Making sense of Numbers

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

Before I retired, I was a librarian working in public libraries here in the UK. It has been a source of great concern to me in recent years that a growing of children and young people asking for help in finding material for homework projects had such poor literacy and numeracy skills. For some adults too, of course, that may not have had the benefit of much formal education, these skills same remain underdeveloped.

It has always seemed to me that numeracy is somehow seen as the poor relation to literacy even though a grasp of number is every bit as important as a grasp of letters.

 ‘Karl’ and ‘Brett’ once wrote in to tell me how getting help to improve their numeracy skills ‘by leaps and bounds’ had considerably boosted their self-confidence. Karl says ‘Numbers were like a foreign language. I could not make any sense of them.  I was made to feel I was in a minority and was too ashamed to ask for help. I got paranoid and it felt like there was some sort of conspiracy against people like me. I didn’t realise so many people have the same problem. Now I can even work out rail and bus timetables. Before finding a really good (home) teacher I was clueless about the 2400 hours clock.’

Believe me Karl, 2400 hours timetables confuse a LOT of people.

This poem is a villanelle.

MAKING SENSE OF NUMBERS

It can feel like a conspiracy,

(the world an enemy)

this nightmare, innumeracy

Out shopping, and invariably

spending too much money;

it can feel like a conspiracy

Debts spiraling relentlessly

(affront to integrity)

this nightmare, innumeracy

I look at my friends and envy

their budgeting effortlessly;

it can feel like a conspiracy

I once confessed ashamedly

to life turning sour on me,

this nightmare, innumeracy

I found support and sympathy

and help for others like me;

it can feel like a conspiracy,

this nightmare, innumeracy

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

The Last Long Hauler Out Of E-Bay

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Some people like to hedge their bets regarding what if anything they might face once they have ‘shuffled off this mortal coil’. (That’s straight out of Hamlet, of course. Good ole Shakespeare. Sounds so much better better than just being dead, doesn’t it?)

Me? Well, I was never much of a gambler so I guess I’ll just have to take my chances with nature…

THE LAST LONG HAULER OUT OF E-BAY

Bid for a ticket,

now halfway to (Heaven?)

angels rushing by - no

less anxious than I to see

the end of the line

Looking down, I see

people on hands and knees

in poverty and pain - far

more anxious than I to see

if God’s at home

Looking out, I feel

a devil’s breath on my face,

smell incense burning

like a pot-pourri of roses

and grow anxious

Bid for a ticket,

now halfway to (Heaven?);

angels rushing past - no

less anxious than I to make up

for lost time

[From: Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]

Past-Present-Future, Rescue Strategy OR Living With Ghosts

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Time itself heals nothing. Gradually, though, happy memories become even more precious, help sustain us in our loss, encourage and inspire us to get on with our lives.

There is no feeling more inspiring than love, in all its forms. Sadly, for every human spirit emanating love, there is a global consciousness that has missed out on some if not all of it.

PAST-PRESENT-FUTURE, RESCUE STRATEGY or LIVING WITH GHOSTS 

I glimpsed a ghost

in spring leaves,

a fragile thing, flickering

with loss and pain

till joy, its brighter light.

bursts through - winter, woods
 alive again

I glimpsed a ghost

in summer leaves

a bold thing, enjoying

no finer freedom

than hope, a brighter light

bursting through - greenwoods
strong again

I glimpsed a ghost

in autumn leaves,

such a pretty thing, high

on colourful passions

like home fires acting out

lmuch like the mummers of old 

in a play

I glimpsed a ghost

in winter snow,

a sad thing, its sorrow

shining through…

Yet love, a brighter light,

acting the Guardian, watching
over our graves

Copyright R N Taber 2007, 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Accomplices To Illusion, by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]

Fail-Safe For Mortality

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

What is life all about? How should I know? But a passion for nature reassures me it’s part of a bigger picture than even the inner eye can see…

Whatever our culture, religion, sex or sexuality, who can embrace nature and not sense its lending us a feeling for life that is part of its patchwork of history that includes all humankind? An undeserving inclusion, I often think, seeing how we are inclined to treat the natural world as if we own it, and are entitled to rape and pillage landscapes to which no written poem can do justice because they are poems in their own right,

FAIL-SAFE FOR MORTALITY

Where the sun clips the wing of a blackbird,
there I’m heading;
where a spring breeze sings in swan’s down,
there I’m coming from

Where summer rainbows kiss autumn leaves,
there I’m heading;
where April showers give birth to its daffodils,
there I’m coming from

Where autumn leaves make music to die for,
there I’m heading;
where laughter and love take their holidays,
there I’m coming from

Where the snowmen dance to a robin’s tune,
there I’m heading;
where old gods pass new myths off as history,
there I’m coming from

Where a spring breeze sings in swan’s down,
there I’m heading;
Where the sun clips the wing of a blackbird,
there I’m coming from


Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

Blur

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

While waiting for a cataract operation on my right eye, I began to consider a deeper significance of the blur in front of me everywhere I went. [I am pleased to report that the procedure went well on March 1st and I can already see better although my vision in that eye remains a little watery.)

Now, why write a poem instead of an essay or a novel? Why paint a picture rather than create a sculpture? Why compose a symphony and not a ballad?  Could it be that the inner eye strives to focus on what can never quite come into focus because it does not exist, but remains a haunting presence needing to find ways to make itself felt if not known…?

BLUR

Everything is a blur;
I can scarcely see the way ahead...
Yet, I have only to look up
to spot friendly faces in clouds,
hanging from Earth’s ancient rafters
like celebration bunting

Everything is a blur;
I can scarcely see the way ahead...
Yet, I have only to look down
to spot familiar tracks in wet grass
leading to places I love whose smell
fills me with spring

Everything is a blur;
I am left peering into a misty rain...
Yet, I have only to let birdsong
into mind-body-spirit to negotiate
safe passage with nature’s finer forces
to Mount Parnassus

Senses, conscience, reasoning…
Blur is everything

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

A Mythology of Leaves

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Regular readers will know I have a passion for nature; its trees, history, and mythology...

A MYTHOLOGY OF LEAVES

As the wind rustles leaves across earth and sky

and the moon feels its way among clouds,

hear voices of old gods telling loud and strong

of a time when they sat, oh, so proudly,

on the crest of Olympus considering the ways

of Earth’s children, found us wanting

It is Earth Mother who replies, loud and strong,

reminding them where they went wrong,

trying to manipulate humankind at their whim

like pieces on a chessboard instead

of allowing for its foibles and letting its peoples

win or lose their own battles

To the tawny owl, she calls, as it hunts its prey

and to the rabbit, trying to run away…

To the rough sleeper on the streets of a city

where few will act upon their pity

but watch and wait, playing the blame game

(old gods, in all but name)

As the wind rustles leaves across earth and sky

and the moon feels its way to dawn,

hear voices of old gods calling loud and strong

on a time long, long, gone…

while Earth Mother can but consider the ways

of a new generation, find us wanting

Come day, hear Earth Mother confide in Apollo

how humanity’s poetry rings, oh, so hollow

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

Where Did all the Baby Otters Go ?

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We take nature too much for granted. If we are not careful, by the time we wake up to the beauty of a natural world on our doorsteps, its beauty may well be but a distant memory for any survivors of a dying planet.

Although hunted less than in the past because their fur isn’t the money maker it used to be, pollution and global warming remain huge threats to otters... as it does to all of us.

WHERE DID ALL THE BABY OTTERS GO?

Once, a stream that ran down a mountain,

through this gutted forest, that daisy field,

joined sewage spilling without correction

over banks where once baby otters played

Humankind, it challenged the mountain,

would feed also at Earth Mother's breast,

but the life-giving milk turned to poison

till only the mountain survived all the rest

The snows of the mountain slowly melted,

flooding forests, fields, humankind. beast;

Everyman, eventually, compelled to admit

its share of the blame, neither all nor least

Copyright R N Taber 2005, 2019

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