National Curriculum OR Connecting with Wannabe Heroes

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

When I worked in public libraries as a librarian, it seemed that children and young people were frequently given homework projects on the subject of war. To confront them with the horrors of war has to be a good thing. However, when they were telling me all about their respective projects, enthusiasm would nearly always stem from getting a buzz from the idea of war rather than being appalled by its consequences…

A parent once complained to me that her son wept while repeating a teacher’s graphic description of how a relative had suffered a lingering death from ‘undignified’ wounds sustained during WW2. “No child should hear such things!” she protested. The ‘child’, though, was 16 years-old and (surely?) deserved to know that war just ain’t like it is in the movies.

I well recall being caught out by a teacher engaging in whispers with a classmate. I was invited to share the subject of our discourse with the whole class. I confessed that we had agreed that the lesson was boring. i expected a severe reprimand at the very least. To my surprise, the teacher merely shrugged. Learning, Taber;' he said, is the key to life. You can take it and use it or leave it and lose it, up to you. Now, where were we ...?'  The incident was more years ago than I care to remember, but  I recall it as if it were yesterday, and glad I am that I do; of course, I didn't have a clue at the time what he meant and was simply relieved to be let off so lightly. 

NATIONAL CURRICULUM or CONNECTING WITH WANNABE HEROES

Today we have History

and World War Two

spills across the classroom,

filling every trench

with a stench of homesickness

and blood, desks dripping

pools of mud, where elbows

nudge each other,

half an eye on the clock

as we get stuck in

Under fire, bayonets fixed,
human clocks ticking;

somewhere, there's birdsong
and sunshine overtaking
rain clouds where Death’s face
pours acid tears
on an atomic bomb package
in texts selected
to temper any gung-ho

perspective

Science, and time to discover

more about ticking clocks

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2015

[Note: An earlier version of this poem  appears in Words of Wisdom, Poetry Today (Forward Press) 2001 and  First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002; alternative title added 2015.]

L-I-F-E, Spelling Us (All) Out

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

Most if not all of us wonder at various stages in our lives just what lies in store for us, and how much of that may be down our own actions whenever giving thanks for the good times or finding excuses for the bad.  

What is the ultimate truth about human life, anyway, but a complex organism of mind, body and spirit embracing all that’s down to us, whomsoever, and whatever it is we like to call ‘fate’ (or God?) to spell out as we go, make sense of as we can, and heed or ignore as we choose.

L-I-F-E, SPELLING US (ALL) OUT

As a child,
I would play as a child,
cry as a child,
try to make sense
of a world I would never
understand

As a youth,
I explored the passion
of youth,
chasing its gods
through a world I struggled
to defend

As a young man,
I would point a finger
at bigotry,
tracking its origins
through looking glass wars 
all around

Older, little wiser,
I would run the gamut
of rogue truths
draining the body
for demanding centre stage 
of the mind

Mature. Human eyes
reassessing any potential,
fast tracking us 
to dog ears pricking up
at even the slightest breath
of ill wind 

Dead to all intents
and purposes, found wanting
for failing to clear
the table of leftovers
for history to make sense    
of a kind

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015

Letting Go, a Song of Twilight

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

Regular readers will know that Hampstead Heath is not far from where I live. Read about it at:

http://www.hampsteadheath.net/index.html

- and find some poems under the 'Culture' heading

& .hear one of my Heath poems - the very first one - (On Hampstead Heath) on my YouTube channel:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A1z_NiNpRQw&t=114s

Now, I have often said on my blogs that letting go of the past and moving on does not necessarily mean leaving anyone or anything behind.

In my experience, the moment of letting go and placing it in the time capsule we call Memory is invariably as intense as it is exquisite; intense, because it is so personal and so exquisite for being so highly charged with the bitter-sweet smells and tastes of recollection, the inner eye selecting the best of the best while tactfully (or conveniently) skipping the worst.

This poem is a villanelle.

LETTING GO, A SONG OF TWILIGHT

On Parliament Hill, I let go of a kite
and watched it drift over London
till just a speck of summer twilight

I felt humbled by the glorious sight
as if I were sailing heavens;
on Parliament Hill I let go of a kite

Fair, copycat bird in graceful flight
filled me with awe and inspiration
till just a speck of summer twilight

The faintest star, harbinger of night,
tracking me down Memory Lane,
on Parliament Hill, I let go of a kite

Empathising with passing daylight,
gripped by a sense of hanging on
till just a speck of summer twilight

Putting wrongs aside (if not right),
time enough for celebration...
On Parliament Hill, I let go of a kite
till just a speck of summer twilight

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2014

[Note: A slightly different version of this poem appears under the title 'Letting Go' in 1st eds. of On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]