Giving the Lie to Glory

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

[Update, June 17th 2019]: Some readers have said they would like to read some of my poems again but either can’t find them on the blogs or haven’t time to look. Until recently, I was able to link posts/poems past and present to Google + but Google recently deleted its personal G+ sites, retaining only business sites.  A reader, Max, has kindly emailed me to say he misses my Google + site, but “Whenever I find a poem I really like, I make a note of any search words or phrases in the labels column and use them to find more poems …” Well, thank you Max, and I'm sure some readers will find the tip useful and time-saving. For the record, search words and phrases include  climate change, communication, creative therapy, culture, death, depressions, friendship, ghosts, guilt, history, human nature, human spirit, imagination, innocence, inspiration, love, mind-body-spirit, memory, peace, mortality, nature, past-present-future, personal space, posthumous consciousness, peer pressure, prostate cancer, religion, relationships, sexuality, society, time, war and young people, zen... among others. [Another reader has asked why I often hyphenate several nouns to imply they are one; it's because I see them as inseparable one from the other, a continuum in which we human beings are pivotal, for better or worse...

Meanwhile…

I was in a bar once where an injured soldier was being asked about his experiences in Afghanistan. Someone mentioned the word, glory, which met with excited murmurs of approval and expressions of admiration. ‘Glory?’ the young soldier exclaimed in disbelief, ‘You must be kidding! Haven’t you people learned anything?’

Good question...

November 11^th is Armistice Day closely followed by Remembrance Sunday. Since we are only just into October, some people have suggested I should wait until then before posting any poem in remembrance of those who have given their lives in two world wars and subsequent conflicts worldwide as well as those bereaved families left to get on with their lives as best they can; remembering, too, those who have suffered physical and psychological injury and their loved ones who are helping them to live as full as life as possible.

Ah, but every day is an anniversary for those who bear the emotional and/or physical scars of love and loss, in times of war and peace alike.  

Armistice Day or Veterans Day or Remembrance Day, whatever  we call it is an important anniversary; an opportunity for people to come together as a nation to commemorate those who have fought to try and make the world a kinder, safer place in which to live. Nor do I exclude our enemies, most of whom were (and are) ordinary men and women fed the propaganda of unenlightened politics by those they are persuaded to look upon as their 'betters'.

'What passing bells for those who die like cattle?' - Wilfred Owen (Anthem for a Doomed Youth)

This poem is a villanelle

GIVING THE LIE TO GLORY

Sure to give the lie to glory

(for all its medals won)

who live war’s horror story

No contemplating bravery

(the job has to be done)

sure to give the lie to glory

Struggling with the futility

of a friend’s mind blown,

who live war’s horror story

Flagging up a bull for history,

red rag to a politician

sure to give the lie to glory

Proud aloud, scared privately,

in for the duration

who live war’s horror story

Blind eye, tight lip, testimony

to the injured and fallen;

sure to give the lie to glory

who live war’s horror story

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

Poppies, for Remembrance

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

Today’s poem was written in 2004 and appeared in my 4th collection the following year; it has also appeared in an anthology, The Colour of War, Forward Press, 2011.

I have written almost as many poems about the tragedy of war as I have about the inspiring quality of love, much influenced by the powerful poems of World War I poets like Rupert Brooke, Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon and Vera Brittain, to name but a few.

The irony cannot be lost on anyone. Given that the horrors of war have been passed on so graphically from generation to generation since, it neither prevented World War II nor this sorry world of ours remaining a battleground for various socio-cultural-religious-political forces worldwide.

Here in the UK, as Armistice Day approaches, many of us buy a poppy as a symbol of remembrance; the money raised goes to the British Legion, a charity that, for many years, has provided financial, social and emotional support to members of the British armed forces, veterans, and their dependants.

National anniversaries of remembrance rightly salute the dead, but the dead would not want those they leave behind or injured friends and colleagues who survive to be forgotten either. Charities like the British Legion  and Help for Heroes have stepped in where successive Governments much prefer not to tread.

Countless poppies, countless tears; hopes, shared by millions for a peaceful world while haunted by the growing sense of a twenty-first century no less inclined than any other to the rhetoric of peace.

  

Photo: Cenotaph war memorial, London (UK)

Created by ceramic artist Paul Cummins with setting by stage designer Tom Piper; ceramic poppies commemorating the centenary of the outbreak of World War scheduled to progressively fill the dry moat around the Tower of London until Armistice Day, November 11th, 2013.

Photo: In the war memorial Neue Wache (Berlin) the moving sculpture, 'Mother and her dead son' by the Berlin artist Kathe Kollwitz says it all...

POPPIES, FOR REMEMBRANCE 

In two world wars, and conflicts since, they died

for love of country, freedom and their own;

shells, mortars, bullets and bombs they defied

so we may reap the rewards they have sown

Let’s remember those who never came back,

(sitting comfortably, watching TV);

Somme, Dunkirk, Korea, Falklands, Iraq...

(So much for the lessons of history!)

The wounded, too, deserve our thanks and pride,

some forgotten, left but to fade away

in pain, loneliness, no one at their side

as fought with them so bravely, won the day

World in remembrance of hope, prayers and tears

for peace in its time to yet end its worst fears

[From: A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]

The Clock Tower

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

I have just posted another video-poem on You Tube relating a recent visit to St Albans n Hertfordshire, UK.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PgiVwWtRgNg
If this link does not work, try my You Tube channel and search under title:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Built between 1403 and 1412, is the Clock Tower, the only medieval example in the country. From the beginning it had a mechanical clock, a great rarity at that time. As the Abbey also had one, this was probably the reason for having the same. Indeed, the Clock Tower itself seems to have been intended as a visible statement of St. Albans' civic ambitions against the power of the Abbot. It was both a look out as well as a curfew, ringing out the times when people had to be indoors "covering the fire".

From 1808-1814 during the Napoleonic war, it was used by the Admiralty as a semaphore station. This was operated by a shutter system and could help relay a message to or from Yarmouth in 5 minutes.

By the 1860's the Tower was in a bad way and was nearly demolished. The restoration in 1864 was supervised by Sir Gilbert Scott. In 2004, the roof was rebuilt with improved public safety and access.

Given how much of our lives are governed by the time of each passing day (and night) it seemed an appropriate addition to the blog.

THE CLOCK TOWER

The o’clock is ‘now’
that once was ‘then’
and now is but history

So stands an old clock tower,
monument to its (and our)
yesterdays, todays, tomorrows;
more power to the abbot,
ringing out curfew at a time
of birth, death, war,
and more… Enter, a bishop,
charged with paying
God and St Alban fair dues
to any with the time to stop, listen,
and choose

For the time is now
that once was then
and becomes ‘ours’

In time and space, listening out
for an o’clock sure
to keep us safe, bring peace,
point us through each day
with the mechanical indifference
of hands signing us up
to such existence as we know now
once was ‘then’ ever signalling
the ways of humanity, its history,
multiplicity, duplicity, and obsession
with eternity 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

Open Invitation

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

Readers may like to know that I have just posted a new video on You Tube. It is the first of several videos (and poems) mostly shot in the old market town of St Albans in Hertfordshire. There is another (of an old clock tower) and one of a three lovely willow trees converging on each other that will follow over the next week or so. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B0e3HyezWsY

If the link does not work, try my You Tube channel and search under title:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Recent feedback suggests some of you cannot always access You Tube so you can also watch the video here. (See below)..

For those of you who have asked about my charity walk last weekend, my friend (and Y T cameraman) Graham and I walked a half marathon (13.1 miles) through the night and early hours to raise money for prostate cancer research. Between us, we raised over £700 so are well pleased. We also managed to complete the course in 5.5 hours, not bad given that I will be 68 in December. I may do it again next year so long as hormone therapy continues to prevent my prostate cancer becoming aggressive...mind, feet, and spirit willing! 

My friend Andrew and I went to a Lowry exhibition at the Tate Britain the other day. I know a lot of people don't care much for Lowry, but I share his interest in everyday life as it IS so can easily relate to his work; stark and dour, many of his paintings may be, but he saw an inspiring beauty in the haunting ugliness that so often characterizes everyday life and urban landscape. 

Now, about the video/poem…

The Roman City of Verulamium slowly declined and fell into decay after the departure of the Roman Army in AD 410. However, its ruined buildings provided building materials to build the new monastic and market settlement of St Albans which was growing on the hill above, close to the site of Saint Alban's execution. In the Norman Abbey tower, you can still see the Roman bricks removed from Verulamium.

Much of the post-Roman development of St Albans was in memorial to Saint Alban, the earliest known British Christian martyr, executed in AD 250 (the exact date is unknown, with scholars suggesting dates of 209, 254 and 304). The town itself was known for some time by the Saxon name 'Verlamchester'. A shrine was built on the site of his death following Emperor Constantine's adoption of Christianity as the religion of the Roman Empire. In the 5th century a Benedictine monastic church was constructed.

St Alban’s cathedral (formerly St Alban’s Abbey) – officially the Cathedral and Abbey Church of St Alban – is a Church of England cathedral church at St Albans, England.  At 84 metres ( 276 ft) its nave is the longest of any cathedral in England.  With much of its present architecture dating from Norman times, it became a cathedral in 1877 and is the second longest cathedral in the UK after Winchester. Local residents often call it ‘the abbey; although the present cathedral represents only the church of the old Benedictine abbey.

The abbey church, although legally a cathedral church, differs in certain particulars from most of the other cathedrals in England: it is also used as a parish church of which the dean is rector. He has the sane powers, responsibilities and duties as the rector of any other parish.

For more information, see: Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Albans_Cathedral

Yet again, I am indebted to my dear friend Graham Collett for the video and subsequent editing. Unfortunately, time and weather have prevented us from uploading any new material to my channel until now. We hope you will enjoy both video and poem.

Regular readers will know that I am not a religious person although I like to think I have a strong sense of spirituality albeit taken from nature rather than any religion.  An appreciation of beauty, though, is all-inclusive, and this pantheist poet feels no less entitled to be as appreciative as anyone else.

As for LGBT issues and religion...there would be no need for anyone to be made to suffer any sense of guilt or inner conflict were the leaders of all world religions to but practise what they preach about peace and love to all humankind instead of being so selective about how they choose to interpret their Holy Books.

Whatever their religion, all LGBT people need to bear in mind that the chances of God being a homophobe are zero since homophobia was invented by a humankind unfit for purpose in that respect; religion should be an open, not closed door to any who choose to go there. Nature has taught me that, and I choose Earth Mother.

OPEN INVITATION

Abbey, cathedral,

what’s in a name that’s given

temporal form, created

by human hand to preserve

the spirit of peace,

love, searches for raison d’etre

among all who pass by,

regardless of colour, creed, sex

or sexuality?

Monument to history,

recalling dark and finer deeds

of humankind,

so we may remember those

who lived and died

for love and peace, celebrating

one, St Alban, here,

inspiring we ordinary people

everywhere

To some, it is religion

that draws them to a holy place,

anxious to follow

in the footsteps of a Man of God

while others seek answers

to haunting questions

of daunting pillars, stained glass

windows, and altar crosses asking all

and nothing of us

God, raison d’être,

what’s in a name that’s given

temporal priority

in humankind’s eternal search

for origins of an identity

to which (or whom) it can relate

before ‘too late’ by this

or that reckoning of human mind,

body, and spirit?

Abbey, cathedral,

an open invitation to pilgrim,

tourist, passer-by,

each and every one of us,

to simply enjoy

its presence, inhibitions forsaken,

and (if only secretly)

hedge our bets on a safe passage

through eternity

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

  

Chameleon

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

Some readers may be interested to know that I have posted Chapter 1 of a new serial, Catching Up with Murder on my fiction blog. 

Hopefully, readers who enjoyed Predisposed to Murder will also enjoy meeting up with many of the same characters and discovering how they first came together.

Catching Up with Murder is available in paperback from amazon and could well be described as a black comedy in parts; it is not a gay novel as such, but has a strong gay storyline that becomes clear and takes off in Act II:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2013/10/catching-up-with-murder-chapter-1.html

Meanwhile…

It has always struck me how curious it is that some words used to describe human nature can mean different things to different people in exactly the same circumstances.  Not surprising, though, since everyone's take on life (and people) is different depending on how various socio-cultural-religious, age, economic and political factors conspire to directly affect our personal lives, and therefore our opinions. (Whatever, we need to be wary of rushing to judgement and/or being fooled by a sweeping take on stereotypes; there is much to be said for 'judge not lest ye be judged.')

This poem is (another) kenning or 'Who-am-I?' poem.

CHAMELEON 

I'm not always where I should be

and there are times you will find me

wearing the face of human cruelty,

lashing out at anyone who dares

stand in my way, stamping on them

as if they were but vermin, ready

to excuse, even glorify any choices

I make to mask feelings of inferiority
(indeed, the more fool, me.)

Rarely assuming parts conventions 

would have me play in the world 

or in such corners of the human heart

open to anyone to view who cares

to curry favour with me if only to be

rewarded in turn, with such gestures 
of rank or position as best serve 

anyone at listening in, hoping to learn

how not to be duped again

I'm not always a villain of the piece,

now and then accepting applause, 

with due modesty, ever taking credit 
for acting beyond any call of duty,

such as openly acknowledging 
my sexuality or services to humanity 
as nature intended me to provide, 
rejecting a darker side that I confess
lurks just below my surface

Call me chameleon, for good or bad,

walking tall, running scared

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010, 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010. a later version that appeared on the blog in 2013 has since been revised again.] RT

Lost in Translation

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

In response to this poem, someone once complained that I 'seem to be suggesting that being gay is as natural as God intended.' Well, the poem lends itself to various interpretations (as a poem should) and if that's theirs, I am delighted to have at least giving a religious bigot some food for thought.

When it comes to the various Holy Books and the attitudes they convey towards gay, bisexual, and transgender men and women, I know many people feel the same as me; much has been lost in translation or, as often as not, deliberate misinterpretation. Too many people have too great a fondness (reliance even) on a stereotyping which not only confuses important issues but, worse, is put forward as a truth, Time and again, I have heard people trying to justifying an attitude that beggars belief, not least because it has its roots in stereotypical caricatures, especially when it concerns LGBT issues. I am not disputing everyone's right free speech, but let's at least get our facts right, yes?

We all occupy a mother’s womb. I will never believe the love there is conditional to our turning out the way some parents’ preoccupation with various socio-cultural-religious conventions try to impose as. indeed, they have done very successfully since the beginning of time. Thank goodness for a natural capacity of the human heart for rebellion against such constraints; it may well have lost a good few battles and will surely lose a good few more, but is as sure to win the war for  common humanity as day follows night.  

It was once put to me by a work colleague that poetry - no more or less than other art forms - is all about self-indulgence. I beg to differ. Poetry - no more or less than other art forms - is all about finding out who we are; nor is it a definitive 'we' or first person persona for, as the metaphysical poet John Donne points out, 'No man is an island entire of itself...' (Meditation XVII)

Whatever, be it in reading prose or  poetry, appraising a painting or a person, the chances are few if any will come to the same conclusion, and even greater are the chances of any one person reaching the right one; we are all made up of many parts. The arts - among which feedback regarding my own suggests poetry is often considered the poor relation - attempt to reach at least some of those parts, the sum of which makes us who we are.

There can be no perfect interpretation of mind-body-spirit, but we can at least try to lose as little as possible in translation, and allow for human error ...

LOST  IN TRANSLATION

When people ask where I came from;

I answer, my mother’s womb,

so why am I so haunted by a sense
of having been somewhere else,

distant, unknown, as if I’d crossed
mythical territories of time and space
just to find my way here?

When others ask if I have a ‘real’ goal
in life, I confess I’m never sure

which doors are left ajar just for me

to take a peep (our choice, enter

or not) and may let a still, small voice
out of time and space persuade me to try
the safer (better?) path

Sometimes I am even accused of sitting

on some metaphorical fence

rather than explore secret passages

of the mind, and the doors open
to tease me, dare me enter, have a go
at translating the ages-old hieroglyphics
lining Mother’s womb

Yes, I have a ‘real’ enough goal in life

if prompted by a poet’s feeling
for wrestling with the hieroglyphics

between womb and tomb,

writing up an alternative autobiography
of my life and death than trust local graffiti
on doors kicked shut

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2016

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

The Upbeat Heart

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

You don’t have to be in the media spotlight to influence people, even society, for the better; big or small, every contribution counts and we can all make one.

Setting a good example can make a big difference; it may start off as a small ripple on a BIG pond, but it will spread. Much the same can be said for setting a bad example, of course, and we would all do well to remember that. At the same time, in various socio-cultural-religious respects, different people have different takes on what constitutes good and bad. I guess all we can do is engage with and trust our better, kinder, instincts. (At least the meaning of kindness is universally understood if not always much in evidence.)

Ah, but if we can see a ripple spread, we rarely get to see what difference our words and everyday behavior make. Take good manners for example; they seem to have gone out of the window here in recent years, but just saying ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ to someone may well encourage them to do the same and so on, making more of us feel just that little bit better, even hopeful that this sorry world of ours might also take a turn for the better any time soon. Our differences, too, can make a difference to the much divided world in which we live and its splintered societies..by pulling together and creating a better world to pass on to those who deserve better.

This (revised) poem is a kenning. Like many of my later poems, this one is the more mature version of an earlier piece. So why publish the earlier piece? Well, it seemed a good idea at the time, and like many good ideas feedback has since shaped it into something much the same yet significantly different. 

THE UPBEAT HEART

How will it all end,

if they have their way, clerics

and politicians pulling me  

in all directions?

Will some fallen angel

pick on me and drag me away

or will a gentler spirit

have mercy, find a place for me

come Judgment Day?

Shall wolfish death

delight in tearing us apart

or strike swiftly

and cleanly at the human heart,

lost doves find their way,  

defy infernal dark, fly eternal light

or (conveniently) consigned

to mythology, out of human mind

and history’s sight

Not ours to know the how,

where, or when, but be glad to give,

learn, unite in Love and Peace

than passively wait Death’s turn

with us while our ‘betters’

play politics with common sense,

and the better, kinder, part

of human nature gets on with making

all the difference

I am that up-beat of the human heart

that gives humanity a head start

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2013

[Note: This poem has been substantially revised from an earlier version published in my collection The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004 and subsequently in Ygdrasil:, a Journal of the Poetic Arts, May 2006.]