Ghosts, a Love Story

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

Today’s poem has not appeared on the blog since 2008 and was written for all lovers everywhere whose love, for whatever reason, is frowned upon by family, friends and those who would have us in a socio-cultural-religious stranglehold,

It is high time certain people put their socio-cultural-religious bigotry aside and accepted the fact that we are all equal in a common humanity and that none of us can help with whom we fall in love. Here in the UK, for example, many immigrants bring their historical prejudices with them; the result is many scared boys and girls, men and women having to tread on eggshells between the world from which their families came and the one in which they are growing up. [Multiculturalism is a fine concept in theory; in practice, it has a lot to answer for.]

Love does not recognize the various socio-cultural-religious differences and self-perpetuating boundaries that many societies around the world are inclined to do, including some that profess to be democratic.

As I have said before on the blogs, we should all of us always remember that our differences don't make us different, only human.

GHOSTS, A LOVE STORY

At the farthest edge of twilight,

wrapped in a misty sky,

we’d haunt the shores of love,

you and I

We’d pause at its quiet places,

fall into each other’s arms,

enjoy Earth Mother’s embraces,

employ her charms

Let kisses tasting of yesterdays,

closing on us like stars,

shape all the world’s tomorrows

set aside for lovers

Our bodies joined as day to night,

we’d surf life’s raging sea

at the farthest edge of a twilight

hinting at eternity

Come splendid night, we’d lie

and wonder at its glories;

each star, a kiss shared by lovers

in other centuries

At daybreak, dreamers waking

to walk where angels fear

for love where there for the taking,

its enemies ever near

On a cruel sea of local dissent,

among wreaths of flowers,

we were dispatched prematurely

to the stars

At the farthest edge of twilight,

wrapped in a misty sky.

we‘ll haunt the shores of love,

you and I

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2014

War and Peace, Elements of the Human Condition

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I have been watching the BBC2 TV series, Generation War: Our Mothers, Our Fathers that follows the lives of five German friends during World War II. It is an apt reminder of not only the horrors of war but also how the real victims of any conflict are those ordinary men and women, on both sides, struggling to survive and left to pick up the pieces both as it progresses and when it is all over. Events in various parts of the world today - Syria and Ukraine to name but two - are a cruel reminder of history’s penchant for repeating itself.

This year, 2014, is the 100^th anniversary of the outbreak of World War I. It is especially disturbing, therefore, even if only (dangerous) rhetoric, that President Arseny Yatseniuk of Ukraine should be accusing Russia’s President Putin of trying to start World War III. He also warned the crisis in his country could spread throughout the rest of Europe. We may like to think such a thing could never happen, but history tells us differently.

People fight, initially at least, because they believe or are led to believe they are in the right and any opposing force has to be in the wrong. It is one of humanity’s greater tragedies that there are at least two sides to every conflict, and that we believe or are led to believe we are free to choose if only for freedom’s own sake. Yet, win or lose, the Mandarins of Power, for all they may well undergo a cosmetic transformation,  remain free to stoke the ashes, penetrate the dust, and go about their business in much the same way as before…

Last but never least, of course, many if not most of us find ourselves at war with the inner self for one reason or another, peace of mind attainable only at a price we are not always willing to pay.

WAR AND PEACE, ELEMENTS OF THE HUMAN CONDITION

Ready to fight,

kill or be killed for the right

to live, be free,

and let others, too, go free

from whatever cage

imposed on us by powers that be

last glimpsed haunting

shadowy corridors, responsibility

taking cover in morality

In the thick of a war

against the inner self, denying

mind, body, and spirit,

intent only upon survival

of the fittest,

no time to consider the weak

and vulnerable except

to defend a moral high ground

for their sakes

Battles lost or won,

history will make out it was all

for the best

in the longer run of humanity’s

kinder attributes,

winners and losers joining forces

to create a better world,

take a more constructive view on

bettering its betters

Ashes, to ashes, century to century;

opposing forces, same cover story

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Sweet Mystery of Life (and Death)

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We all have dreams, and some come true. Many dreams, though, remain just that...dreams. Even so, life goes on. Yet, getting real, being positive, and moving forward does not mean having to live a single dream behind. On the contrary, the likelihood is that  every dream that finds a place in mind, body and spirit will continue, each in its own way, to inspire us to be a better person. 

I recall having a nightmare as a child. My mother reassured me that it was only a bad dream. 'There's good and there's bad. You have good dreams, too, right?' she said. I nodded. 'So trust the good ones to get the better of the bad, and you won't go far wrong,' I can still hear her whispering in my ear although she died nearly 40 years ago. 

Gay or straight, no one can take our dreams away from us and any who criticize, even condemn us for going along with a dream come true, especially in the shape of someone to love, quite simply hasn't a clue...

This poem is kenning.

SWEET MYSTERY OF LIFE (AND DEATH)

I cherish hopes of spring,

nurture them like misty showers

encouraging flowers to grow,

buds on trees to come to blossom,

fruit or leaf, as they will

though some fall foul of a sudden

gust of wind or children

come to make sport with nature’s

finer talent for creation

I sing a song of summer

though autumn leaves consigned

to compost heaps

where swallows desert the places

that gave life to their young

and the likes of me poems to pass on

though winter sure to teach

us lessons in survival even a robin

can but do its best to learn

Winter come and gone,

hopes winging on a swallow’s return,

lifeless branches budding

nature returning me, also, to a life

badly bruised by winter’s

show of not even caring if we last

or fade, you or I, especially

given unlooked for intervention

by forces natural or human

But let me, the dream inspiring you,

in my own way, like spring, run true

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

[Note: This poem  first appeared in an anthology From Coast to Coast: a Forward Press Regional Collection in 2010, and subsequently in my collection Tracking the Torchbearer (2012) under the title A Question of Trust.]

First Impressions

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

Have you ever wondered what a baby thinks as he or she opens their eyes for the first time in a mother’s arms? Okay, a baby can’t talk, but who says we can’t think for ourselves even from the very start? We feel reassured, safe...

Ah, but for how long?

It is one of humankind's greater tragedies that many children are born into an environment that will give them neither the love nor care they deserve.

With luck, we are welcomed into the world with love. A sense of the power of love passes from mother to child, and will stay with us always.

Yes, with luck. Sadly it is not the same for all of us, and we have to look elsewhere to discover the power of love for ourselves. Some of us do, others never will. There are so many unwanted children and young people in the world who deserve better.  I have known some people who have gone through the Care system and not only survived, but done well for themselves. Yet, I have also known others who have ended up spending most of their lives in and out of prison, never knowing that wonderful sense of belonging peculiar to family life and being loved as a matter of course, no matter what. My own family life was flawed (whose isn’t?).Even so, that immeasurable sense of belonging helped shape my formative years in a very positive way.

A sense of belonging should never be underestimated. Tragically, it drives some young people to become part of a street gang; gangs are often seen as a substitute family, albeit a poor one. I once knew a family whose children became involved in a local gang culture. When one of the sons went to jail for a gang related offence, the parents saw it as a wake-up call, moved away and set about mending their broken family life. That was years ago. All the children have turned out well and take their own parental responsibilities very seriously; their children will never want for love, care, and a positive sense of direction.

FIRST IMPRESSIONS

The first thing I saw on opening my eyes

was a love in my mother’s face

I hadn’t yet learned the words to describe,

but sensed I was in a safe place

The first thing I felt as I opened my eyes

was my mother’s arms cradling me;

I hadn’t yet learned the words to describe,

but sensed it was a good place to be

The first thought I had on opening my eyes

was that this was but the start 
of living by and learning words to describe

the love in Earth Mother’s heart

In a world without words, only its first cries

find reassurance in well-meant promises

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

[Note: This poem was first published under the title Opening Up to Love in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]

In Praise of Lacework

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

Regular readers will also know that it is now more than three years since an MRI scan revealed a growth in my prostate. A biopsy revealed it was cancerous. However, the cancer was diagnosed as non-aggressive and regular hormone therapy continues (so far) to keep it from becoming so.  Meanwhile, I can only do what I have done since early childhood and trust nature to do its best by me.

I take great pleasure and reassurance from gentle strolls on nearby Hampstead Heath; its quiet grassy slopes and lively pockets of trees; signs and sounds of the seasons as they come and go; glittering ponds alive with the chatter of ducks, swans, and moorhens...

Since I came to live in the Kentish Town area of London nearly 30 years ago, I have often gone to the Heath with a view to letting its sensual beauty invade my senses, experience that ‘Oh, but it’s so good to be alive!’ feeling with which Earth Mother has sustained me through just about every crisis in my life; even when I attempted suicide during an extended period of severe mental breakdown some 30 years ago, she brought me back from the brink.

My late mother used to urge me to ‘listen for, watch and learn from nature.’ Moreover, ‘Far better,’ she’d say. ‘...to retreat into nature than into yourself.’ That was many years ago and her words ring as true to me now (at 68) as they did when I was a child.

In the language of flowers, the yellow rose is for remembrance.  (See also my poem, The Zen of Yellow Roses) Yes, I often look back at happier times in my life and those who made it so, and feel inspired to make the most of each day left to me rather than nurse regrets for what might have been…

This poem is a villanelle.

IN PRAISE OF LACEWORK 

Go where the wind blows

(across time and space)

fair petals of a yellow rose

See how each cloud shows

a non-judgmental face;

go where the wind blows

Be as the fallen seed grows

risen to beauty and grace,

fair petals of a yellow rose

See how Earth Mother sews

dreams into wintry lace;

go where the wind blows

Ghosts of a time that knows

and keeps safe our place,

fair petals of a yellow rose

Hear a lark in its last throes,

pass on its plea for peace;

go where the wind blows

fair petals of a yellow rose

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

The Zen of Yellow Roses

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When a loved one dies, a part of us dies also. Yet, my experience of death has been that, even as time passes, the worst of grief fades, and memory may even start to play tricks on us, love sees us continuing to share in the experience of loving and being loved, the quality of our inner life is all the better for that.  

In the language of flowers the yellow rose is for remembrance. What better icon then for the mind to click on at birthdays, anniversaries, whenever loss makes itself especially felt, than a yellow rose, and let flower the bitter-sweet joy of a happy memory risen above its thorns?

This poem is a kenning.

THE ZEN OF YELLOW ROSES or 

I bring truth

where imagination would feed

on fear and speculation,

engage with those seeking comfort

and reassurance

in far darker places than even

Orpheus searching

for his lost love in the bowels

of the Earth

I combat the terrors

of sleepless nights spent tossing

and turning

in early hours with no respect

for human dignity

or a desperation feeding

on such crumbs of hope

as left out for birds in winter

at its worst

I bring a lasting sense

of peace to mind, body and spirit,

where shadows

gather like key conspirators

with intent to kill,

yet kept at bay by a natural

instinct for survival,

struggle though it may against

hellish odds

As a rose its thorns, to pain I rise above,

who am Remembrance-Peace-Love

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Riders of the Watch

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Today's poem has not appeared on the blog since 2007, and I have since revised it; the original version also appeared in a Drifting Thoughts, Poetry Today (Forward Press), 2000.

I recall once walking along the water’s edge in the moonlight. I was very unhappy. I saw no point in continuing the battle of wits between head and heart. Yet, the feisty beauty of a summer night touched whatever it is in us we like to call ‘soul’ and instead of lamenting an ending, I began to anticipate a new beginning...

(Photo taken from the Internet)

RIDERS OF THE WATCH

Moon shadows,

riding white horses across a vast rippling plain

of dark despair;

a dashing of hooves,

indelible imprint on what passes

for the soul

Ghost riders, all deceit and lies,

shivering, shimmering, desperately willing us

to run...

Oh, but where?

Stripped bare, a lifetime's audacity;

time to cast off the trappings and pretty wrappings

of integrity;

Waves, a crashing ovation

for giving reason its marching orders, joining

the heart’s accomplices

Ghost riders, all deceit and lies,

shivering, shimmering, desperately willing us

to run...

Regeneration

Moon shadows, a force for salvation

among the flotsam and jetsam of human frailty

left for us beachcombers

to spot and salvage

what dreams we can (if at nature’s caprice)

without losing face

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2011

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