from all walks of life - continue to be much maligned worldwide, but there is less hatred and prejudice than when I was growing up, except within certain religious groups who fail to see that sexuality is not a lifestyle choice, but simply who we are in mind-body-spirit. Their leaders speak of a God of Love and preach Goodwill to All...so, to exempt LGBT folks has always struck me as the height of hypocrisy. (Why can't we all simply agree to differ and respect each other for that, regardless?)As a gay pantheist, I refuse to believe that any God would deny me a sense of His ethereal presence any more than Earth Mother would deny me a sense of Hers; rightly or wrongly, I don’t believe any religious agenda has the right to exclude anyone on the grounds of sexuality alone. (Yes, I know I have said this many times, but, as my dear mother would often say, if something is worth saying, it is always worth repeating.)

We all owe much of what and who we are to one or both our parents or to whoever took responsibility for raising us. I count myself very fortunate, indeed, to have the likes of my late mother as a positive role model.  Although my father and I did not get along, I owe him, too, a debt of gratitude for providing a home for the family. Gratitude, though, is not the same as love.; if he loved me in his own way, he certainly never showed it, and no child can expected to be a mind-reader. As far as I am (still) concerned, he was a psychological bully towards me and , for this reason, could not bring myself to attend his funeral in the early 1980's..

I am working on a poem for New Year's Day, so hope you will join me again then. Meanwhile...

MOTHER MINE (ALICE MAUD TABER, 1916-1976)

Mother, you were always there for me,
always believing in me more than I believed
in myself, knowing me
better than I knew myself, always loving me
more than I loved myself,
although I could not give all you all you' had hoped
for me, live and love how you wanted for me
subscribe to your dream, sadly only ever a fantasy
of family unity...

We did our best by each other, endeavouring
to support one another through life’s cruel maze
of emotional twists, turns and dead-ends;
me, unable to grasp for years
how conflicting family loyalties were daily
tearing at your heart, divided so
by the very loved-ones to whom you gave your all,
never quite finding peace of mind for our making you
Love’s own dear thrall

Yet, years on since a cruel tumour took its toll,
you continue to comfort my very soul, feed into it
all that good about mind-body-spirit,
lamenting its mistakes while making sure it follows
a learning curve, finds inspiration
in the Poetry of Love, resists
rather than too easily caves in to darker life forces
likely to confound and confuse us until we lose any sight
of potential consequences

Mother dear, you will always be the first to whom
I turn, to help and guide me along kinder paths than some
I’ve inadvertently taken, for turning
deaf ears and blind eyes to that still, small voice within
that would urge me not err or sin
on the side of an inflated ego that cannot see woods
for trees nor will admit
any flaws in a mind-body-spirit, much to live for and learn
about what makes the world turn

A part of me now, as always, oh, wise and wonderful mother,
no distant memory, but a part of me forever
 

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2005; rev. 2021

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

 

 

 

 

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Thursday 23 September 2021

A long Walk by the Sea

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

Apologies for having to had to withdraw  and reinstate this poem upon discovering that blogger doesn't always accommodate poetry now; the poem was not appearing as it should, in separate stanzas. I had the same problem with a new post-poem that I will attempt to publish here again tomorrow.

The poem below was written in 1999 and appeared in several UK poetry journals before I included it in my first major collection; a further revised version also appeared in the blog in 2013, but has since been removed due to my experiencing difficulties in editing/ updating the post.

Reading the poem from a distance of some 20+ years, I felt compelled to revise it yet again.

When feeling low, a walk by the sea in all weathers and at any time of day will send me into positive thinking mode and keep me from falling into that awful free-fall that is depression at its worst. 

I live in London and sometimes a stroll on nearby Hampstead Heath will do the trick, but more often than not I will catch a train to a favourite spot, near or far, and spend some time by the sea.  

Some readers may also be interested in a video - Front Seat - shot by my friend Graham Collett in 2012 for my You Tube channel - over which I read the title poem and another, but  only Ancestral Voices remains on the blog. Hopefully you will enjoy the poem if not the sight of an ageing yours truly wandering along Brighton beach:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RUJPl94MMGk&t=21s


A  LONG WALK BY THE SEA


The sea, the sea! 
Mocking me with such poems
of love, peace, happiness, 
and a gutsy immortality as I could
only ever but a guess

At work, even at play
I took to wearing masks rather 
than show such faces
as find favour with society's various
airs and graces

Suddenly, a You-Me-Us
appears, starts tugging at my masks,
exposing the person 
whose heart's desire had so long been 
to let its home truths in  

The sea, the sea! 
You-Me-Us left strolling side by side;
nor can your death us part
for the poetry of such love as we dared
write upon its heart

The sea, the sea! You -Me-Us,
 together, forever... 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; rev.  2021

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber Assembly Books, 2001.]

 

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Sunday 1 August 2021

Hello again, from London UK

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

           Another reader has emailed to ask, “I don’t have prostate cancer, but get very depressed. How on earth do you cope as antidepressants don’t seem to help me.”. I have tried to answer this question before, but, as my mother used to say, if you think something is worth saying, it has to be worth repeating...

            For a start, I don’t avoid depression altogether; some days I feel very low and too near the edge of some psychological abyss for comfort. The poetry blogs help by way of creative therapy to keep despair at bay, and I would recommend it for anyone who has to cope wit any form of illness, be it a form of cancer or whatever. You don’t have to write poetry, of course; gardening, knitting... these can be as effective a means of distracting a person from everyday stress as any of the arts. Simply walking and taking in our surroundings can also provide a healthy distraction, often triggering precious memories of yesteryear. (I don’t entirely agree with those who take the view that looking back is pointless, the only way is forward.)

            Sadly, prostate cancer can affect the memory, as in my case, to such an extent that if I imagine mind-body-spirit as building, it feels like huge parts of my life are being removed, brick by brick. It is a frustrating and distressing experience, but one has to learn to live with it, and creative therapy encourages a positive-thinking mindset that can provide a way forward when, at times, there may well not seem to be one.

            A positive-thinking mindset can help us through any life-crisis if we but take a step back from it, take deep breaths, consider firstly its nature and causes and then how we might alleviate both our own distress and that of those closest to us. There are no easy answers but there is always a way forward; even if the only way forward looks likely to end in death, we can at least prepare ourselves for it. Those who have a strong religious faith, can take comfort and strength from it; those who cannot relate and therefore don’t subscribe to any religion can at least reconcile themselves to resting in pace. Me? As a Pantheist, I believe that God is nature; having not only always felt a strong affinity with nature, but also taken an indefinable sense of spirituality from it, I cannot believe that it means me harm.

            Mortality’s closes ally and human beings’ weakest link it is fear. Lose our fear of death, and it can only lose the battle for our lives while. the human spirit is left to win the war for an after-life of sorts, depending how we envisage it. I, personally, as regular readers well know, like to believe there have been more positives than negatives in my life; although the first may neither excuse nor compensate for the latter, I can only hope it is the latter that will endure in the mind-body-spirits of those to whom I have tried to pass those same positives on to remain an influence for the better and passed on, in turn, to others.

            Such is the posthumous consciousness that, rightly or wrongly, I envisage as a form of after-life; as positive a view of mortality as I can envisage.

            As for concepts of Heaven and Hell, I suspect many if not most of us experience both, each in our own way as we go though life. Death has to bring peace - especially for any among us who have felt constantly at war with our inner selves, for whatever reason – or life itself becomes but passing of seasons between birth and death, make what we will of them... or not, as the case may be.

            Whenever I have been close to nature, as man and boy, I’ve experienced a spirituality that reassures me as much now as it did years ago. A religious leader once told me that “Faith defies reason and logic, dependent as it is on true Belief, and therein lies its strength...”       Who’s to say that one Belief is truer than another? 

Bye folks, , take care, be sure to nurture a positive-thinking mindset and I'll be back with a poem soon, 

Hugs, 

Roger

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Wednesday 7 July 2021

Emissary OR The 'u', 'i' and 'y' of Humanity, Parts of a Whole

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

Overheard in a local supermarket on the day (widely reported in the media) when princes William and Harry recently unveiled a statue of their late mother, Princess Diana:

LITLE GIRL:     What happens when you die, Mummy?

MOTHER:          If you’re a good girl, you go to Heaven.”

LITTLE GIRL:   Is Princess Diana in Heaven?”

MOTHER:          I imagine so, yes.

CHILD:               And will I go there, too, when I die?”

MOTHER            If you’re a good girl, yes, of course.

CHILD:                So, will I get to meet Princess Diana?

MOTHER:           Well, err, maybe, who knows what lies ahead for any of us.

A long pause

CHILD:                So, if I’m bad, will I go to Hell?

MOTHER:           Oh, look, darling, there’s Penny and her mummy. let’s go and say hello...”

 As a child, I well recall being promised Heaven and threatened with Hell as according to this or that religious dogma, and 75+ years on it is still happening. No wonder I feared death then, before I discovered that the human spirit, too, has a mind of its own, and is less threatening than inspiring. 

People are entitled to their faith, and should be respected for it, but no browbeating religious agenda / dogma will ever get a thumbs-up from yours truly. 

As for Death, I remain pragmatic, but also hopeful that the better part of me will continue to commune with those I have loved (as they do with me) and any among humankind whose own mind-body-spirit is happy to let me in.... unlike the former work colleague (a clergyman's wife) who told me she thought it was a shame I'd go to hell (for being gay.) She is as entitled to her faith, as I am entitled to reject it, as I did...long before I realised I'm gay. 

EMMISARY or THE ‘U’, ‘I’ & ‘Y’ OF HUMANITY, PARTS OF A WHOLE 

Sooner or later,
I call on everyone everywhere,
sparing no one;
rich or poor, young or old,
none ever get to run
whenever I choose to appear
and make myself known,
nor do I need to wait for an invitation,
such is the nature of my mission 

Oh, many are they
who would slam doors in my face
rather than let me in,
having no time or use for me,
preferring to send me
on my way, were I to but listen
to what they have to say,
while I prefer to avoid any altercation,
such is the nature of my mission 

Misted-over eyes
of a wistful, wishful, woeful world,
see me as bad news,
not least for refusing to budge
on my demands;
some, though, make a good case
for staying put awhile,
and I'll mull over making due provision,
such is the nature of my mission 

While I can’t claim
to come as friend, neither am I enemy,
though assumed so
by kith and kin, neither ready yet
nor (quite) willing
to explore a universal truth with us.
the like of which
defies even the most creative imagination,
such is the nature of my mission 

We’ll pass on dreams,
beyond the ken of mortals, bid the portals
of those mind-body-spirits
we may have known, loved, touched
by word, deed, hearsay
or art forms invariably inspiring debate 
for centuries by courtesy
of empathies surpassing all expectation,
such is the nature of my mission 

I am the Spirit of Death,
come to restore, rework, reshape human life
whenever, wherever,
take it through personal space
into as evergreen a beauty
as grows from seeds of love and friendship,
(life-forms without equal)
sure to nurture remembrance and celebration,
such is the nature of my mission 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Thursday 11 February 2021

A Yew Tree and a Rose (Revisited)

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

Covid-19 continues to take its toll on us across the world, and as a neighbour recently commented, "We are surrounded by death. True, but it will be Valentine's Day soon, so here's a poem to remind us that we are also surrounded by the evergreen nature of love.

"The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration." - Little Gidding (Four Quartets) - T. S. Eliot

 A YEW TREE AND A ROSE (REVISITED) 

I had come to lay a rose
at your grave, already in tears,
pausing by an ancient yew,
to rage at its mocking humanity,
mind-body-spirit
at a loss for being left alone
to dwell on its being
denied the lifespan of certain trees
over centuries. 

“You carry poison in sap,
berries and leaves,” I screamed
at the yew, “while a love
that gives mind-body-spirit
its joie de vivre
remains subject to such trials
or blessings as nature
sees fit to permit, regardless of class
or circumstances." 

"Love, too, carries poisons
of its own,” the tree pointed out,
“possessiveness, envy,
and jealousy but three of those
so, speak not to me
of poisons, given how humanity
delights in half-truths,
all the more so for their having spread
among the living dead.” 

“Yes, there are some call me
‘Tree of Death’ who are ignorant
of leafy needles
I let fall to live and let live
over centuries
and of any healing qualities
in sap, leaf or berry as your apothecaries
may use against diseases.” 

“Earth Mother gives and takes,"
the tree went on, “for such is nature
and human nature,
each their moments in time
to be loved and leave,
though neither forgotten
nor even dead to those privileged to share
any part of their time here.” 

My tears dried, and raging no more
at the world for its coming between us,
I lay my rose
on your grave, murmuring words
of love, returned
in a light breeze that's kissing me,
promising, as you make us a home in my heart 
that death will not see us part

 Copyright R. N. Taber, 2021

 [Note: This post-poem also appears on my gay-interest poetry blog today.] RNT 


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Saturday 3 October 2020

Autumnal Life Forces

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

This poem first appeared on the blog in 2012; it has been slightly but significantly revised since I included it in my collection, Accomplices to Illusion, 2007. I am hoping to publish new editions of my earlier collections at some future date; they will mostly comprise revised versions of poems from first editions.

Having just finished my first new collection since 2012, I am approaching publishers, but may need to self-publish again as many just don't like the idea of general and gay-interest poems under one cover; Then, just one more collection before I tackle any new editions. As I will be 75 soon, I can but hope that old age and Covid-19 will keep me alive long enough. <<wry bardic grin>>

Meanwhile ...

love autumn. I don't find it a depressing season. The incredible colours of turning leaves never fail to fill me with passion along the lines of optimism, hope, and defiance even at a time of sadness for the beginnings of endings … 

However hard a winter we may endure, we can always look forward to a kinder spring and new beginnings, such is the way of the natural world, ours too if we but let ourselves access the kinder human spirit; religion does not have a monopoly on

spirituality. (As regular readers know, I do not subscribe to any religion as such, although I do relate very strongly to Pantheists who see God as nature, rather than its creator.)



AUTUMNAL LIFE FORCES 

In a garden spread with dead leaves
and heads of flowers,
I once heard tales told by a dying rose
soon to breathe its last,
about a Man in Red passing through
the world, scaring us
like the Bogey Man in hiding
under a child's bed, pretending to roar
like a dragon up for sport,
despite as vulnerable a heartbeat
as an ageing pet

Neither young nor old, a Man in Red
wears buttons of gold
on a coat the colour of blushing cheeks
at our making a faux pas,
made to look as small as a toy dragon
under the bed, where dawn
is prologue to adventure and sunset
fingers of blood, though 
we'll be safe enough tucked away
in bed, free to dream, and tomorrow
is another day ... 

According to the rose, the Man in Red
has kindly ways, in spite 
of inviting cloud and wind to feed 
on gentle trees,
rip them bare while a few songbirds
dare to watch and wonder
how sounds of war become songs 
of peace, fear become joy,
leaving a friendly Sandman free
to paint over the bleakest scenarios
with bold colours
 

"He comes for us all, and we must depart,
to engage forever with the human heart."

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2020

[Note: Photo taken from the Internet. An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Autumn is a Man in Red' in Accomplices to Illusion by R, N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]

 

 

 

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Wednesday 16 September 2020

Passing Through

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

A new poem today, written for lovely lady, mother of a friend from my student days some 50 years ago; she will be 97 today. I am hoping to find a publisher for a new collection of poems; if not, I will self-publish again. Whatever, I will post details on the blogs

Now, growing old is rarely if ever easy for anyone, but especially for men and women living alone without much of a support network. For many, too, there is a sense of time running out, an end to all we have known and loved.

Ah, but love never dies and the human spirit, unique in its own way to each and every one of us, is immortal.

Life as we know it allows us to pass through time (as we know it) but - as history and family history teach us - there is far more to time than any Here-and-Now; a kind act here, a kind word there, whether to a loved one or total stranger, may well reverberate across centuries, engaging with a living mind-body-spirit here, there, everywhere …

Where world religions would have it that any after-life takes us to a Heaven or Hell of sorts, I believe we make our own Heaven, our own Hell, in the course of our own lifetime; not least, courtesy of Love and Conscience.

I put it to you that, just as followers of any religion are entitled to our respect for their points of view, those of us who subscribe to no religious dogma are no less entitled to the same. As I often ask in the blogs, instead of putting someone in the wrong, even despising them for engaging with points of view other than our own … what’s wrong with agreeing to differ?

PASSING THROUGH

The years, they pass,
and childhood becomes a dream
to treasure as we grow old
among such memories as inspired us
to enjoy such seasons
of our life as mind-body-spirit
chooses to see us through
each winter of the heart to that spring
where bluebirds sing

The years, they pass,
and the Garden of Life sees changes
for better, for worse,
while mind-body-spirit sees us through
happy times and sad,
a positive thinking mindset
taking pride of place,
sure to inspire the human heart to shine,
come into its own

The years, they pass,
but nothing and no one left behind,
for first among equals
remains the Spirit of Love, inspiring us
to see past-present-future
as a continuum, no end in sight,
and love, it never dies,
passing through generation to generation
in 'live' imagination

The years, they pass, but treat us as they may,
the kinder spirit ne'er calls it a day

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

[Note: This poem also appears on my gay-interest blog today]

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Wednesday 2 September 2020

Extracts from a Pantheist's Diary


Most if not all of us fear death, not least during a Here-and-Now during which the Covid-19 coronavirus continues to take its toll around the world; it is that ultimate unknown which even the bravest and most adventurous among us are loath to try and test. Try and test for what, exactly?  Our reward or punishment for … whatever? In what form, pray? Heaven, Hell, or (worse) nothing at all, no acknowledgement that we ever lived? 

If the beauty of religion is that it offers answers, the beauty of philosophy has to be that it opens up possibilities of which we are invited to take our pick.

It could be said that history is a continuing story-poem of nature and human nature, root and branch from birth to …what, death? Our death, yes, but we are, each and everyone of us, a part of that story-poem, all making a contribution for better, for worse.

Tales and poems take on a life of their own according to how they are read/ interpreted by the teller or reader; they don’t end once the telling or reading of them ends … but leave various impressions over which we mull and work through for ourselves over a lifetime, rarely aware that we are even doing so, playing a part – big or small – in how we develop as human beings in relation to both nature, human nature and our fellow human beings; love, love-hate, fear, egotism …few if any of us, are denied such felt-experiences. 

Such a continuing felt-experience perhaps, is - death - if only in our being assimilated into a Common Unknown, trusting such kindred mind-spirits as characterise human love, in all its kinder shapes and forms, to pass on what the body cannot …?

EXTRACTS FROM A PANTHEIST’S DIARY

I fear you Death,
and yet I fear you not at all;
the journey to Forever
will be sure to take me far
from the reality I have come
to love-hate-adore
into that world of silence
I much prefer, wherein feelings
speak louder than words,
among the pioneers,
and positive thinkers of times
when Naysayers
needs must concede a victory
(of sorts) to a creativity
and philosophy of arts, sciences,
seeking to play a part
in Change for the Better through
seasons of the human heart

The trail from life
to death is as likely to take
an eternity to follow
in the footmarks of history’s
great minds, kind hearts
and all those men and women
encouraging us to pass on
with the parts that make us human
generation to generation,
how the last word in an education
of mind-body-spirit,
bringing together all we learn
while passing through life
(as we know it)
is love, its sheer poetry alone
reconciling all nature
and human nature with an empathy
that’s an existential future

I fear you, Death, 
but as an Unknown, the spirit
of a poem living on
in such hearts and minds 
as may have read
between its lines, seen what a poet
is trying to say in words
that cannot hope to compete 
with the wisdom
of any mind-body-spirit
needing to make itself truly felt
so as to convey something
of that on which motivation feeds,
inspiration anxious
to catch falling stars, if only
for any who empathise
with 'live' fingers configuring an eternity
wherein their history lies...

Copyright R N. Taber 2020. 2021

[Note: This poem first appeared on the blog last year. I have only recently revised it in so far as adding the last stanza.] RNT 25/5/2021



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Tuesday 1 September 2020

Love. Life Force OR Someone has to Mow the Lawn

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

Today’s poem first appeared on the blog in 2013

I once had good cause to ask a friend, ‘What’s the point of living when the love of your life has died?’

My friend had lost her husband in a road accident some years earlier, and I suppose I was expecting pearls of wisdom. Instead, she gave me a lovely, enigmatic smile, shrugged, and said, ‘Someone has to mow the lawn, it won't mow itself. Besides," adding with a twinkle in each eye, "When you make a home with someone, just being together is home. Nothing can change that. So if you'll excuse me, there's a house that's still a home and it won't sort itself either." 

It was a long while before I understood quite what she meant. I thought she was simply being stoic, but it was, of course, so much more.  Life goes on, and needs must we move on too, but mind-body-spirit will always have it that moving on doesn't have to mean leaving anyone behind.  

LOVE, LIFE FORCE or SOMEONE HAS TO MOW THE LAWN

Our clothes need washing,
shopping needs doing,
and who’ll mow the lawn?

Our lunch needs preparing,
potatoes need peeling
and who’ll mow the lawn?

The dog will need grooming,
birdcage cleaning,
and who’ll mow the lawn?

Our rose trees need pruning,
fences need mending,
and who’ll mow the lawn?

Our bed, it will need making
(the mattress turning)
and who’ll mow the lawn?

But time to be up and leaving
your grave I'm haunting,
and go mow the damn lawn

Copyright R. N Taber 2010; 2020


[From: On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]


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Sunday 30 August 2020

You-Me-Us, a Posthumous Consciousness OR Remembrance, Mentor Extraordinary

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

Today's poem appeared on the blog some time ago.

Our ghosts are a living part of us whether we care to acknowledge them or not; kind and less kind ghosts, where the former invariably more then compensate for the latter, lifting us when we are low,  restoring a sense of purpose should we lose sight of it from time to time; these are more than memories of better times, they are the people who helped make them better, kinder, happier ... and they are no less real than ever, albeit invisible. As I grow old, especially living alone as I do, my ghosts are as real to me as flesh and blood friends; life forces, encouraging and sustaining me through these tough times of Covid-19.

Whatever our ethnicity, creed,sexuality ...  we are all but human; it is in our nature to be wary if not fearful of death. Religion may well offer a safety net of sorts, but it has always struck me as causing more worldwide divisions that it can ever begin to heal; neither, though, do I subscribe to negative thinking.

Whoever, wherever we are, there is a temptation, especially as we grow old, to look back on our lives if only because there seems more to look back on than look forward to. Not so, though, as who knows that tomorrow will bring? We always need to think positively about that however hard life gets sometimes as body fails to keep sync with heart. There is a further temptation to dwell on our mistakes, bad choices, missed opportunities; we all make them. The result of such negative reflection is that we may well lose sight of all the positives… many of which we may not even be aware. Time, then (if not already) to let mind-body-spirit teach us how to look to see, hear to listen.

Some years ago, I visited an old school friend who confided that he was gay, and I was the first person whom he had told. He was ill and had only a few years to live although neither of us had an inkling of this at the time. What bothered him most was that he saw his life as nothing more or less than a string of missed opportunities. “It’s all been such a waste of time,” he groaned, “my whole life,”

My friend had chosen a career in teaching. I visited him on his 65th birthday, and he let me browse his cards, many from ex-pupils whom he had clearly given cause to remember him fondly, One card included the photo of a young man, his wife and three children, and he had written: ‘You were right. Trust your instincts, and you can do anything you put your mind to, however much other people try to tell you it’s in your best interests to do something else.’ It seems he had joined the police, and made his way well up the promotion ladder against the advice of family, friends and several teachers who had seen a promising career for him as, yes, - a teacher. There were similar comments on other cards from ex-pupils whom he had plainly influenced for the better and they were clearly grateful.I suspect he will play an important if unknowing part in their consciousness for years to come.

A waste of a life, indeed…! I think not, and hope I managed to convince him of that as he died a week later so I never saw him again.

Much of what we achieve in this life, we never get to see through to the end. if we are aware of it at all. A word here, a word there, to the right person at the right time can make  the world of difference between their doing well instead of badly…and the chances are, we will never know

YOU-ME-US, A POSTHUMOUS CONSCIOUSNESS or REMEMBRANCE, MENTOR EXTRAORDINARY

I grow old alone,
those who may have grieved me
gone into that unknown
some call Heaven, Paradise, 
Hell or whatever, anything other 
than Death

Death, a cruel word,
metaphor for a ghost, last spotted
peering over the shoulder,
such as observes in my mirror
how desperate I've become to get
some sleep

Sleep, harbinger
of dreams, good, bad or too ugly
to ever contemplate
wherever alphabet lanterns 
over my head insist on spelling out 
my darkness

Darkness, companion
to personal space if sure to keep
a (very) discreet distance,
since it would not do to imply
so much as a tenuous connection
with its devils

Devils, such secrets, 
running rings around me, less able 
let gather dust as once
I would, mind-body-spirit loath
to invoke heated family discussions
with repercussions...

Repercussions, haunts
of bygone days, years of answering
to outward appearances,
inner self all but suffocating
in a closet I let few in, among whom 
no one to love

Love, always so near
yet so far, on the tip of my tongue,
but at the last minute
struck dumb by stereotypes
forcing public opinion down my throat,
all but choking me

Ah, but what’s that I hear?
voices out of nowhere reminding me
of words said, soon forgot,
(and to whom) now thanking me 
for helping them turn corners, find hope
get a life...

Alone, yes, but lonely no more;
invisible hands warmly shaking mine,
re-awakening sensibilities
half-forgotten, repudiating despair 
of a life with little to show for it, nothing
much to tell

Ah, but we all have tales to tell, 
how life marries us, for better or worse,
successes and failures,
loves lost and won, dreams come true
and others left to cry ourselves to sleep over,
come a new dawn

Dawn, spreading its light over me,
feeding me such hopes as I hadn't dared,
reassuring me of 'live' ghosts
always on hand to advise me on making
wiser, kinder choices, urging I but listen out
for You-Me-Us 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

[Note: This post-poem also appears on my gay-interest poetry blog today.]











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Thursday 13 August 2020

In Good Company

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

This poem first appeared on the blog in 2014.

Regular readers will know that I believe in the existence of ghosts in the nicest possible way. (There are unwelcome ghosts, too, of course, but they are of no concern in this particular poem.)

We may be slaves to time in this life, but remembrance and the posthumous conscious from which it springs are life forces in another dimension altogether; where time and personal space unite to cross frontiers we can but imagine ... until it is our time, too, to cross to that proverbial 'other side'. 

IN GOOD COMPANY

I went to your grave
on Easter day, a longing in the heart
to be near, as once we were

I knelt, unable to pray,
laid a bouquet of flowers at the stone,
glad to stay …
Someone wished me Peace,
said pain would pass and hurt grow less,
that you’d left but briefly,
but that’s not what I wanted
to hear, just to be with you once more
as once we were
                 
A tugging at my sleeve,
but I wept, and would not, could not
leave without you;
gently now, lifting my face
to the sky, showing aspects of our history
like a home movie;
easy then to rise and turn away
from a stone and flowers, ours the gift
of eternity ...

Walking hand in hand
through a cemetery, you and I, content
to be in good company

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2014

[Note: Poem and title slightly revised (2014) from an earlier version that appears in First Person Plural by R N Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]


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Tuesday 11 August 2020

Cascade

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

Today's post-poem is another from the blog archives (since removed) and first appeared here in 2013. Do explore the archives for yourselves as I will only be repeating a selection; they can be accessed on the right hand side of any blog page.

Some readers who link to my YouTube channel think 'too much' background noise detracts from the poems I read. While I take their point, it is unavoidable when filming outdoors with my (cheap) camcorder. There is no way to subdue all background noise without killing the reading. For me, reading outdoors brings the poem to life. Moreover, the location often relates to the poem. For example, I wanted to read Autobiography of a Beach where I began to write it, on Bournemouth beach.


Latterly, anyone who has ever dipped into my You Tube channel will have seen that I have started reading poems over the video, thereby reducing background distractions since I record the poem in the relative peace and quiet of my London flat. This appears to work quite well and I will probably do this in future.  I suspect it would have been better to start off this way, but my best friend (and cameraman) Graham and I are only amateurs and did not hit on the idea until we discovered that we had a growing audience. We intend to record more videos/poem later this year as and when time allows:


Meanwhile …

Someone close to me was a keen gardener and loved the seasons. When she lay in hospital dying, she told me not to be afraid. “There’s really nothing to be afraid of. Nervous, perhaps, but who isn’t nervous of change?  As for being afraid, though, no one with a passion for spring need ever be afraid of winter.”

CASCADE

Many a scary night, I'd stumble along
the lonely, winding passages of birth,
let moon, stars and love’s sweeter song
lure me into the killing fields of Earth

By history’s first light, I’d dried my tears
(said to make all who nurture us proud);
by noon, I’d joined a stream of refugees
fallen foul of some scapegoat of a God

In the twilight of my years, I found peace,
(yes, even in a world living with terror)
for letting a cascade of spring’s finer joys
absorb tears long shed for a bad winter

Come Death's free falling us back to nature,
a cascade of life forces minding us forever

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2013

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


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