The Anniversary

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

Today’s poem first appeared on the blog in 2015.

As the UK - along with the rest of the world - continues to cope with the Covid-19 coronavirus and the subsequent stresses and strains it imposes on our everyday lives (as if there aren't enough of those in modern times anyway) crime continues to flourish, not least on our streets where tensions boil over and express themselves in a terrible violence. 

There are no excuses; reasons, yes, but no excuses for allowing the kind of pressure most if not all of us are under to get the better of common sense, not to mention common decency and respect for human life. Killers ultimately destroy their own lives as well as their victim's. As for pleading 'justice'; it is not for any of us to play judge and jury to the extent of taking the law into our own hands, much as we may well be tempted.

[Update: January, 2020]: Official figures released in April 2019 reveal that knife crime has surged to the highest levels since records began in England and Wales; worse, it continues to rise.] RNT

Memories are precious and love never dies. But let’s face it; it can never compensate for not having our loved ones with us and watching them get on with their lives.

Today’s poem is for families and friends left behind when a loved one dies. It is especially for parents who have lost sons and daughter; no parent should have to bury their child. Whatever the circumstances, death is always a tragedy for those left behind, but what can be worse than to be left with the image of a loved one meeting a violent end or never even knowing what really happened or having no body to bury…?

All knife and gun crime, but especially hate crime, and particularly among young people must stop.

While many parents, teachers, social and youth workers take every opportunity to lead intelligent, sensitive, debate so these killers realise they are not just killing a person but amputating the limb of a vital, living network of family and friends that will never be quite the same again.

There is nothing ‘cool’ about street crime. Young people who think it takes carrying a weapon to achieve street cred or even as a means of self-defence should bear in mind that someone could get so easily killed or suffer serious injury…and it could well be them.

Nor is time spent in prison anything to boast about. I once spoke with a young man who had spent time in prison but chose to turn his life around. I asked how it was in prison. He said unhesitatingly, ‘There wasn’t a day I didn’t wish I was dead.’ Thankfully, he is alive and getting on with his life in a very positive way. 

Every killer has a choice. Tragically, victims killed in the course of violent crime on our streets have no choices left. (I read somewhere that most killers regret their actions, but as my mother used to say, regrets are cold comfort in any language...) Meanwhile. family and friends are left struggling with what-might-have-been...

THE ANNIVERSARY 

No grave to tend, but a street corner

to leave flowers, recall

how here it was where last we'd 

laugh off our being so much in love

as if it were child's play

Leaves, scattered over paving stones

where once we children

loved to play, I-n-n-o-c-e-n-c-e

like the tail of a kite in a feisty breeze

all but free to go its own way

Come twilight, more haunting shadows

marking time before darkness

effects its cover-up for humanity,

half the world sleeping, the other dying

for a chance to have its say

No grave to tend, but a street corner

where anniversary flowers

can but hope to message passers-by 

how sick minds think it could well be fun 

to stick a knife in someone...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2018     

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title, 'The Kite' in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2002]

Manifesto for Murder

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

Feedback suggests that some of my poems go down well in Russia, possibly because many Russians enjoy poetry, certainly, the few I have had the pleasure of meeting over the years have taken pleasure in the genre. I have always wanted to visit Russia although it will not happen now as I have too many health problems...but anyone can dream.

I have tried to record many world events good, bad, and ugly - in poems, mostly in the villanelle form, and this is one of them. As I continue working my way through my poetry collections with a view to publishing them online one day, I expect to come across more poems that are not on the blogs; since some (not a lot)of interest has been shown so far, I will continue to let readers decide for themselves whether they belong here or not.

This poem was written the day after two female Islamic suicide bombers aligned with Caucasus Emirate and Al-Qaeda. caused carnage on the Moscow Metro during the morning rush hour, March 29th 2010. There have been other attacks since, but this was possibly the worst.

I have always felt a poet has some responsibility as an archivist. Having been given to understand that my poetry is being archived in the British Library and elsewhere, hopefully the likes of this poem may be of interest to future generations. More importantly, we should never forget that behind every tragedy, wherever in the world, there are families and communities.

Terrorists worldwide have much to answer for, but we must never judge the many by the few. It is my experience that the majority of ordinary men and women, whatever their belief or non-belief, are ready and willing to take others as they find them and don't let religion - or any other differences - get in the way of being kind or even establishing lasting friendships … however much some of their leaders, deliberately or otherwise, might encourage them to do so.

MANIFESTO FOR MURDER

Carnage, a Moscow Metro station

as suicide bombers strike;

when, oh, when will we ever learn?

Speculation on political intention,

the politics of blame at work;

carnage, a Moscow Metro station

Chechen rebels, focus of attention,

Muslim extremism and the like;

when, oh, when will we ever learn?

Same tit-for-tat strategies for action

in denial of mutual needs to talk;

carnage, a Moscow Metro station

Buy into a constructive contribution,

and invariably find pigs in a poke;

when, oh, when will we ever learn?

It’s down to us, the ordinary person

in the street, to vote as we’d like;

carnage, a Moscow Metro station;

when, oh, when will we ever learn?

 Copyright R. N. Taber, 2010

[

(Another) Flower of the Field Cut Down

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

Lyra Catherine McKee was a journalist from Northern Ireland who wrote for several publications about the consequences of the Troubles. She also served as an editor for MediaGazer, a news aggregator website. On 18 April 2019, she was fatally shot during rioting in the Creggan area of Derry.

I never met Lyra McKee and circumstances at the time have always prevented my visiting Northern Ireland. But I have met other, similarly inspiring people from Belfast and its surrounds who have made me particularly sensitive to the toll The Troubles and their lasting consequences for the good people of Northern Ireland; some might disapprove of an Englishman having written the poem below, but as any poet will tell you … if you gotta write, you gotta write.

(Photo taken from the Internet)

(ANOTHER) FLOWER OF THE FIELD CUT DOWN

A journalist, she died on the job,

cut down in her prime,

murdered by a self-styled New IRA

hell bent on fanning flames

of unrest plaguing Northern Island

since its Assembly collapsed

She’d hoped to marry a partner.

had even bought the ring;

a woman in love and openly gay,

winning hearts and minds,

a crusader for change in a society

(still) in the grip of its past

Robbed of a future, by a single shot

fired in pointless anger

by someone unlikely to be qualified

to explain their purpose 

other than celebrating dark times

in the absence of any light

A lively funeral, various politicians

from all divides mixing

with her family and friends to applaud

the life of a woman

eager for communities and society

to come together in peace 

A priest challenged those present 

to explain why it had taken

a young woman's death for politicians

to unite in condemnation

when loath to meet up, debate, see

to shaping all she stood for

A standing ovation spoke (far) louder

than any words at Stormont

or Westminster could begin to utter

for party leaders fearful

of a breaking out of  common sense

likely to damage media profiles

Consensus, that Lyra’s untimely death

should prove a turning point

for moving on in its social and political

aspirations, not to satisfy

any dogma written on tablets of stone

but a new Here-and-Now ...

To be or not to be? A question folks

of a political bent always ask

the world over, whether better to please

some of the people some

of the time given no hope of pleasing 

all the people all the time

Politics, a good-bad-ugly play on words

meant to engage or disengage,

arm, disarm, even charm where a case

for ends justifying means,

especially when it can mean bridges 

over dark water rebuilt to last

Whatever, some deaths become milestones

in any country’s history,

reminding us how and why someone died,

dates and faces inspirational,

if taken root in mind-body-spirit or left

to haunt us for our shortcomings

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

Carnage in Colombo

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

While the awful death toll in the recent Easter Sunday attacks on churches and hotels in Colombo continues to rise, the so-called Islamic State terrorist organization, ISIS, has claimed responsibility although Sri Lankan officials have blamed two local Islamic extremist groups for the bombings albeit almost certainly with ‘outside help’.

Reports suggest the preliminary investigation shows the attack was "retaliation" for the March 15 massacre of Muslims at mosques in New Zealand.

It has emerged that early warnings from India's intelligence services to Sri Lankan officials ahead of the bombings were based on information gleaned from an ISIS suspect, but these were neither passed on to politicians nor acted upon. Understandably, a Sri Lanka in mourning is also one nursing disbelief and rising anger.

While I respect those religious people who practise what they preach and don't just play lip service to advocating peace and goodwill to all humankind - and I have met many, albeit in a minority relative to their numbers (possibly because I am gay?) - I have never regretted abandoning religion for nature. 

Oh, nature is not always kind ... and human nature is ...?

CARNAGE IN COLOMBO

One bomb, two bombs, three bombs,

and more; shock, carnage,

fear and (yes, already grief) on streets

soaked in blood and tears;

too soon, yet, to play the blame game,

waiting in the wings …

A day of religious celebration savaged

by manic extremists,

with no care or respect but for their own

perverted concept of right

and wrong in what they see as a fight

for … what, exactly?

World media excitedly paying attention

to a human-interest story

with all the ingredients of a pot boiler

while real families weep,

will probably never sleep fitfully again

in their lifetimes

Oh but ‘acts of terror’ sounding better

over dessert than cold-blooded murder

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

(April 24^th 2019)

Street Crime, a Coward's Agenda OR Society, Sick at Heart?

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

The rise in knife crime and street crime generally in recent years - especially among young people - is a tragic (and scary) indictment of UK society in a still relatively young 21^st century. While there is no single cause, cuts in policing levels has meant there is little if any visible police presence on our streets while cuts in funding for youth services has almost certainly contributed to a growing drugs culture in many areas which, in turn, can be directly related to rising crime rates there.

It is all very well for politicians to point out that statistics (who trusts those?) point to the overall rate of violent crime having take a downward turn, but that is small comfort to the families and friends of people (all ages) losing their lives every day; for parents, especially, the loss of a child is a life sentence, but to know that a son or daughter died needlessly, in violent circumstances must cause unimaginable pain.

I have been beaten up in the distant past for being gay, but live to tell the tale at 73 years-old. A nervous breakdown at 30 led to a suicide attempt which, thankfully, failed or I would have missed the best years of my life; among its ups and downs, enough of the former to put the latter in the shade.

All violent crimes denying victims the basic human right to follow their chosen paths in life are tragedies for which no words can do justice; the younger the victim, though, so much worse the tragedy in the sense that these are being deprived of the opportunity to enjoy life, explore and make something of their natural potential, become the person they were meant to be by virtue of nature and nurture. It is a sick mind-body-spirit, indeed, that commits any violent crime, the cure (and cause) for which can often be found to lie at the heart of the very society that has fallen foul of it.

Given that the perpetrators as well as victims of the current wave of violent, especially knife crime here in the UK are young people, society is clearly failing them, and society is the perennial you-me-us; that’s parents, teachers, politicians, religious leaders, police, social workers and anyone with a social conscience. We need to identify and tackle its root causes, each in our own way, and share any findings if only to discover how to prevent a worsening crisis getting even worse.

“There will be no justice as long as man will stand with a knife or with a gun and destroy those who are weaker than he is.” - Isaac Bashevis Singer

“The knife is more dangerous than the hand and the knife can be in either hand.” 

Frank Herbert, Dune

STREET CRIME, A COWARD'S AGENDA or SOCIETY, SICK AT HEART?

Hanging out in the park

with friends, enjoying music

on a new iPad,

putting the world to rights,

planting seeds

of love and peace along the way,

and nurturing them

Aware of others in the park,

but only for their long shadows

in spring sunshine

like benign ghosts looking on,

needing to feel alive

if only for sharing someone else’s

precious moments

In a bubble of personal space;

past-present-future,

a glorious panorama embracing

all mind-body-spirit

seeks to inspire once its flowers

come into season, each to their own

as nature intended

Only a fool uses a knife to burst

a bubble just to see

sunshine being swallowed whole

by a predatory darkness,

mind-body-spirit engaging

with time and space to book its place

among the immortals

Looking on from a passing cloud

at the funeral below

of a young person cruelly cut down

in their prime, victim

of someone’s desire to make a point

if only to earn him (or her) a sick sense

of self-importance

At a graveside, no hot tears shed

can heal a broken heart

that may well mend (in part, at least)

since love never dies,

its presence in Gardens of Memory

the world over, inspiring us to keep faith

with it, now and always

As for any who play at being a god

by taking a life meant

to run its natural course, be sure

(regrets or none …)

their remains will grow but as weeds,

mind-body-spirit the poorer soil for want

of either nutrients or nurture

Copyright R N Taber 2019

Utøya, Paradise Profaned

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

Albeit necessarily selectively, I try to keep a record in my poems relating to events of particular significance and/or tragedy (as well as celebratory events) worldwide. On July 22nd 2011, there was a bomb blast in Oslo, Norway, and related massacre of nearly 70 young people at a summer camp on the nearby island of Utoeya by a lone gunman. Sometime afterwards, a reader contacted me and asked me to repeat the poem - a villanelle - that I had written.

The reader says, ‘When a loved one dies, every day is an anniversary of happy times that will never come again. The world, too, needs to remember…’ The reader asks, 'How can we move on when every day brings as many tears as the day before...? I have no answer for that. I only know, from my own experience, that moving on does not mean leaving anyone behind. Do we not owe it to loved ones we have lost to live our lives to the full, as much for them as for ourselves?

Sadly, remembering does not always mean the likes of such tragedies will not strike again… just about anywhere around the world in these troubled times. All the more reason, surely, to make the most of our life and be sure to make time for those happy memories that may yet help see us through its darker moments? No two words in the English language cause more pain than, 'if only...'

Bergen architects 3RW's intervention, The Clearing, was created as a memorial for the events that took place on 22 July 2011. Gunman Anders Breivik opened fire on members of the Workers' Youth League (AUF) camping on the island, after detonating a bomb outside a government building in nearby Oslo, which killed a further eight people.

The Clearing memorial (Photo from the Internet)

UTOYA, PARADISE PROFANED

Stark images of death and terror
(alien to any aspiring paradise)
stalked young people on Utoya

A dream blasted into nightmare
in any decent person’s eyes;
stark images of death and terror

Poison masquerading as a flower
(reason warped by prejudices)
stalked young people on Utoya

Grief, disillusion and fear torture
all victims of world injustices;
stark images of death and terror

Be it son, daughter, sister, brother,
a sick inclination to terrorise
stalked young people on Utoya

Long may a humanist ethos endure
in Norway and all democracies;
stark images of death and terror
stalked young people on Utoya

[London: July 23rd 2011]

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

[Note: I included this poem in my collection, Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012; rev. ed in e-format in preparation.]

Carnage in Nice, (More) Slaughter of the Innocents

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

There are really no words to express any decent person’s horror - whatever their colour, creed, sex or sexuality - at the senseless carnage in Nice On July 14 2016. Hopefully, though, someone somewhere who is perhaps harbouring thoughts along the lines of radical Islam, for whatever reason, may find this poem offers food for thought ... and think again. 

At least 84 people were reported dead in Nice and many others injured, many of them children; their crime, having the temerity to enjoy themselves on Bastille Day, a national event celebrating the storming of the Bastille during the French Revolution, July 14 1879.

In ‘The Age of Reason’ Thomas Paine (1737 - 1809) makes the point that ‘…the belief of a cruel God makes a cruel man.’ What would Paine have to say, I wonder, about of the image of the prophet Muhammad every radical Islamist wears on his or her sleeve?

CARNAGE IN NICE, (MORE) SLAUGHTER OF THE INNOCENTS 

[Nice, Bastille Day 2016]

World, head bowed, but only for tears

where terrorism has its way,

nations, left victims of its worst fears

Though its nemeses breeding for years,

to love and peace, the final say,

world, head bowed, but only for tears

Freedom, a crown of thorns, it wears

for any who get in terror’s way,

nations left victims of its worst fears

Wherever fundamental dogma rears

its head, the mad dog has its day;

world, head bowed, but only for tears

Humanity, for all its flaws, endures

if inhumanity briefly holding sway,

nations left victims of its worst fears

In radical Islam, true faith disappears,

so testify efforts to keep it at bay;

world, head bowed, but only for tears,

nations left victims of its worst fears

[London, July 15 2016]

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016

Remembering a Woman of Substance

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

[Update: 26.9.19: I share the view of many that it was in poor taste - to say the least -on the part of Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, to refer to the death of Jo Cox in the way that he did in the House of Commons last night; I suspect it was offensive to many, especially the dead woman's husband. Having watched the debate, I was appalled by some of the the language and rowdiness of many - on both sides of the House - who were constantly interrupting speakers. Do they not appreciate what bad example they are setting to those watching, especially impressionable young people?]

Every death comes as a shock, even when it is expected. But when it is a wholly innocent person and not only unexpected but also violent, it sends shock waves around a whole nation, even the world. The shock waves fade in time, but memory is a living organism and that never fades so long as there are family, friends, and other decent people out there who will not only cherish it but pass it on from generation to generation. 

On Thursday, June 16th 2016, Jo Cox MP, 41, wife and mother of two young children, was murdered in broad daylight by one of her own constituents in Birstall, West Yorkshire. 

Now, I never met Jo Cox, knew her only by reputation and from hearing her speak in Parliament on TV. However, the outpouring of genuine grief and shock - even across customary political and socio-cultural-religious divides - further highlights the fact that she was, indeed, an exceptional young woman of substance.

More about Jo Cox on wikipedia at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jo_Cox

Every death is a tragedy,  but the murder of a wife and mother in her prime as well as (already) a force to be reckoned with on a generally egocentric-driven political scene, that defies description. As for the killer’s motives, even his mental state at the time, these are barely relevant since nothing can change what has happened; all a poet can do is try to capture a little at least of the spirit of something in someone far better, and always well worth remembering.

This poem is a villanelle. (Why a villanelle…? By the very nature of its form, a villanelle requires a direct no-waffle, approach; by all accounts, Jo Cox was that kind of woman.)

Jo Cox [Photo taken from the Internet]

REMEMBERING A WOMAN OF SUBSTANCE

One loving wife and mother, 
rare breed of politician,
touching hearts, world over

Bringing opposites together,
her work, a passion;
one loving wife and mother

Anxious to make life better, 
a caring people person,
touching hearts, world over]

Crossing this and that barrier
set by culture or religion,
one loving wife and mother

No comfy chair commentator,
but getting things done,
touching hearts, the world over

Icon for life, senseless murder,
role model for a generation;
one loving wife and mother
touching hearts, world over

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016

(London, June 17, 2016)

New Kids on the Block

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

A slightly different version of today’s poem was published in various anthologies and poetry magazines (1997-2001) before appearing in my first major collection.

I have made numerous revisions to various poems over the years, some minor others major. While most revisions appear on the blogs, I hope (eventually) to publish revised editions of each collection in e-format.

Now, at first glance, nothing seems to have changed much in 20+ years, especially in the sense that a significant proportion of children and young people seem to be having as raw a deal as ever. (Oh, but haven't I said that before once, twice, maybe even a thousand times?) We must encourage our young people to believe in themselves and trust their own judgement a learning curve some young people miss out on altogether ... and whose fault is that ... partly their own, yes, but society needs must accept its fair share of the blame also, and society is you-me-us.

Could it be perhaps that if we all try harder to keep our own little piece of the world clean, safe, and a good place to be, all the other pieces may yet come together in a more bearable, worthwhile  whole…for everyone? 

So many people, rather than act on what their inner self is telling them, prefer to take their cue from the Scarlett O'Hara character in Margaret Mitchell's epic novel, Gone With the Wind. The heroine is always telling herself, 'I'll think about that tomorrow.' It is a common human tragedy that, for some of us tomorrow, never comes...

NEW KIDS ON THE BLOCK 

Gone shopping,

kids left running wild,

trolley rage mums

all smiles (dad’s at the pub);

dog mess everywhere,

kids busy shooting pool

at late-night venues

when not hanging out

on street corners

On the pavement,

collide with some kid

on a bike (my fault

of course, forgot to look);

knives out

in the playground,

acid in the park,

kids chasing death

for a lark

Cops in their stride

(‘Come on, let’s get even.’);

kids on a joyride

to Heaven, street siren

screaming, ‘Amen’;

Mum’s off her trolley,

Dad’s on the booze,

angel on the sideboard,

yesterday’s news …

Copyright R. N. Taber 1997; 2015

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

Hero in the Line of Fire

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

[Update Jan 7, 2018: Today marks three years to the day since the attack on Charlie Hebdo in Paris. We should not and dare not forget...] RT

Today's poem was written several years ago, but will resonate today with believers in Freedom of Speech worldwide.

What appears to have been yet another barbaric act of terrorism in Paris on staff of the French satirical magazine Charlie Hebdo, killing and injuring a number of people, including two police officers, is a terrifying reminder of the times in which we live. There is NO excuse for it whatever.

The killers were reportedly heard shouting what translates as ‘We have avenged the prophet’; a prophet who would have been appalled to have His name so abused.

Humour, especially satire, will always be controversial, but should never be allowed to fall victim to either political correctness or any socio-cultural-religious persuasion. It is one of the most effective Weapons of Peace by which various elements of society can be freely criticised. The keyword here, of course, is ‘freely’. All of us - especially writers and journalists - must feel free to criticise wherever and whenever they feel criticism is justified. Others, of course, must be similarly free to agree or disagree.

Any attack on Free Speech is an attack on us all. We can but trust the perpetrators of this latest horrific event will be tracked down and brought to justice.

I love Paris and the French people. My thoughts and sympathies - as I imagine those of all my readers - are especially with the families and friends of those killed and injured in Paris earlier today. May they draw on the power of love to help them through the coming hours, days, months and years with the kind of strength and courage that epitomises the very best of human nature.

Where certain elements of any society are inclined (as are all of us, up to a point) to take its beliefs as 'written on tablets of stone' these are - and always will be - a legitimate target for satire if only to encourage us be less inflexible and/or dogmatic. We need to regularly review our perspectives on life, including those on the society in which we live, and at the very least draw attention to any perceived failings. Isn't this what a free press - indeed, free speech - is all about? This, too, I fear has been increasingly under threat for some years, especially by a significant (but vocal) minority who so love to play this or that socio-cultural-religious card...

This poem is a villanelle.

HERO IN THE LINE OF FIRE 

Where society a hypocrite or liar,
politics the ultimate blame game,
find a sharp-tongued ally in satire

Invariably, no smoke without fire,
(point the finger, give it a name)
where society a hypocrite and liar

Global warming, threat more dire
for all those repudiating the same;
find a sharp-tongued ally in satire

World leaders, negotiating its mire
(power, among the perks of fame)
where society a hypocrite and liar

Religion, where AIDS toll higher,
its rhetoric loud, reasoning lame;
find a sharp-tongued ally in satire

Drugs-arms dealers loath to retire,
(Greed, the name of the game);
where society a hypocrite and liar,
find a sharp-tongued ally in satire

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2012

Where the Keyword is Imagine

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

Today’s poem was written as a tribute to musician John Lennon, shot dead outside his New York City apartment block by Mark David Chapman on Dec 8th 1980.

"Imagine"  was written and performed by Lennon. The best-selling single of his solo career, its lyrical statement is one of collectivist positivism. It challenges the listener to imagine a world at peace, without the divisiveness and barriers of religious denominations and nationalities, and to consider the possibility that the focus of humanity should be living a life less attached to material possessions.

Lennon’s wife, Yoko Ono scattered his ashes in New York's Central Park, where the Strawberry Fields memorial was later created

Photo: John Lennon Memorial

WHERE THE KEYWORD IS IMAGINE

The gospel of John Lennon

sees a testing time for dreams,

inspires the imagination

Politics needs urgent revision

to silence starvation’s screams;

the gospel of John Lennon

No mythicizing hell or heaven;

it’s repairing life’s frayed seams

inspires the imagination

No (one-upmanship) religion;

trusting that love all hate redeems;

the gospel of John Lennon

Where any cultural division,

mutual respect tempering extremes,

inspires the imagination

In a song for every season,

ideals as pure as mountain streams;

the gospel of John Lennon

inspires the imagination

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

[Note: First Published in 'In Other Words, Forward press, 2012]

Macho, Losing the Plot

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

I have written about street crime in a number of poems. Tragically, it persists. At the same time, I feel very encouraged by feedback from readers of all ages and socio-cultural-religious backgrounds. Hopefully, some (especially young people) may read this post and think on...

Overheard on a bus:

1^st YOUTH (boasts): Any fool can get hold of a gun or a knife if they really want. It’s easy.

2^nd YOUTH (grins): I carry a knife. Anyone crosses me, and I’ll do ’em. It’s just so easy, yeah? (Laughs)

GIRL: (unimpressed): Yeah, yeah, easy come, easy go. Here today, dead tomorrow, you mean. So what’s that all about then?

2^nd YOUTH: We’re talking self-defence here, girl. No one’s saying anybody needs to get killed, for crying out loud.

GIRL: (shrugs) No one ever does until it happens. A bit late then, don’t you think?

1^st YOUTH: (aggressively) You don’t understand.  Being a neet ain’t street cred enough any more. You have to show you mean business. You gotta get real or go down.

2^nd YOUTH: Give her a break, bro. She’s a girl. Girls haven’t a clue. They don’t understand what we guys are up against.

.

GIRL: Too right, I don’t understand...

At which point the bus arrived at my destination and I had to leave them to it.

Like many of us, I worry a lot about street crime, especially the naïve attitude of some young people towards it. Thankfully, most young people have the good sense to steer clear of guns and knives. Tragically, a significant minority (especially among a growing number of so-called NEETS) continue to see either or both as trendy as designer gear; a very sad, sick, and dangerous trend. Let's be clear, ... there is nothing macho about street crime, especially when it involves acts of acts of violence, even murder.

Every society needs to believe in all its young people - and reach out to them in every way it can  - or it cannot expect all those young people to believe in that society.

[Note: NEET is an acronym (a derogatory and inflammatory one in my opinion) bandied about by politicians here in the UK and in some other countries that refers to young people not in education, employment or training.]

This poem is a villanelle.

MACHO, LOSING THE PLOT

Swapped my knife for a loaded gun,

spread the word...

Never asked who'll carry my coffin

Shouting at just about everyone,
no one heard...

Swapped my knife for a loaded gun

Felt the need to prove I'm 'someone'
(must have been mad)

Never asked who'll carry my coffin

Life was a buzz, a big bundle of fun,

but all that disappeared...

Swapped my knife for a loaded gun

Peers were always putting me down,

suggesting I was scared,

never asked who'll carry my coffin

First mistake, second chance blown
(among worms interred);

swapped my knife for a loaded gun,

never asked who’ll carry my coffin

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

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