On Waking Up (or not) to Facts and Fictions

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

I will be 76 later this year and was very saddened, only recently, to hear that the grandson of an old school friend had died of a drugs overdose; he was just 23 years-old and had been an addict since his mid-teens. His younger brother had also experimented with drugs, but not to the same extent and a period in rehab saved him from becoming permanently addicted; he even went on to achieve a university degree, and is now happily settled with his partner and a job he loves. 

I guess wanting to be free of any addiction is not enough, it has to be fuelled by a sense of purpose. 

Years ago, I asked a former drug addict what, for him, had been the attraction of drugs. I expected him to say for the thrill of it. Instead, he answered with one word, “Escapism.” I understood the principle only too well, having been an avid reader of fiction since early childhood by way of escaping from certain realities with which, for the life of me, I couldn’t get to grips, including aspects of myself that I didn’t have the experience to understand and made me feel uncomfortable; during my formative years, these included an undiagnosed hearing loss and untreated speech defect. Later, I would have to deal with being gay, a fact from which family and society attitudes in those days compelled me to run away for nearly twenty years. 

A brief stay in Australia in the late 1960’s was a form of escapism. I felt guilty and cowardly until I met an old aboriginal man with whom I shared confidences I had bottled up for years. “There is no shame in running away,” he told me, “Sometimes we need to run away to find out just what it is we’re running away from. Only then can we decide to tackle it head-on or keep running. Waste of a life, running away. It can only ever end in tears... or worse, much worse...” he added thoughtfully. 

Indeed, it can, and I owe that man my life because I was offered drugs only a few days later, by which time I was able to refuse, having made up my mind to clear up the mess I’d made of my life so far, and stop running. A week earlier, I may well have been desperate enough to choose one of the worst forms of escapism, not uncommon among those of us made to feel but ‘losers’ by such circumstances as likely as not to see us fail to rise above its growing pains. 

ON WAKING UP (OR NOT) TO FACTS AND FICTIONS 

Bright and sunny my days
in the park where once I loved to play
among peers of yesteryear,
relieved just to put any worries on hold,
leave reality behind awhile,
relaxed and happy in the company
of friends, left to explore
brave new worlds of such inspired imagination
as lent us a temporary freedom 

Dark clouds threatening rain
would send us running hell for leather
to find any shelter on hand,
still concerned with keeping reality at bay
a growing anxiety taking hold
of a mind-body-spirit, too easily tempted
by mixed growing pains
to explore the potential of other makeshift worlds
by way of latch-key passwords 

The passage of time grown dark
and scary, the only sure relief on hand
at the prick of a needle,
lending me all the thrills of such yesteryears
as would have had me access
a kinder world than ill-met by sunny days
offering a temporary freedom
from stormy weather, mind-body-spirit left to fight
that incorrigible demon, hindsight 

Alone in the park where once I so loved playing,
just another druggie, no happy ending 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

A Friend for Life

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

We are still in lockdown here in England while Government decides how best to approach Christmas this year. I am personally of the view that any relaxation of safety regulations, will prove to be a mistake. 

Those of us who live alone, as much if not more so than most, acknowledge and empathise with the call to allow more people to meet up, but see it as asking for trouble and likely to result in an increase in coronavirus cases and deaths, especially given the way some people continue to flout safety regulations. 

Other religious festivals have come and gone with no special treatment so why should Christmas prove any different, just for one year, for safety’s sake? After all, Christians believe that Christ said ““All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.” – and no one wants to catch Covid-19. 

Many businesses, of course, rely on the run-up to Christmas to show a profit or risk going under so it would make sense to make some allowances for this, although, yet again, customers will need to respect safety regulations regarding social distancing and wearing face masks correctly.

 Meanwhile … 

A friend who also lives alone recently confessed that he sometimes talks to the furniture for want of anyone to engage in meaningful conversation. I told him not to worry, I have been doing that for years. 

It can often help to try and put our frustrations into words. Rather than whinge to someone else, at least the furniture is guaranteed to be a good listener; it becomes less of a monologue than a debate between our conscious and subconscious selves, often resulting in our seeing our way more clearly than simply trying to think things through. I suspect being literally lost in thought is not an unfamiliar condition to many if not most of us.

Today's poem is a kenning.

A FRIEND FOR LIFE 

I have lived with all human moods,
try to go along with them as best I can,
humour folks when angry,
let them vent the worst of verbal spite
on me, the world, whatever 
it takes to calm one down, make one see
how life, it has its ups and downs,
as if by way of teaching us, ourselves, to know,
stay alert to the pull of undertow 

Good times, bad times, happy times,
and sad times, we have shared them all,
gradually establishing a philosophy
of sorts along the lines of no use crying
over what’s said and done,
needs must choose to play deaf and dumb
or come with cap in hand
to make reparation, encourage reconciliation
or learn to manage our frustration 

Good companions for many a year,
we watch TV together, listen to the radio,
relax with our favourite music
keep in touch with friends and wider world
on laptop, tablet or mobile,
no coronavirus likely to come between us
until death us do part,
mind-body-spirit striving to keep mortality at bay,
positive thinking, Order of the Day 

It’s one and all for whom my kind is always there,
assuming the persona of a comfy armchair 

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2020

 

The Lane Revisited (On the Sunny Side) OR The Great Escape

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

While the Covid-19 coronavirus is getting everyone down, various safety restrictions being imposed across the world are not helping, whether we agree with the necessity for and extent of them or not. Everyone is affected, one way or another, but older people who live alone are possibly finding it the hardest to cope with everyday life which is anything but ‘everyday’ as we knew it pre-coronavirus.

Me, I seek refuge in happier memories, taking care to avoid any unhappy ones. Hence, another new poem today.  (Friends can always tell when I am stressed out as I churn out poems. wry bardic grin)

THE LANE REVISITED (ON THE SUNNY SIDE) or THE GREAT ESCAPE

When the burdens of life
would have me on my knees in despair,
I have only to close my eyes
and enjoy a stroll down the sunny side
of Memory Lane, be comforted
by warm smiles, pausing for a cosy chat
with old friends, share a laugh,
invite the Here-and-Now to take its cue
from ghosts of a kinder past 

There is a house on The Lane
where I uttered my first cry on being made
to leave the safety of a womb
and take my chances in a world that would
rarely (if ever) offer the same
comfort and safety of a mother’s embrace,
rocking me gently, treating me
to so rare taste of love-and-peace as needs
must last a human lifetime 

There are friends on The Lane
with whom I bonded as my formative years
mentored me well
in the art of just taking people as I find them,
no rush to judgement
for being ignorant (as yet) of such cruel ways
of the world that would take me
on a learning curve comparable with a climbing
any of the highest mountains 

At the end of the Lane, barely time
to say goodbyes, and what is it now I can see,
but another road challenging me
to make whatever I will of wherever it may lead,
no fault but mine if I fail
to draw upon the same taste for love-and-peace
as will comfort and reassure
those who care to take a stroll down the sunny side
of life anytime, anywhere 

If my Here-and-Now no less a challenge
than before, at least mind-body-spirit rests easier
for knowing there is light after dark,
healing after pain, rainbows after rain, Earth Mother
rocking us gently, treating us
to so rare a taste of love-and-peace that may not last
a lifetime, but even a share now
and then, a dream for any human heart to keep as safe
as any worldly treasure 

Earth Mother, too, all but giving upon us now and then?
Our cue to live and learn on The Lane … yet again

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ship of Fools

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

It’s bad enough that there are still those who insist climate change is some kind of global-political conspiracy theory, but to believe much the same of the Covid-10 coronavirus when the World Health Organisation has recorded a million deaths, and still counting, is just daft.

As for those who are protesting about their Human Rights being undermined by various governmental safety precautions worldwide, that makes sense of a kind but is just selfish; everyone has the right to take risks on their own account, but no one is entitled to take the same (or any) risks on behalf of others, leastwise not without their approval.

Friends who happened to be in central London at the same time as a so-called Human Rights protest about Covid-19 restrictions in Trafalgar Square were appalled by the size of the gathering, no one wearing masks or making any attempt at social distancing; later, of course, they all piled out into the streets of London just as they had all piled in, no thought as to whether they might be spreading the Covid-19 virus.

Most conspiracy theorists and the like are either simply afraid of the truth or cling to the notion that any excuse is better than none when it comes to not doing whatever it is they don’t want to do, regardless of any potential consequences.

As general rule, I wholeheartedly support Human Rights worldwide, but not when it means putting other people at risk.

SHIP OF FOOLS

There is a Ship of Fools
that has sailed the oceans wide
for centuries, only anchoring
in harbours of the world
to pressure more fools into joining
those already on board 

Conspiracy theorists swear
its survival on High Seas means
we really must pay attention
to whatever fake news
they may well be as up for spreading,
as motives for speculation 

Captaining a Ship of Fools
is Fantasy, patron saint of all those
plainly preferring to turn both
blind eye and deaf ears
to suspect goings-on all but knocking
at their own front doors 

Fools are as welcome to points
of view as anyone else, but should
refrain from forcing it on others,
as they do who rush landfall
without a mask, thereby risk spreading 
the Covid-19 coronavirus  

Each to his or her own, yes, true,
but there are exceptions even to laws
written in stone, given all humanity
has a right to fair play - if only
along the lines of agendas reading
better safe than sorry ...

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

Take care, folks and stay safe,

Hugs,

Roger

 

Engaging (positively) with Personal Space

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

Since I hit my 70’s (five years ago) I sometimes find myself wondering … why bother? Living alone, even with the support of a few good friends, can often seem a heavy-going, lonely battle to rise above health issues and other slings and arrows of daily life.

My mother died in 1976. We were very close, and her spirit remains as much a part of me as it ever was. I am especially grateful for having inherited her positive approach to life,being able to put any negative thoughts on hold, close my eyes and wish myself back to better times, let them comfort, reassure, inspire me to understanding full well that nature intends that we live and die  so it’s up to us to make the most, each in his or her own way, of what lies in-between. 

Instead of brooding on woes, better by far (surely?) to count our blessings in the shape of those family and friends we have known and loved, any places we may have visited that are as flowers on the evergreen Banks of Memory whose perfume we have but to inhale to be transported away from whatever moment of contemporary crisis may have struck ... temporarily perhaps, but long enough to rise above its worse moments, pause the downward spiral into despair, self-pity, whatever … and rise above it all, slowly but surely emerging from the experience better equipped not only to start looking on the bright side of life again, but actively participate in it. 

I am so grateful to my mother for her philosophical approach to general well-being that has helped me through some of the worst periods of my life, never more so than now as we all struggle with multiple consequences of the coronavirus pandemic.

Did I say it was easy …?

ENGAGING (POSITIVELY) WITH PERSONAL SPACE 

There is a place I go

known only to me, where time,

no longer counting

along lines of arithmetic

or measure of its pace,

takes me beyond known parameters

shows me who I am

There is a place I go

whenever thought cannot reason

nor sensibility rely

on some abstract morality

to come to the rescue

if only to attempt justifying whatever,

or pointing a finger

There is a place I go

where bigotry on grounds of gender,

race, sexuality, creed

(and, yes, age too) but voices

falling on cloth ears

flagging up referrals for creative therapy

(hope springs eternal)

There is a place I go

where I am free to think just about me,

well-meaning advice

(from any perspective but mine)

given short shrift

by an alter ego weary of always being lost

in translation by ‘betters’

There is a place I go

where mind, body and spirit take a break

from running rings

around me, engage with each other

and help me connect

with that whole which is the sum of my parts

(amateur self-portrait)

It’s in my personal space

that I consider and reconsider my actions,

hopefully preventing

any future systems failure down

to taking fake news

for gospel and spreading it without due care;

(garbage in, garbage out)

Ah, but personal space

cannot be contained for long in any one

persona, but needs must

journey through time and space;

rites of passage

for artists, historians, anyone with an interest

in fitting jigsaw pieces

Copyright R N. Taber 2020

The Stalker

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

[Update March 16th 2020]: By now, the COVID-19 has become a pandemic; older people and those with underlying health problems already are most at risk from this particular form of coronavirus. So let's all do our best - wherever we are in the world, whatever our socio-cultural-religious background - to put any differences aside, be good friends and neighbours, watch out for each other over the next few months. Rarely has human nature been challenged to play a more positive role in enabling mind-body-spirit to pull together and prove itself integral to a common humanity. Well, fingers crossed.] RT

Some people are made to feel - knowingly or unknowingly - that they never quite 'fit in' ... with family, peers, schoolmates, workmates...whatever; when life deals us a particularly crushing blow -at any time, anywhere, and at any age - we look for someone to turn to, and there is no one.

Whatever the crushing blow, it can defeat a person altogether when it seems there is no one to whom they can turn; it is the worst feeling in the world. There is always someone, of course, and some people train as counsellors just to try to bridge such gaping holes in a lonely person's life; the loneliness all the harder to bear because they thought they were part of a social network that would always provide a safety net; to discover it was all an illusion, and believing no one really gives a damn, is had nut for the person at the centre of it all to crack.

The human spirit, though, is a tough cookie, and there is always an alternative to despair, but we need to feel sufficiently motivated to seek it out, and act on what we find, no matter how great the temptation to turn tail and tun for fear of finding ourselves in much the same situation again. There are good people out there, among family, peers, schoolmates, workmates...whatever; they are not mind readers; confronting home truths may be half the battle, but it is not until we learn to share them that we stand a fighting chance of winning through.

Whatever may have encouraged us to feel comfortably deluded about our life before it took us into crisis mode, we need to at least reassess if not put aside altogether and start over; nor is it ever too late for that, whoever and wherever we may be.  Our world, as we thought we knew it, may have fallen apart, failed to live up to its own propaganda, doctrine, or whatever else fake news or hidden agendas we may have stumbled blindly upon...but it can be replaced with something better so long as we learn to trust good people to help us make better choices,  and start believing in ourselves again, and understanding that we are not alone since most if not all of us spend the greater part of our lives on a learning curve.

There is no shame in asking for help. Moreover, there are people out there willing to let live, let learn, and let us in on the process. How to find them? Incredible as it may seem, sometimes all we need to do is follow our noses and trust out better instincts. How do I know? Because it worked for me years ago...and continues to do so. Yes, I get lonely sometimes, but having experienced the worst loneliness can do, I am enough of a 'people person' in my 70's to see it as a relatively minor blip in the way of things, not an end in itself.

THE STALKER

I may well creep up on you,

unaware of me till all but too late,

and then let battle

commence, or not as the case

may well be.

if he or she not of a mind

(for whatever reason)

to confront a common human need,

and go into restart mode

I peer over your shoulder

at all you do for seeing it as bravery

to evade the enemy

although there’s no avoiding me

(as you know full well)

but you are fast losing sight

of calendar days

in a world dead set on getting its kicks

by playing nasty tricks

Oh, my mistake, no easy prey,

(even a mind-body-spirit in free fall)

forgetful of a humanity

looking out for its own; family,

friends, neighbours,

passers-by in the street concerned

for the frightened air  

of one become sensitive to my stalking,

if no less fearful of escaping

Call me Loneliness, that customised hell
its human heart knows only too well

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2020

Where the Password is Peace

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

A reader has emailed to ask if I will post some poems that are included in my collections,  but not on the blog. Apparently, he likes to copy the poems and email them to 'an elderly relative who loves poetry but is 'only ok'ish with very basic IT, sufficiently to be able to open emails anyway.'

Meanwhile...

I included this poems in my collection with a place in mind that always fills me with a sense of peace. Before I hit 70+ and developed mobility problems, I'd often walk to nearby Hampstead Heath, at any time of year; once there, I would , enjoy a panoramic view of London from the top of Parliament Hill before wandering back down to sit by the ponds, or roam the woodlands, listen to incredible birdsong and, yes, find peace in the beauty of it all. Oh, but it is sheer poetry, believe me; of the kind no poet can do justice.


 Any readers who enjoy this poem might also enjoy 'On Hampstead Heath' which is also on the blog.

Hampstead Pond

Highgate Pond is a Nature Reserve on the Heath

WHERE THE PASSWORD IS PEACE

I am the rose dripping pearls

on a chamomile lawn stretching

across fields and woodlands

where trees tell tales wiser men

and women than you or I

have passed on since Creation

to the world’s poets, painters

and its music makers to re-create

in a spirit of celebration

I am the lame dove haunting

frantic urban streets reaching out

for a peace of mind as told

by the world’s poets, painters

and its music makers…

to still the restless heart, restore

a flagging faith in humanity

much like the rose dripping pearls

on a chamomile lawn

I am not whom you took me for

when first you tried to read my face,

unused as you are to seeing clear,

mistaking an iconic tablet of stone 

for a chamomile lawn stretching

beyond parameters of time and space

where the password is peace,

trees are heard telling tales and roses

seen dripping pearls

Look around and within all you see

to find me, who am called Beauty

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

[Note: This poem appears in Tracking the Torchbearer by R N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]

On Call, 24/7

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

Someone once told me how I lucky I am to be a poet because ‘poets have a way with words and are blessed with an imagination.’ Yes, I enjoy writing poetry and feel a lot better for having written a poem than I probably felt before starting out; it is the only form of creative therapy at which I can (hopefully) claim to be any good.  

Imagination, however, turns not on words but on the human spirit, and each and every one of us has access to that.

Painting, gardening, any form of creativity stirs the imagination because imagination is a state of mind, not ability. When we are unhappy, we feel better for distracting ourselves by doing something that gives us pleasure and will help ease whatever pain is causing whatever unhappiness, physical or mental, that is burdening us way beyond any measure of words.

Never let anyone tell you that you have no imagination, but if life is an epic poem, so we, too, are epic survivors for the way we journey through it; each in our own way, a poem in the making.

“It is not the load that breaks you down. It’s the way you carry it.” - Lena Horne (singer)

We all need a stop-gap if only to give as a breathing space when things get on top of us, as they invariably do from time to time. Oh, and never think you have no imagination; just close your eyes, relax, and let it work its magic. Whatever is troubling you won't go away, but you can always trust imagination to refresh mind-body-spirit, if only briefly, enough to make dealing with it less of an ordeal.

ON CALL, 24/7

As a child, I would rejoice

in every day, take it in my stride,

good or bad, fall asleep

at night among pleasant dreams

of beautiful places

and beautiful people whose beauty

lies but in the eyes

of the beholder, no expectations foiled

by the worst of human nature

As a teenager, I would dread

schooldays almost as much dealing

with a personal space

to which I dared not admit family

or friends, tried hard

to take it in my stride, but sensed

I was falling apart

until I discovered real-life companions

for mind-body-spirit

In later years, I’d find how love

takes many shapes and forms, in people,

places, wildlife,

waves and seashells…all eager

to comfort, reassure

and support a sad mind with memories

of happy times…

always there to be logged into, undermine
any mental or physical pain

I am Imagination, on call 24/7, feel free
to call on me, stopgap for reality

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

Celebrations ringing True, ringing False

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

Sometime next year, hopefully in the spring, a selection of my general and  gay-interest poems will be published by Austin Macauley (London and New York); it is the first time a mixed selection of new and revised poems will be so widely available in bookstores around the world, and I am hoping it will fare well enough to allow for a follow-up volume. Here is no money in poetry, of course, but your support can only help give it a stronger voice in the modern world. I am 72 now, and have been living with prostate cancer for nearly eight years so may well be living on borrowed time. One day, the Grim Reaper will come calling, and I dare say my blogs will eventually descend into some digital Black Hole …

Ah, but still looking on the bright side of life here, and not ready for the G R just yet.

Meanwhile …

Every year for some years now, I have sent gay and gay-friendly straight friends a poem instead of a card as I am not really a Christmassy person and do not subscribe to any religion. Well, Christmas is almost upon us and I would like to take this opportunity to thank you, my readers – whatever colour, creed or sexuality, wherever you are and whether you dip into just one, both. or even all three of my blogs - for letting me into your lives.

CELEBRATIONS RINGING TRUE, RINGING FALSE

Christmas, ringing out loud and clear,

carol singers at the front door

mistletoe and ivy in the living room,

customised fir trees everywhere

dressed up with fairy lights signalling

festive cheer

Christmas, ringing out loud and clear,

children, live portraits of delight

embracing the stuff of winter dreams,

home comforts and joy everywhere,

all dressed up in laughter if only to hide

splitting seams

Christmas, ringing out loud and clear,

mums and dads denying the cost,

refusing to put a price on getting away

from a world in pain everywhere

all dressed up in promises of another day,

another year

Christmas, ringing out loud and clear,

celebrating the birth of a boy

believed by Christians to be the Christ

reaching out to a world in despair

in peace and love superseding any dogma

anywhere

Christmas, ringing out loud and clear,

disturbing the rough sleeper

fearful of waking to cold, snow, hunger,

home comforts but chinks

in curtains wrapping up my brother’s keeper

in make-believe

Copyright R. N. Taber 2018

Pictures in an Exhibition

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

A reader from Switzerland has emailed me to ask - as people often do - why a poet writes fiction. Well, there is poetry of a kind in fiction too. I needed to try my hand at writing novels, partly because I knew I would enjoy it (as I did) and partly because i suspected it would bring me closer to an understanding of human nature...as it has; as, indeed, do all the arts, each in their own way. Take fiction; it is not all about plot, but creating characters, good and bad. The writer needs to explore the various interrelationships of mind, body and spirit. Hopefully, this has also made me a better poet... but that, of course, is up to you, my readers, to decide.

Most of my novels - published and unpublished - remain in serial form on my fiction blog. Each serial is preceded by a separate synopsis post. It wa my original intention that as each complete novel  would be published to Google Play in e-format and removed from the blog. but a number of readers have emailed to say they cannot access Google Play. For this reason, I will be publishing my gay-interest crime novel 'Blasphemy' to the blog again while continuing to make it available on Google Play. All my novels on the blog are listed at:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2016/05/news-updates-fiction.html 

It seemed a good idea to publish today's poem here (see below) at the same time as answering a number of queries about publishing my novels (and poetry collections) as e-books to Google Play over the next few years, thereby, making those that have only ever been on sale in the UK available to readers worldwide. UK sales were not too discouraging; first (and only) print runs sold quite well. Even so, I am definitely more of a poet than a novelist, although I enjoy writing fiction, and sheer enjoyment has to be as good a motivation as any.  [Few publishers have shown much interest in my fiction and not all those serialised on the blog have been published in print form; copyright to each, though, remains exclusively mine.]

A librarian in public libraries most of my working life, it would both amuse and sadden me to see hot-blooded heterosexual readers hovering  near the counter until no one else was waiting before presenting any gay-interest items (a novel,  DVD, biography of a gay icon etc.) to be issued or discharged. Many libraries have now installed issue/discharge machines that will spare them any such embarrassment. Yet, why be embarrassed?  Imagination is an Open House. I can only put it down to human nature’s preoccupation with a ‘guilt by association’ ethos and habitual inclination to jump to conclusions.

I wrote this poem while thinking about writing my first novel, ‘Dog Roses; a Gay Man’s Rites of Passage.’ The book was never published except on the blog. No publishers were interested, but that did not matter. By the time I had finished writing it, I realised why I had so needed to write it in the first place. Putting aside aspirations of fame and fortune (just as well) I needed to stop thinking about exploring human nature through fiction as with poetry, and just get on with it, give it my best shot. I have no regrets; it provided no less as rewarding an experience as poetry but via different routes and from different angles. (As for so much as a hint of talent, well, that’s something else altogether…and up to you to form your own opinions.)

I used to regret not being able to paint, draw, compose or play music... until it came home to me how all the arts share a common source; the writer, composer, painter, whatever. needs must get as close to human nature as any gardener or farmer to the very soil we feed and which, in turn, feeds us. How far the analogy can be carried, of course, depend as much on the nature of the soil or genre as that of any of us reaping its rewards; reader, listener, observer, all have no less a part to play than whomsoever's hands planting whatsoever seeds.

This poem is a villanelle.

PICTURES IN AN EXHIBITION

Exploring the human condition,

its good, bad and ugly

life forces stranger than fiction

Any flaws demanding attention,

(for all a subtle simplicity)

exploring the human condition

Nature, its greater contribution

side-lined by humanity;

life forces stranger than fiction

Exposed, a common retribution

(reasoning a moral propriety)

exploring the human condition

Satirised, a political observation

of this life’s tragicomedy;

life forces stranger than fiction

Society, pictures in an exhibition

for whomsoever cares to see;

exploring the human condition,

life forces stranger than fiction

Copyright R. N. Taber 1997; 2016

Christmas, Glossing Over Missed Opportunities

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

At this time of year, people often tell me they are so looking forward to Christmas because they see it as a reason for celebration and renewal, usually more in a temporal than religious sense, as if Christmas will make everything bad in their lives so much better, keeping up the momentum until New Year, and then…?

Too often, the bubble of make-believe is burst soon enough as January arrives with all the indifference to human potential of a Grim Reaper.

We may not be altogether masters of our own fate, but life is what we make it. Mind and body may well be subject to external influences, sometimes of the worst kind, but the human spirit is better than that, and deserves to be given its head. The inner self knows us better than we think we know ourselves, and more of us need to listen rather than turn a deaf ear in favour of false (if attractive) promises the world often makes but has no intention of keeping.

Christmas, like all religious festivals is too often seen as signposting a sanctuary or at least some respite or escape from the harsher elements of life threatening to overwhelm us. Rarely, in my experience, will religion remove the threat for long; we need to build on the spirit and spirituality of peace and love (religion may have its share of both, but no monopoly), not be afraid to ask for help, and make a better life for ourselves on terms we will not flinch from meeting, no matter whether they are unacceptable to those who think they know us better than we know ourselves.

CHRISTMAS, GLOSSING OVER MISSED OPPORTUNITIES

Rain soaking the shirt, jeans;

body responding freely

to Earth Mother’s call to live,

let live, and get real

Face upturned, glad to be out

getting wet, mind distracted;

domestic crises, work targets

and assessments wreaking

havoc (with the best intentions)

stifling that very inspiration

meant to persuade, encourage,

leaves us feeling like flies

feeding on garbage left out

for the bin men, fodder for stray

cats, dogs, homeless folks, waiting

for Christmas

Oh, we may have a job, home,

mortgage etcetera - but a life

to call our own…?

Some may beg to differ, thinking

through yet another staff rota

at supper or marking homework

once guests (finally) gone home

to snug beds, 1001 nights and more

besides of cramming heads,

misting-up eyes, asking questions,

stirring up more lies and half lies

meant to persuade, encourage, only

to leave us feeling like flies

on garbage left for the bin men

to dispose

Christmas comes, Christmas goes;

it’s the inner self knows best

how to make the most of a potential

too precious to waste

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Waiting for Christmas' in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time, Assembly Books, 2005; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

Notes on the Sociology of Imagination

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

As we grow up, we like to think we embrace the world and its greater wisdom. Yet, we grow old and look at a divided humanity across the world, wondering…whatever happened to wisdom?

Thank goodness for imagination: inspiration, escapism, and the sense of a better, kinder world never entirely out of reach.

NOTES ON THE SOCIOLOGY OF IMAGINATION

Child,

chasing a white rabbit,

relishing the thrill

of discovering places

nobody knows

so nobody goes, and secrets

mean safety

Youth, 

scornful of white rabbits,

relishing the thrill

of reworking everyday

text-speak

if only to nurture new ideas,

keep them safe

Mature,

mindful of a feisty rabbit

relishing the thrill

of discovering places

nobody knows

so nobody goes, and secrets

mean power

Old,

conjuring up reflections,

of Once-upon-a-time,

struggling to make sense

of Here-and-Now,

wondering whatever happened

to its dreams...

Rabbit droppings, proof of life

in a Hall of Mirrors

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Rascals on the Run OR The Shape of Things to Come

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

‘Around the rugged rocks, the ragged rascal ran,’ was meant to be nothing more than an introduction to alliteration in the course of an English lesson when I was about 12 years-old. Yet, even as my teacher spoke those words, an image was forming in my mind of some unfortunate lad dressed in rags, bare feet bleeding after running round rugged rocks for no reason other than it was something to do, better perhaps than…well, whatever. (Being in school on a lovely summer’s day perhaps?)

That image will always haunt me. If childhood was no bed of roses, it was no bed of thorns either, but there were times when the going would get rough, not least because I had a hearing problem (perceptive deafness) that would not be properly diagnosed until I was 20 years-old. I’d find myself running round and round various rugged, metaphorical rocks unable to break whatever vicious circle of existence pursued me. Break it, though, I did, time and again if only by exercising mind over matter, a strategy that has served me well throughout my adult life.

Don't get me wrong, there was plenty of love in my childhood, fun times too, but that old adage 
'Children should be seen and not heard' was applied by just about everyone just about everywhere in those days, and having a voice to which people may well lend an ear but without actually listening is a tough nut to crack at any age, especially for a child still very much a novice in the art of language and communication skills. Most children and young people, though, are not only better able to adapt to circumstances than many adults give them credit for, but also have a much better idea of who they are, articulation or not. I know, I did. 

RASCALS ON THE RUN or THE SHAPE OF THINGS TO COME

Around rugged rocks, ragged rascals

run …into a story-poem as (gradually)

mind and spirit start homing in  

on artful shadows penetrating a mist,

outline of a child chasing shadows,

doing battle with hidden fears, taking

a pride of sorts in wiping away the first

of, oh, so many tears

Sea sounds, music to the child’s ears,

fun waves splashing on dream holidays,

TV family laughing, applauding…

till time to wake, give wishful thinking

the elbow, start climbing up walls

where giant spiders have ears, tell tales

enough on cry-baby bed-wettings to give

even a rascal the shakes

One times one is one, two times two,

(time to tie a shoelace, heading for a fall)

distant voices jeering, clapping a rascal

made to stand in front of the class, object

of pretend martyrdom, subject of abuse,

taking a pride or sorts in refusing to shed

a solitary tear, allying with artful shadows

dampening red hot coals   

One times one is one, two times two

(shoelace a sloppy bow, heading for a fall)

dispassionate voices, chasing a rascal

through the streets of town for truanting,

preferring to get high with crack-heads

than some bottomless pit of name-calling

created especially for those unable to keep up

a semblance of appearances

One times one is one, two times two

(best designer gear, evidence of a fall)

no character references for the court,

gets twelve months, no surprises there

for a rascal despatched to learn (or teach?)

a trick or two about climbing walls

where giant spiders with ears and eyes

make short work of flies

Sea sounds, in young-old ears,

fun waves splashing on dream holidays,

TV family laughing, applauding…

till time to wake, give wishful thinking

the elbow, start climbing up walls

where giant spiders have ears, tell tales,

carry knives or guns, and not to kill flies

or give rascals the shakes

Around rugged rocks, ragged rascals

run…into a story-poem likely to haunt

generations of children weaving

fictions around lives unfit for purpose,

branded liars and tantrum throwers

for a want of articulation on an absence

of real understanding in a world obsessed

with its own worldliness

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014