Either/Or, Life Force

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

Of all life forces confronting us a we journey through life, few if any are equal to that of choice; it can literally be a matter of life and death or, at the very least, a life changing experience.

Forewarned is forearmed, or so they say, that communal ‘they’ might well do better to stick to what it does best, making mountains out of molehills, than trying to dictate the workings of a mind-body-spirit inclined to put its trust in basic instinct.

A couple of days ago, I was warned by a specialist that a recurring ear complaint could be cancer of the ear and might require surgery. The possibility had been put to me before, but native instinct was already rejecting surgery ,whatever the outcome. Normally I would not hesitate to take specialist advice, but sometimes our instincts should not be ignored, especially when they are as forceful as mine in this particular case. However, it still remains to be seen if I do have ear cancer, so...finger crossed.

Which is the more important, life or quality of life? Everyone will have their own answer to that, depending on all manner of circumstances; religion, too, will have its say. Whatever, the final decision remains ours or, if it so happens that we are not able to make it for ourselves, we can but trust those who know and love us best to see that the right choice is made on our behalf; the right choice for us, that is, not necessarily for them.]

As for yours truly, I’ve had a good run and, at 76 years old, have no intention of agreeing to surgery even if it is considered to be in my best interests. Meanwhile, I will continue to play events by ear as they unfold... no pun intended.

EITHER/ OR, LIFE FORCE

Though friendly clouds carry me
to the ends of the earth
whenever and wherever caught
such ever-changing
landscapes, matching humanity
mood for mood,
as we now engage, now beat a retreat
with its every heartbeat

It was a landscape of the womb
first installed in me
a mind-body-spirit reaching out
across a family history
of which soon I would be a part,
for good or ill...
I could not even guess, no thoughts yet
of engaging or retreat

Come into the world on a tide
of mixed feelings...
pain and joy, relief and such hope
as would carry me
into landscapes unknown...
across generations
drawing on and shaping the human heart
to destroy and/or create

Thus, a first take on that to-be-or-not-to-be
question for/ of humanity

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lines on the Extraordinary Nature of Ordinariness

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

I am often asked why I revise a poem already published years later. Did I not have a sense of its being incomplete at the time?  The truth is, no I didn’t. As far as expressing a sense of what I was feeling at the time, I was happy enough with the original version of the poem below when it first appeared in my collection, A Feeling for the Quickness of Time in 2005. Rightly or wrongly, I felt the feeling was worth sharing, giving readers food for thought that might even let them experience a similar sense of past-present-future as expressed in the most ordinary surroundings as I did then... 

I feel the same way now, 17 years later. as I have grown older and my feelings matured, so too has my sense of that same ordinariness, especially in so far as there is nothing ordinary about it at all. At the same time, my feeling for poetry and expression, too has matured, and I recognise this. Still wanting to share my experience with others, I find myself working on the same poem, but in a different way, choosing my words no less carefully than before, but making sense in ways that eluded me when I was writing the original version because, albeit unknowingly, I hadn’t yet reached the stage in my life when I had experienced just what it was and is I felt the need to express and share in the form of a poem.

Over to you, dear readers, and I can but hope you will enjoy the experience of time-travelling via magic of ordinariness as much as I do. 

LINES ON THE EXTRAORDINARY NATURE OF ORDINARINESS 

Clouds, magic carpet rides
to exotic places;
awakening us to a repeat
of bath time potential,
pop star, jazz player, classic musician...
bent upon making the world wake up, sit up, 
shut up and listen

 Grass, littered with daisies
sunspots of memory;
trees, waving leafy arms,
telling us off
for the many mistakes we’ve (all) made, 
never meant to happen, best forgotten, easier
said than done 

A broken fence, urging us
to revisit, repair
broken friendships, forgiving
from the heart, so...
who’ll get us off to a good start, forget rhetoric
and more besides by letting actions speak louder
louder than words? 

An old armchair, memories
of a special someone who’ll sit there
no more, words
in the air left unsaid, missed opportunities
for too often forgetting
how much we owe the living
when too late, but for in our dreams of course,
for better or worse 

Crisp, clean pillowcases
all to ourselves, nudging us to observe
a damp patch
on the ceiling, spreading, lending pictures
to half-closed eyes...
landscapes, seascapes, cloudscapes passing by,
letting sleep take over for a spot of joyriding – or
running for cover?

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2005, rev. 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love, a Leading Light

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

I always welcome constructive criticism; more often than not this turns on the fact that I rarely use full stops at the end of stanzas. Regular readers will know that it is a convention I prefer to ignore because, as I see it, they interrupt both the free flow of a poem and reader's thought/s relating to it. 

I recently asked one such critic if  my lack of punctuation had ever spoilt a poem for him. He conceded it had not while protesting that "You expect to find a full stop at the end of stanzas if only to allow the reader breathing space to consider what's gone before." 

"So what if the poet sees no need for a breathing space from start to finish, and beyond?" I asked. It's expected," he insisted again.

I rest my case.

Now, the heart always thinks it knows what is best for us, and often does; most of us invariably take its advice, for better, for worse, regardless of any arguments put forward to the contrary. Whether or not we make the right choice for ourselves, and any other parties concerned, they can be dark days while we try to think it through as reasonable people, well aware that reason cannot always be relied upon (or allowed, as the case may be) to get the upper hand... 

C'est la vie. 

LOVE, A LEADING LIGHT

Love, a guiding light

through life’s misty days,

come the dark of night

Though it takes fright

at humanity’s shifty gaze,

love, a guiding light

Invariably, it's hindsight

alerted to an enemy’s ways,

come the dark of night

Though doves take flight,

would douse sunset’s blaze,

love, a guiding light

Forces of wrong and right,

arguing the error of our ways,

come the dark of night

Head, it would see us right,

but Heart says where it stays;

love, a guiding light,

come the dark of night

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012. 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Love, a Guiding Light' in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]

Positive Thinking (Getting the Better of Dark Forces)

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

[Update (Nov 7, 2016): Readers sometimes get in touch to ask just how positive t thinking person I am. Suffice to say perhaps that, having been diagnosed with prostate cancer in 2011 and treated with hormone therapy ever since, I still take a leaf out of Monty Python's book by always looking on the bright side of life. Indeed, I have opened a Just Giving page to help raise funds for Prostate Cancer UK with a poetry reading in London next year, and am optimistic that I will continue to elude the Grim Reaper long enough to deliver: https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/Roger-Taber ]

Now, many of us have experienced hard times since the credit crunch began to bite and may well continue to do so for some time yet.

Recalling happier times can make us feel worse…until we pause to remember that what goes around comes around.

Happy memories are reminders of what we can look forward to again. Things won’t be the same, of course. Nothing stays the same for long, but develops and matures just as we do…for all life’s ups and downs along the way.

Now, the heart may well be familiar with an autumn that turned into winter far too soon for its liking, burying memories of its finest summers under layers of sadness and longing. Ah, yes, but we can always look forward to another spring, nature bursting with the joys of life and music, inspiring us to go with its flow, recover poor, damaged hope along the way, and set about the task of making it whole again. Besides, memory knows better than to ever (quite) let go of better days even during the worst of times.

I guess we just have to allow for hard times by ensuring we pave ole Memory Lane with more than enough good times to compensate…

[Did I say it was easy?]

This poem is a villanelle.

POSITIVE THINKING (GETTING THE BETTER OF DARK FORCES)

Where angry winds blow
scary smoke rings,
a bold spirit, too, may go

Harvest home, we know
but sadness brings
where angry winds blow

Where naked fear on show
(peasantry among kings?)
a bold spirit, too, may go

Nature, daring us to follow
(dove or hawk’s wings?)
where angry winds blow

Where too few flowers grow
as dark winter clings,
a bold spirit, too, may go

Bonding with a late swallow,
of spring, a robin sings…
Where angry winds blow,
a bold spirit, too, may go


Copyright R. N. Taber 2009; 2016

Waves, Metaphor for Life

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

Some readers also dip into my fiction blog, and those of you who enjoyed the first part of my fantasy novel, Mamelon, will be pleased to know that I am (just about) on track for completing the second (final) part by the end of this year.  Sorry for the delay, but I am still experiencing difficulty walking (even with a walking stick) after my accident last year. However, I am learning to manage the pain and get out and about. Better news, though, is that hormone therapy continues to keep my prostate cancer at bay. Gotta look on the bright side of life, YES.

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2013/01/mamelon-chapter-1.html

Now, regular readers will know I love the sea. For me, it is one of nature’s finest metaphors for life; love, war, peace, spirituality, inspiration, fulfilment, regret…a potpourri of its more splendid aspects while, at the same time, acknowledging the starkness of its reality and the comfort of home grown illusion.

 Photo; from the Internet

 W-A-V-E-S, METAPHORS FOR LIFE

Waves, splashing

against me like a meeting

of old friends…

now showering me with kisses,

now running away…

just as you did towards
the end of our living together,

considered sinners

We'd no more giving

for each other, only the pain
of recalling (in tears)

how once we were - one life,
one love, twin waves

embracing the same shore,

flotsam spread across pebbles

like prayer beads

At every heartbeat,
fragile fingers trembling
at each fastening

and unfastening - of desires
rising, tumbling...

like waves lingering
but briefly at deserted shores,

crumbling sea walls

Left listening out for your calls,
but only seagulls...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2015

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from an earlier version that appears under the title Waves in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.]

Flights of Tension to Fanciful Places

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

This may not be one of my better poems, but it has a certain therapeutic value, for me at any rate. Many years ago, someone told me that the best cure for tension and stress is imagination. I had never thought of imagination as a form of creative therapy, but of course it is, and one of the best.

Oh, but haven’t we all been there at some time or another, past caring and simply wanting to shut the world out, slump in a comfortable armchair and forget about everything and everyone for a while …?

The trouble with slumping is that it has a nasty habit of temporarily removing life’s more attractive distractions from the inner eye and insisting it takes us down the darker side of Memory Lane, thereby making us feel even worse … which is where imagination comes in, and will  play its part
part to perfection ... if we but let it. We have but to close our eyes, think nice thoughts and let mind-body-spirit whisk us off to wherever it is we would rather be, and with whom ...

At the time I wrote this poem, I was in the early stages of recovering from and reflecting on a very bad cold when a good ‘slump’ is just about all I’d felt like doing. My cold all but forgotten, I was soon putting pen to paper ...

For many years, writing a poem has been my way of not letting a ‘slump’ get the better of me. The same can be said, if to a lesser degree, when writing fiction; while my novels have not been bestsellers, they have given me much pleasure, and feedback from my fiction blog/has been very encouraging. (Feel free to browse any time - for both my general and gay-interest fiction - at:  

https://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/2016/05/news-updates-fiction.html

FLIGHTS OF TENSION TO FANCIFUL PLACES

Slump in a chair, thinking about life

and all the people I’ve known,

wondering where have they gone?

Slump in a chair, thinking about life

and all the things I have done,

wondering where I went wrong?

Slump in a chair, thinking about life

and choices made from the heart,

wondering where fear played a part?

Slump in a chair, thinking about life

and lovers who promised to stay

but left within hours of a night or day

Slump in a chair, thinking about life

and all the years wasted on regret

where I should have stood up to fate

Slump in a chair, thinking about life

and every epiphany I’ve known,

wondering where did I go so wrong?

Slump in a chair, thinking about life

and growing older, weaker,

for knowing I could have done better

Slump in a chair, thinking about death,

and all the people I’ve known,

wondering if there’s a hell or heaven?

  

Slump in a chair, watching television,

soaking up soap opera friends ,

lost the plot, left wondering how it ends

Slump in a chair, fret about being alone?

Not this time (slam on the brakes);

will get my life back, whatever it takes

Copyright R N. Taber 2008

Sunrise

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

The human spirit deserves a voice; it certainly deserves better than any form or dregree of incarceration, self-imposed or otherwise.

Just as many gay boys and girls, men and women worldwide may find it hard to be open about their sexuality, many if not most people (gay or straight) have feelings they are obliged to hide for one reason or another; nothing gives the human spirit its freedom like coming out of hiding, and breaking the silence, self-imposed or otherwise, that drove it there.

SUNRISE

Gagging on the quiet,
blinded by the dark,
not deaf, though, to wolves
howling for blood

Thoughts, vague shapes
like ink blots
on pages charting molehills
to mountains

Moon, no guardian here
but a mythology
written in charcoal, that reads,
 ‘I told you so…’

Stars, hijacked by a night
in fierce deadlock
with Earth Mother and human
vulnerability

Trapped, lost, a no-hoper
being crushed
to nothingness just for asking,
‘What’s the point?’

Enter, dawn’s weepy light,
Apollo’s first take
on Earth Mother and the human  
condition

Risen to breaking silences,
inner eye and ear
awakening like sleepy egg-birds
to find a voice

Copyright R N. Taber 2015

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

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

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.]

Reflections on the Darker Side of Human Nature

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

[Update (Sept 4, 2016) A perceptible rise in hate crime against EU and other migrants in parts of the UK since the Brexit vote is as disturbing as it is appalling; another modern tragedy perpetrated by a significant but vocal minority along with racism and homophobia. Even intolerance of elderly and disabled people is not unheard of in this sorry world of ours While some prejudices are ingrained in certain socio-cultural-religious conventions, others merely service a warped ego; all need to be weeded out, and will be, but not in my lifetime, I fear.]

From time to time (or perhaps more often these days?) stress rears its ugly head and tempers become frayed. We can try and recognise the signs and stay calm, but that's easier said than done. 

Too often, we say things we don’t mean in a temper or, if we do mean them, we probably shouldn’t have said them. If the worst comes to the worst, all we can do is apologise and try and make peace. As my late mother used to say, if your head is too big to apologise, your mind is too small for it.

With some people, of course, the damage done is irreparable but that isn’t always a bad thing. Having let rip with anger, it can sometimes bring a welcome sense of relief, especially when it targets those among us with whom it is impossible to talk things through. If it gives the person with whom we have lost our temper food for thought, so much the better and we should accept any genuine olive branch gracefully. However, some people are too self-centred to concede that it takes two to make a quarrel and two to make it up. They prefer to hug their grievances to them, relating them to all and sundry as a means to gaining an invariably undeserved sympathy vote.

By the way, I speak from personal experience. When I was younger I would put up with ‘friends’ (and family) treating me badly because I knew they didn’t necessarily mean it. Even so, most would run a mile rather than sit down and talk things through. Once I turned sixty, I decided life is too short and time too precious to waste on people like that.

“Angry people are not always wise.” - Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

This poem is kenning.

REFLECTIONS ON THE DARKER SIDE OF HUMAN NATURE 

I watch you, though from shadows,
and you know I am there yet choose
to ignore me, hoping I will go away
but it’s my choice to stay, observe
the way you walk, talk, seeing how
you react to what others do or say,
assessing your hurt by scratch marks
of the queerest designs you pass off
as laughter lines

I follow you about wherever you go
and you would be rid of my company
yet dare not face me with all the facts
I have gleaned over years of grooming
you for my own ends. Any resistance
is futile, though I grow apprehensive
when you mix with others who would
usurp my place, take you for their own,
share love’s crown

Years pass, and now we walk together
and you dare not say ‘no’ to passing
into the shadows with me for have I not
watched over you as I would a child?
Where can the light of the world take us
but among regrets and betrayal, along
tracks made by paper tigers that belong
here, where only leafy skies have shed
tears for centuries

I hold the hand writing history’s next page,
and am called Rage

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2018

[Note: This poem first appears under the title 'The Savage' in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010; rev. title 5/18]

Marking Up the Calendar

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

All human relationships - including friendships - have their ups and down. If they matter to us, we must work at them. Should they flag and all but fail, we must do our best to revive them. Nor can we let foolish pride get in the way.

If we want to build bridges with someone badly enough, what does it matter who makes the first move?

Sadly, sometimes we have to face the fact that a relationship was never as worthwhile as we thought in the first place.

Let’s be honest though. It is too easy to find excuses for doing nothing. Doing something, on the other hand and…well, who knows?

MARKING UP THE CALENDAR

One day to remember,

one day to forget;

one day together - another,

cruelly torn apart

One day for friendship,

one day for rage;

one day for love - another,

blotting its page

One day to be, oh, so sure,

one day to doubt;

one day so in love, - another

in a rush to get out

One day, love and peace,

promising to endure;

one day it’s spring - another

already mid-winter

One day, life’s lessons

to learn and share,

we students of life - another

finding us still there

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2007; 2013

[Note: An earlier version of this poem - under the title 'One Day' - first appeared in Awakening of the Soul, Poetry Now (Forward Press) 2003 & subsequently in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

Warning: Personal Space, Closed for Repairs

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

I suspect the situation this post and poem attempts to reflect is probably familiar to many if not most of us.

Overheard in a café:

WOMAN: Michael has been trying to get in touch with you. By all accounts, he’s in a bit of a state.  I gather his love life has turned turtle, the poor love.

MAN: No surprises there then.

WOMAN: So why aren’t you picking up or returning his calls?

MAN: Because I have serious problems of my own at the moment. I really can't cope with Michael's until I sort my own. 

WOMAN: That is so selfish! It’s all right for you. You’re strong. You know how needy poor Michael is.

MAN: Yes, well, right now I’m needy too. I need to sort myself out, and I can’t do that if I’m stuck with sorting Michael out...again.

WOMAN: But, poor Michael...

MAN: Poor Michael needs to grow up, and if you think he’s so needy, YOU go and sort him out.

The man left abruptly. The woman caught my eye, shrugged and sent her eyebrows into overdrive while mouthing, ‘Some people!’ ...before returning to her snack.

My sympathy was entirely with the man (I’m not being sexist either) having been there myself many times.

Most of us try to be there for our friends, bur some friends take us for granted.  We look around for someone to be there for us when we most need to talk to someone about something that is tearing us apart...and there is no one there; everyone is too busy with their own problems to even consider that we may have problems of our own. After all, we are ‘strong’ and can take care of ourselves; we don’t need anyone. Well, the chances are they are so wrong, and one day they well may look to their ‘strong’ friend for customary support only to discover that that he or she has crumbled under the pressure of disillusionment and the convenient corner shop is closed for repairs.

Some people are naturally strong and others have strength thrust upon them by personal battles hard won. But strong or less strong, we should never forget we are all but human, and much the same basic human needs apply to everyone. Sometimes we have to put our own needs first or we are likely to be of little use to anyone, least of all ourselves. 

WARNING: PERSONAL SPACE, CLOSED FOR REPAIRS

I am but fragile

where seen as firm, fearless,

appearing strong,

no one suspecting differently

until I am stretched

as far as nature will carry me,

only to be exposed

for an illusion of the kind

feeding on dreams

I deceive no one,

but try to do the right thing

by family and friends,

be there at the right times,

lending a shoulder

to cry on, an ear to listen,

a take on how things

might change for the better

sooner or later

I am but human,

(with needs, too, of my own)

that often despairs

of finding no one there

or shoulder to cry on,

an ear to listen (for long)

or take on ending

this feeling of endless freefall

into empty words

I am the friend

trying to do the right thing,

at the right times,

lend a shoulder to cry on,

an ear to listen,

provide a take on how we

might set about

changing things for the better,

sooner or later

Handle me with care;

even close friends can weary

of being taken

for granted time and again;

no shoulder to cry on

or ear to listen for needing

to take up a little

of someone else’s private space

closed for repairs

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Listening Out for a Love Song

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

Only fools take little or no care to create and store happy memories as they go through life or on wintry days, when a north wind blows, they will have little or nothing by which to warm themselves, take hope, and feel inspired. 

Be sure, second hand memories won’t do the trick.

I have said much the same thing before and a reader got in touch to say that his partner has Alzheimer’s so what use are their happy memories?

Well, I believe that a person does not have to articulate on happy memories to enjoy them; the spirit of that happiness never dies and will sustain us through just about anything. In my experience, where that spirit is weak or absent, the human heart tells a very different story. 

I have known people with Alzheimer's and other forms of  dementia  Carers  have related experiences about loved ones with the illness as it progresses; many of those who have it seem able to convey and live (for much if not all the time) in the spirit of a happy past even though they cannot recall it in much or any detail. Perhaps this is wishful thinking of my part, but an overwhelming impression all the same.

A time may well come for ny of us when we forget the life we've had in the sense that we cannot articulate on it in any detail, but it will have left a trail of felt experiences that never quite leave us; our feelings can take us anywhere we want to be, and we do not need to choose as we are guaranteed a happy ending, if only because mind-body-spirit will be immune to anything less. 

A husband and devoted carer once said much the same thing to me so it isn’t just a poet’s rhetoric. ‘It keeps me sane,” he told me, “knowing that the spirit of the love we have shared for the best part of a lifetime is still there, intact. True, its human container is outwardly more than a shade battered, bruised and all but beyond recognition, but its contents will remain as fresh, pure and precious as ever for as long as at least one of us continues to draw breath. After that…who knows?”

Who, indeed  ...?

LISTENING OUT FOR A LOVE SONG

A north wind, penetrating within,

purging the soul, tearing skin

from a body staring ruin in the face,

and no way back to how it was.

(hope but a leaf or flower away)

swept along the wrong track,

hope fading, fear rising of losing

all mind-body-spirit that makes me 

who I am ... 

Blows a cruel wind, tears freezing,

faces turned heavenwards

seeking aid, mercy, grace, forgiveness

for the error of our ways,

judgments cast in stone to boost egos

begging their superiority
over minorities, teeth showing

like the smile on the face of a tiger

selecting priorities

We persevere. Let fear do its worst,

we shall endure, see the sun shine

in our faces again, belie the damage

of acid rain, camouflage our pain

under slick, blank sheets of copy paper

signifying nothing, signing us up

for whatever the world cares

to have us say we feel, no matter

what’s just or real

Listen. Above a howling of wolves,

a love song making itself felt ...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2019

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

On the Incredible Self-Empowerment of Naming Things

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

Like many men, I was terrified of getting prostate cancer in my later years. Shortly after my 65^th birthday, in the spring of 2011, I was, yes, diagnosed with prostate cancer and began hormone therapy.

Although I feel fine (most days) I have had some really weird dreams. The one on which this poem is based was so vivid that I got out of bed in the early hours and made a few notes before I could forget the whole thing. Sometimes I can get back into my dreams, but not on this occasion. As soon as my head hit the pillow again, I was fast asleep. If I had another dream, I don’t remember it.

I eventually woke up around 7:00 am in a cold sweat, vaguely disturbed yet also oddly elated. I felt as if I had ridden the gamut from youth to old age in a matter of seconds and been washed up on a sunny beach, my trusty white steed and me. (I love walking by the sea…)   

Above a louder and even more splendid than usual dawn chorus, I fancied someone was calling a name. In the cold light of day, I couldn’t hear what name, but somehow knew it wasn’t mine; not this time anyway. 

I sat up in bed and said aloud, ‘I have prostate cancer.’

Perhaps that is what the dream was all about, giving my ‘illness’ a name so I needn’t be afraid of it anymore?

Some hours later I caught a train and soon found myself walking by the sea in Brighton (East Sussex). I have done this so many times for so many years, yet those so familiar surroundings seemed like something out of a dream that day, and I felt so much the more reassured for it.

Naming our fears helps us confront them, all the better to get on with living without being distracted by a sense of constantly doing battle with an invisible enemy.

ON THE INCREDIBLE  SELF-EMPOWERMENT OF NAMING THINGS

I rode a pale horse to a castle of sand

gate left wide open,

drawbridge down, so carried on 

and banged at the door,

noise resounding like the weeping

of some tortured wretch

No one answered as I called a greeting

and the door groaned ajar;

not a friendly soul in sight, I entered

the Great Hall where a banquet

called for celebration of someone’s life

(alive or dead?)

Trestle tables were piled high with food

of every description,

yet no one ate from a single silver plate

or drank from silver goblets;

every throne-like chair remained emptier

than a beggar’s pockets

My horse bucked and reared as if sensing

a curse had been laid upon us;

I lost my grip and tumbled to a stone floor

as cold as an icy moat;

frantic, I heard the wretch let fly my name,

among waves of terror

I swam centuries before finally recovering

my surfboard, soon lay panting

at the gate of a sandcastle left wide open,

listening to that wretch weeping,

wondering who it it could be, how on earth 

they knew my name

Suddenly, I saw him and it was like looking
in a mirror, an expression of misery

I could not bear so leapt into the saddle, 
and rode out of the gate, its legend
(C-A-N-C-E-R) less scary for connecting me
with a positive mindset

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2013

[Note: Regular blog readers will know that I have revised this poem several times. So why post it before I am happy with it? I suspect it has to do with my being too close to the subject. Whatever, email feedback has both prompted and shaped any revisions, for which I am grateful, and can only hope this  latest will be the last. It only goes to show, I guess, that a poem is a 'live' art form in the sense that it is capable of metamorphosing as it passes from reader to reader and back to the poor poet who has to try and make sense of it all...]

Time and Tide

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The genesis for this poem was written in 1976. I have only recently revised it.

Regular reader will be familiar with the sea – in all its moods, and as they reflect my own - as a theme for many later poems.

Sometimes, the sea inspires me; sometimes it comforts me; sometimes it scares me, especially as I grow old(er) and am inclined to see it as a living metaphor for a splendid vastness that will surely (for good or ill, better or worse) one day claim my spirit.

TIME AND TIDE

The lonely sea
laps at my feet, stars in the sky
small comfort;
on a hushed beach,
a huge white moon winks wryly
at me

Sun, sea, sand,
slipping through weepy fingers
like kinder times;
life, death, love,
hovering low above, still waiting
for Godot

Wind grown cold,
I growing old with all the stoicism
of a sand statue;


night-pools, they swirl
around me, surprise, confound me
with home truths

Though I dare
a sleepy shore’s passions reawaken,
I know…
why the lonely sea
laps at my feet,  stars in the sky
small comfort

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2012

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

A Feeling For Love-Hate Relationships

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Some readers may be interested to know that a new serial begins on my fiction blog today. Sacrilege was first published in the UK in 2008 and is Book Two in a planned trilogy Blasphemy-Sacrilege-Redemption. [Book Three has been delayed through illness but I hope to finish writing it in time to serialise it on the blog next year before publishing the entire trilogy as e-editions on Google Play.]

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com

Meanwhile…

Can we really love and hate at the same time? I think so, yes. Some people (and places) make us SO mad sometimes, yet we love them to bits.

I hate London much of the time, especially these days as it is so overcrowded, yet I miss it as a lover misses his or her partner whenever I am away for long.  Certainly, too, I have discovered it is possible to hate certain people almost as much as loving them. They are weighty words, love and hate. I suspect we use them too freely in the course of everyday conversation, indeed as we journey through life.

There are even more abstract forms of love hate-relationships, too, which nonetheless have a bearing on our lives; we may well prefer to avoid them, but such is our need for them that we have little or no choice but to engage with them now and then. Mind you, any thanks for their timely intervention is likely to be more than a shade mixed with resentment for our feeling  unable to resists engaging with them at all; much the same principle applies to many if not most love-hate relationships turn…

This poem is a kenning.

A FEELING FOR LOVE-HATE RELATIONSHIPS

Oh, but I will always try
to be there for you whenever
I am needed,
keep my distance when it feels
more appropriate,
listen whenever you need an ear,
and support you
where the heart makes a pitch
for centre-stage

Oh, but I will always try
to look into your head should
you turn against me
in the intense heat of emotions
setting themselves
against us (for whatever reason)
descending to a wintry chill
and left unacknowledged between
cracks in thin ice

Oh, but I will always try
to bring you gently down to earth
when fine ideals fly
in the face of temporal priorities
primed to shoot down
any aspirations of a human spirit
likely to blow a hole
in the arms budget, and give peace
a fighting chance

Agreed cover for home truths and lies,
I pass for the Spirit of Compromise

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Logging On To Life

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Readers ‘Soraya and Magnus’ have asked me to repeat today’s poem as it is their wedding anniversary today and because 'among all the poems in your collection, this is the one we love most.'  It first appeared in a Forward Press (now Forward Poetry) anthology, My Words Are My Voice in 2009 and subsequently on the blog as well as in my collection the following year.

Here’s wishing Soraya and Magnus a very Happy Anniversary, and many thanks for getting in touch. Apart from the fact that I love hearing from readers, this ageing poet is always grateful for any encouragement that comes his way.  [Well, aren’t we all?]

Now, some cruel twist of fate may cause us to lose some of our senses, even most, but never all. For there is one, not mentioned in the poem by name, but will be inferred by the discerning reader, that will always see us through; it is the human spirit whose resilience, sensibility and passion should never be underestimated.  Oh, and yes, it can and often does make a difference.

LOGGING ON TO LIFE

We look, yes, but how to make sense

of a world turning, no matter what or who,

and how to make a difference?

We hear, yes, but how to make sense

of gobbledegook, no matter what or who,

and how to make a difference?

We smell, yes, but how to make sense

of much doctored scents turning the air blue,

and how to make a difference?

We taste, yes, but how to make sense

of the additives and preservatives hullabaloo,

and how to make a difference?

We touch, yes, but how to make sense

of sticky stuff on a knife bent on killing you,

and how to make a difference?

We can but do our best to make sense

of a world turning, no matter what or who,

and try to make a difference

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

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