Rough Sleeper OR A Thousand Cuts a Day and Counting

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[Update December 22, 1918: Almost 600 homeless people died in England and Wales last year, according to official figures only recently published for the first time. The figure represents a rise of 24% over five years, according to the Office for National Statistics; these are the first official estimates of the number of deaths of homeless people, which show 84% of those who died were men.]

It is snowing here in London today. In winter especially, but all year round, yoo, let us remember the homeless and do what we can for them; a little, really can go a long way.

In the current economic climate, more and more people are faced with the prospect of having their home repossessed so…there but for good fortune go you or I ...

Incidentally, this poem was written in 1990. As I look around at the homeless on the streets of London, it does not seem to me that anywhere near as much has changed as was promised by the politicians in those far-off days ...

There are, of course, 'career' beggars on the streets, but a discerning eye can usually tell who is genuine and who isn't. We all make mistakes, though. Here in London, I well recall a day I gave money to a street beggar only to spot him get into an impressive-looking car (parked several streets away) a few hours later and drive off! A former 'beggar' I met in a pub once confided that begging financed his drinking and drug addictions for years until he eventually got help to turn his life around.

So ... when in any doubt...don't. [There are other ways to support homeless and other deserving charities online.] Yet, there but for ... could be you or me.

ROUGH SLEEPER or A THOUSAND CUTS A DAY, AND COUNTING

‘Hungry – Homeless - No dole’

says a card beside a begging bowl

outside a busy supermarket;

red-rimmed eyes trying to read

the pavement for signs

of homeless-friendly footsteps

worth a pleading glance

for even half a chance of a cuppa

in some cosy café

A few coins here, a few coins there,

the odd note, a few euros,

or cents, whatever; just enough

to keep a scarecrow in bird seed,

and…

Oh, but what the heck…?

Chatty conversation, hacking

at the neck

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Ritual Slaughter' in my first collection, Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001]

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 Colouring Book

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Now, when we use colour, we choose carefully because we want to make an impression although what impression we make is likely to vary from observer to observer.

So it is, I suspect, with nature, just as the impression Earth Mother intends to make will vary and quite possibly leave many if not most of us none the wiser.

A COLOURING BOOK 

Blue, blue, the colour
of a morning sky;
golden the sun, risen high;
green, green, the grass
where lovers lie, giving us
reasons to care

Red, blood red, crushed
poppies in the hand
like a fallen soldier’s wounds,
attempting to atone,
and only a solitary skylark
left to mourn

Grey, a silvery grey,
dusk’s sad pall;
tears of Earth Mother, nurture
for sweet dreams
of peace and caring better
for each other

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2012

[Note: An earlier version of this poem was published in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

Joker

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Telling jokes about people is a cruel pastime in which too many of us are inclined to indulge. Humour is wonderful, and some jokes can be very funny...until they get personal and take on shades of malice; for the butt of the latter, life is no laughing matter.

We all know how cruel some children and young people can be towards peers somehow marked out as ‘different’ from others… whether by a disability or whatever. At least younger children rarely appreciate the gravity of their actions. We adults, on the other hand, have no excuse.

Let's be kind to each other, yeah?

JOKER

You dropped the joke into a humming pool,

let ripples spread

from merry chuckle

to sly whisper

I watched the whisper take its course

from eye to eye

until someone

laughed

Like a freak wave, that laughter came

tumbling upon the whisper,

dashing it to pieces,

scattering me

Everywhere

[From: Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001]

Maelstrom

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[Update: (April 8th 2017) Our hearts and thoughts go out today to the families and friends of those killed and injured in the horrific attack yesterday in Stockholm on innocent people going about their daily lives; it is being described as an act of terror. It is being widely reported that a man arrested has sympathies/links with so-called Islamic State. Yet again, decent people everywhere, from all socio-cultural-religious backgrounds, stand firm with the people of Sweden against the threat of terrorism from whatever misguided source.]

[Update: (March 24th 2016) This poem was written in 2007. Since then, the world the world has become and increasingly more dangerous place, not least due to the spread of radical Islam which we should never mistake for true Islam.  The horror of recent events in Brussels is nothing new to us. Yet, while our hearts go out to the families and friends of those so cruelly and senselessly killed simply for going about their daily lives, we must stand firm against these psychopaths, and not let fear dictate how we choose to live; our choice, not theirs.]

Some people, not only but especially religious fundamentalists, are inclined to get carried away by the prospect of martyrdom and welcome it; more often than not, this is a direct result of being mentally groomed and/or emotionally blackmailed into a deluded way of thinking by power-hungry leaders who (naturally) prefer to stay alive. 

The true martyr does not seek martyrdom for personal (including spiritual) gain but for the sake of honourable principles on which he or she refuses to compromise; there is no honour in taking and/or destroying the lives of innocent people.

Who deliberately seeks martyrdom to make a point, however important (to them, at least) deserves our contempt, yes, but perhaps also our pity? Pity for their having become mere tools in the hands of those they see as 'betters' but who, in reality, have surrendered their humanity to a distorted sense of and lust for power, both temporal and spiritual.

Fundamentalism is a threat to world peace, the more when it promotes martyrdom as a glorious ideal.

This poem is a villanelle.

MAELSTROM

No crueller wisdom

or faith more blindly placed

than in martyrdom

Life‘s tragic outcome,

love’s sacred trust misplaced;

no crueller wisdom

No prouder kingdom

better served by want and waste

than in martyrdom

By a beating drum,

each sound heartbeat replaced;

no crueller wisdom

No glory closer come

to grief, by holy words defaced,

than in martyrdom

Magnificent maelstrom,

supposedly to God’s door traced;

no crueller wisdom

than in martyrdom

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2016

[Note:  This poem has been revised (slightly but significantly) from the version that appears in Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007; revised version in e-format in preparation.]

Bed-Sit Lifer

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Every large town and city has its share of bed-sits or single person apartments comprising little more than a room with basic amenities. If you’re lucky, it’s en suite and you don’t have to share a bathroom / toilet.

I recently got chatting to a guy in a bar whose house had been repossessed because he could no longer afford the mortgage repayments. As it happens, he’s gay but he could have been anyone of any persuasion, man or woman. He lives in one room without a view and has to share a bathroom. “One you turn sixty,” he told me, “people stop caring, especially if you’re gay and you’ve lost your looks.”

He is a lonely, unhappy man, convinced his age and sexuality means he can’t get a life, and his living conditions don’t help.

Yes, well, gay men and women don’t have a monopoly on loneliness, that’s for sure, and there are many people in this world who don’t even have a roof over their heads.

It’s sad and, yes, the 21st century should be ashamed of itself for the degree of poverty in the world. But there is more to poverty than lack of money and resources. There is a poverty of the heart and spirit that gives up on life too soon.

We all want different things from life and few of us come even close to what we would like. But we can still enjoy life and make the best instead of the worst of things. It’s never easy, that’s for sure. But it’s true what they say…where there’s a will, there’s a way. I have met some of the poorest people who can honestly claim to be happy in their own way. They may not have much, materially speaking, but they love life and care about people and just being around them makes you glad to be alive.

I’m not poor but I definitely ain’t rich either. I would have liked my own house overlooking the sea. Instead, I rent a studio flat in London UK. Sure, I have regrets (who doesn’t?) but life is what we make it and we are what we let life make of us. Yes, I get lonely sometimes. Yes, I am unhappy sometimes. Who isn’t? Ah, but I don’t intend to become like the guy in that bar…and yes, I’m (well) past sixty too.

You have to be a friend to have friends and you have to think positive to be happy. It’s not always easy and can be hard work…but it’s always worth making the effort. Getting a life doesn’t just happen…we have to make it happen.

BED-SIT LIFER 

Dawn’s dust has scarcely

settled at the chin;

an eccentric clashing

of streets below

reminds that it’s time

to go at it

World’s dirt has scarcely

greased the hair;

a hyper-rhythmic rush

of leather gear

pants me here and there

at bald faces

An April dusk has scarcely

brushed a teary eye,

birds singing in whispers

like mourners
gathered at a gravestone

now trickle away

Only answerphone messages,

cat's in a funny mood,

more repeats on the telly,
forgot a take-away,

the pirate tape won’t play,

nothing else to say

Hear a knocking at the door,

(not expecting anyone)

maybe a neighbour wanting

to borrow something;

could it be we'd introduce

ourselves at long last?

Licking lips nervously, rising

with anticipation.

heart skips a beat like a lifer's

on visiting days, pausing 

at the door, gripping handle,

afraid of...what, me?

What impression will I make

on this stranger

who may well have had a day

like mine, be seeking

some company too, no harm

in trying to make a friend?

Too late. Footsteps, going away;

oh, well, maybe another day ...

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2000, 2018

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

Triumphant Voices

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For all that many of the world’s societies are sick with power, bigotry and an obsession with material things, the man and woman in the street comprise its beating heart; it is they who live in hope, keep its wheels turning every day towards a better end they may never see but whose inspiration they can at least pass on to their young people.

Our planet’s survival, and what terms, lies in the hands of our young people. (Yes, and what kind of example is the early 21^st century setting them?)

We can but trust future generations will still have the stomach for love and peace after feeding off  the predilection of early 21^st century socio-cultural-religious leaders’ for creating conflict and division, if only so they can win support (even approval) by appearing to confront it at any cost. 

This poem is a villanelle.

TRIUMPHANT VOICES 

Through terror strike fear

into the heart,

we shall (ever) persevere

Listen, and we can hear

a pop song start…

though terror strike fear

Here, there, everywhere,

lives torn apart;

we shall (ever) persevere

Listen, young voices clear,

taking our part…

though terror strike fear

Where the tragedy of war,

has peace lose out,

we shall (ever) persevere

Backstage, the arms dealer

courts political clout...

Though terror strike fear,

we shall (ever) persevere

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2012

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