Riposte to the Darker Side of Nature

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

While only some of my poems are semi-autobiographical, all are personal to some degree or another while I try to leave space enough for the reader to move about within them. 

Today’s poem is a particularly personal poem, given my non-aggressive (so far) prostate cancer, it is also an explanation (of sorts) to those well-meaning, religious minded people who have expressed genuine disbelief ,if not horror, that it hasn’t compelled me to seek out the God of Holy Books.

For a start, I have every confidence in the hospital team responsible for my (hormone therapy) treatment.  Moreover, only as a very young child did I ever enter into any conception of a personified God. My mother did, and I believed her until I was old enough to make up my own mind, convinced at an early age that we make our own Heaven or Hell here on Earth.

As regular readers know, I turned to nature for spiritual reassurance many years ago. Nor do I honestly think it had anything to do with feelings of alienation as I proceeded to confront my sexuality. Possibly, what some call 'God' is nature although I dare say they would argue that He (or She?) created nature for human beings to enjoy. (Yes, enjoy, not attack and destroy.)

Who knows? Each to his or her own, I say. Oh, and isn’t it high time we all started respecting each other’s beliefs, life choices, natural instincts (like sexuality) and stopped fighting amongst ourselves over who may be right and who may be wrong?  Too many people so love to take the moral high ground, they lose sight of morality in the process. It has to be one of life’s greater ironies that sickness and disease provide a common humanity with the one common denominator likely to bring all sides together…if only until it has run its course.

My mother used to tell me that whenever the going gets rough, the only way to think is positive. It was GOOD advice, especially for a young gay lad growing up in a predominantly gay-unfriendly society. (I never make an issue of being gay, but neither do I see any reason to hide the fact, hence a gay-interest as well as general poetry blog because a poem is a poem is a poem just as a person is a person is a person ... regardless.)

RIPOSTE TO THE DARKER SIDE OF NATURE

Gripped by fear,

I could but direct it elsewhere,

yet it keeps returning,

this awful cancer stalking me

like a predator

Away, dark fear,

and let me get on with my life.

Go, feed elsewhere.

I’m only human, but no easy

prey for a predator

Seized by doubt,

I can but trust positive thinking

will yet prevent

this awful cancer turning me

inside out 

Away, negativity,

always the first to undermine me

wherever I lend an ear  

to voices arguing the wisdom

of my choices

Let me not resist a need

for comfort food and fiercer hugs

than ever before

to restore poor self-confidence,

give love its head

Come, Earth Mother,

and never let go of my free hand

as with the other I’ll sign

to mind-body-spirit and the world

we’re not done

Yes, I will survive

whatever this cancer throws at me,

instincts insisting I embrace

all a feisty spirituality has to give

in its place

Let nature have its way;

together, we will no more concede

any disease its V-Day

than see human beings put down

just for being gay

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

Stop the World, I Want to Get (Back) On + Agenda for a Crisis (2 poems)

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

Regular readers will know that I have suffered bouts of depression since early childhood.

As the first poem is not as positive a take on depression as that to which I usually aspire, I am also posting a second poem which I try to say out loud (usually several times) whenever I feel unable to cope with whatever it may be life has chosen to throw at me, invariably when I am  particularly vulnerable.  Agenda for a Crisis may not be a great poem, but it has helped on more than one occasion to prevent me panicking and (in no time) spiraling downwards into an abyss; no easy task, but we have to try if only because trying is halfway to getting there and winning the battle against depression.

One of the worst aspects of depression is the feeling of isolation; that no one really cares or understands. Friends and loved ones do care, of course even if some have  no idea how to help; those understand that we need someone to talk to and listen will provide a support network, but only if we let them. It is probably true that most people cannot can even begin to understand depression unless they have suffered it themselves or been close to a depressed person; it is no one’s fault, neither theirs nor ours, but it isn’t easy to see that, and only too easy to play the blame game.

Most if not all of us have known times when everything around and within us seems to be falling apart. We can but try so hard to focus on the tiniest flicker of light at the end of whatever long, dark tunnel we find ourselves in, pressing on towards it until it is revealed as sun by day or moon by night and we start to feel like we're back in the real world again, Earth Mother there to welcome, watch over and reassure us we are still the same person, possibly even a better one, but certainly no worse for having been 'away' for a while.

Both poems are villanelles.

STOP THE WORLD, I WANT TO GET (BACK) ON

World of meaning falling apart;

time, a lonely vacuum;

mind out of step with the heart

Voices, calling to make a start,

but no faith in them;

world of meaning falling apart

Faces, a collage of satirical art

challenging daily continuum;

mind out of step with the heart

Hands, signing to horse and cart

that can’t find its rhythm;

world of meaning falling apart

Each pitying look, a poison dart

contaminating the system;

mind out of step with the heart

Life, a line on a statistics chart;

offers of help a distant hum;

world of meaning falling apart,

mind out of step with the heart

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

AGENDA FOR A CRISIS 

For every hurt, a soothing balm

though time have its way;

think calm, be calm, stay calm.

Keep the mind safe from harm

where fear holds sway;

for every hurt, a soothing balm

Cue for panic, raised the alarm?

Though pain will have its say.

think calm, be calm, stay calm.

Never fall for self-pity’s charm

or keep those who care at bay;

for every hurt, a soothing balm

Take the hand on a friend's arm,

(peace of mind on its way)

think calm, be calm, stay calm

Bury regret, its remains embalm,

look to kinder ends, not away;

for every hurt, a soothing balm;

think calm. be calm, stay calm

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

  

A Tear In Time's Eye

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

Whatever life throws at us, be sure love will always have the last word. As for those less enlightened folks among the heterosexual majority who (still) dare suggest gay people don’t know the ‘real’ meaning of that word …well, love doesn’t discriminate along lines of ethnicity, religion, gender or sexuality so we LGBT men and women, boys and girls, have no case to answer.

This poem is a villanelle.

A TEAR IN TIME'S EYE 

Love never says ‘goodbye’
but bids us farewell
though a tear in time’s eye

If passion’s well seems dry,
no dreams left to tell…
love never says ‘goodbye’

Let’s not ask its reasons why
but work love’s spell…
though a tear in time’s eye

Though summer flowers cry
for the end of fairytale,
love never says ‘goodbye’

World in ruins, we can but try
to stay true to it all…
though a tear in time’s eye

Death’s command, we’ll defy
even as we heed its call;
love never says ‘goodbye’
though a tear in time’s eye


Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

Engaging with Mr Hyde

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Most if not all of us have a dark side, possibly never more memorably illustrated than by Robert Louis Stevenson in his famous novel The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

What do we see when we look in a mirror? Sometimes, reflecting on how we look exposes much of how we are feeling but cannot articulate at the time; an indefinable anxiety about giving much if anything away.

In my experience, we need to give more away, feel less inhibited about confiding worries, fears, even a sense of split personality that can only fuel both.

On the whole, we all do a good job of camouflage. But is that a good thing? I suspect people would be less likely to crack under the strain of whatever it was causes them to do terrible things if they had felt able to talk to someone who might have been able to help them reach a clearer, less awful perspective on friends, family, colleagues, and life in general.

Having experienced a severe nervous breakdown some 30+ years ago, I remain haunted by how much worse it so easily could have been if I hadn’t received the help and support I needed. This, I should add, was more by accident then design.

Looking back, I can see how feelings of distress fuelled by an emotionally damaged childhood and early manhood erupted as they did. I am only surprised this didn’t occur years earlier. Possibly, compensating very well (too well) for a significant hearing loss and having to conceal the fact that I am gay for many years (when gay relationships were a criminal offence) made me such an expert in the art of hiding my feelings that I could not even make them out myself. Certainly, I could not articulate on them and needed help in flushing them out before I could even begin to come to terms with how I really felt or who I really am.

Traumatic and distressing though my breakdown was, I was one of the lucky ones. 30+ years on, I still suffer bouts of depression from time to time, but these are nothing compared to what happened to me then. Tragically, mental health is still something of a taboo subject which is probably why most people’s conception of mental health issues continues to be naïve if not downright ignorant; more often than not, it is a distorted one. Only those of us who have experienced it and the relatively few people who have supported us on that ghastly roller-coaster ride, have any idea of the damage it does to the human psyche.

So if someone you know starts behaving strangely and out of character, please don’t give up on them. Try to help and support them. (Professional help and support is not always either forthcoming or constructive.) It isn’t always easy being a friend, but friendship means taking the rough with the smooth. Sadly, some people are only interested in the latter; they cannot or will not contend with the other.

This poem is a villanelle.

ENGAGING WITH MR HYDE

Find beasties in mirrors weeping

for those looking fear in the eye,

never truly awake or ever sleeping

Silent as dawn’s stealth creeping

over bedcovers where we lie,

find beasties in mirrors weeping

Werewolves in sheep’s clothing

(human nature knows us by)

never truly awake or ever sleeping

Consorting with gargoyles sweeping

up mistakes and lies we’ll deny,

find beasties in mirrors weeping

Through a lace curtain of empathy,

home truths from which we shy,

never truly awake or ever sleeping

Alter ego, a chameleon peeping

through a roaming glass eye;

find beasties in mirrors weeping,

never truly awake or ever sleeping

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

S-word in the Sheath

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

As I grow old(er) I find myself thinking about death more and more often; not morbidly, and I don’t find the prospect too distressing. I guess I am more curious than anything else.

A non-religious person, I don’t believe in any form of life after death in the sense that many people like to imagine it. A lifelong relationship with nature gives me hope that after this winter of my life, spring will come again. 

While I have to confess I remain fearful of pain and try not to think about it, death itself holds no fear for me at all. Yes, I will miss the people, places and things I love most in this life, of course. Poets, no more or less than many if not most of us, are always up for a challenge, and what greater challenge can there be than death? At the same time, I strongly believe in the existence of a posthumous consciousness in the world (yes, ghosts if you like) continuing to make our presence felt wherever and in whomsoever it has made its presence felt during our lifetime.

Incidentally - and unrelated - I would like to thank all those readers who have been in touch to ask about my prostate cancer. Physically, I have a few problems, but the positive thinker in me remains...well, yes, positive as hormone therapy continues to keep my prostate cancer from becoming aggressive.

This poem is a villanelle.

S-WORD IN THE SHEATH

Death, it's just a word,

a poet’s metaphor,

but sheath for a sword

Still, small, voice heard

keeping our score,

death, it's just a word

Mistaken for a prey-bird
at heaven's door,

but sheath for a sword

Life' s worst fears stirred,

all love forswore,

death, it's just a word 

Any great victory averred
(denying love's lore)

but sheath for a sword

Love, immortality assured

(it's love rates our score)
death, it's just a word,

but sheath for a sword

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2018

[Note: This poem has been significantly revised since it first appeared in a Poetry Now (Forward Press) anthology, Worldly Words (2004) and subsequently in  A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]

G-O-D, Live Metaphor OR What's in a Name...?

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

Various religions have their own ideas about God, me, I found a sense of peace and spirituality in nature and, for all I know, maybe God is there. Maybe God IS nature...

Does it really matter where we look, how we find or even what we call God?

We are all human beings, created in much the same way to share this sorry planet of ours. So why oh, why, is it that more people can’t put their differences aside and be happy to share what they have in common?

As I gave said before and regular readers will know only too well (I often repeat myself) our differences don’t make us different, only human.

This poem is a kenning, first published in Italy (2006) and subsequently in my collection.

G-O-D, LIVE METAPHOR or WHAT’S IN A NAME...?

Call me what you will, I mean well

though my better intentions mistaken

for gross interference in the ways

of man, woman and child. Navigator

rather than manipulator am I, ready

to guide, lead, through a maze of super

highways, slip roads, dirt tracks,

if suspected of conspiring with nature

against civilization

Call me what you will, I mean well

though my better intentions mistaken

for confrontation with man, woman

and child over some trespass or other

against commandments set in stone

by those rewriting to their own design,

crossing humanity’s thin red line,

always ready to point s finger of blame

in my direction

Call me what you will, I mean well

though my better intentions mistaken

for retribution, sporting with fragile

emotions, playing false at devotions,

wrecking the well laid plans of mice

and men without so much as offering

any explanation, feeding on the likes

of Faith, Hope and Charity to sustain

an enduring loyalty

Call me what you will, I mean well

whatever G-O-D made to spell

Copyright R. N. Taber 2006; 2013

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from the original as it appears under the title 'What' in a Name?' in The Sound of Silence, TATL (Italy) 2006 and subsequently 1st eds. of Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

Doors OR T-I-M-E, Exits and Entrances

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

[Update March 14 2018] In the death of Professor Stephen Hawking announced today, the world has just lost a great and truly inspiring man.]

Now, although I have every confidence in the hospital team treating me for the prostate cancer with hormone therapy, I have days when I could feel myself slipping into a depression about it all. Having taught myself to recognise and acknowledge the signs, I knew I had to act or free fall into the abyss. [The abyss and I are old adversaries, but I like to think I can get the upper hand now so long as I don’t let myself go into denial.]

From time to time, I have a really BAD day and (with some difficulty I have to say) need to think myself into philosophical mode; from there, it is only a few metaphorical steps into positive thinking mode, and from there but a hop, skip and a jump into writing mode. Today’s poem is the result of a form of self-help therapy much practised by yours truly.

What is ‘now’? It is always ‘now’. Now is eternal, like time and space. We are ‘Now’. We are from ‘Now’. We are heading for ‘Now’.

What, I wonder, what will our ‘Now’ be like once we arrive at journey’s end, shaped by the choices we have made or left unmade? Whatever, we can but try to arrive at a ‘Now’ that offers a better, kinder existence than its history has shown us (or it) far.

DOORS or T-I-M-E, EXITS AND ENTRANCES

Whenever asked where I come from,

I answer, my mother’s womb,

yet a sense, too, of being somewhere

distant, unknown, as if crossing

mythical territories of time and space

just to get there

When asked about my goals in life,

(prompted by what motivation?)

I have confess I’ve never been sure

which doors are left ajar for us

just to take a peep, our choice, whether

or not we enter.

Some people have made accusations

against me, suggesting I’m sitting

on some rickety, metaphorical fence

rather than face what I might find

should I jump off, explore the potential

for mind and spirit

Stung by the rebuke, I flung them open,

these doors left ajar to tease me,

daring me try translating hieroglyphics

lining mother’s womb, luring me

into a vast maze of corridors whose dust

will host my tomb

I've asked of my self where I come from

and it answered, my mother’s womb,

invoking, too, a sense of having been

somewhere (very) distant, unknown,

crossing vast territories of time and space

just to get here

Now when asked about goals in life,

(prompted by what motivation?)

I have to confess I’ve rarely been able

to decide between doors left ajar 

just for the peeping and others intending

I should enter

On womb, tomb, and in-between doors,

find hieroglyphics writing up 

a (much ghosted) autobiography of life

and death, often taken for graffiti 

on this ‘n’ that door slamming on us

if (never) quite shut

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013