Landfall, Human Spirit

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

We have no choice regarding our being brought into the world; all the more reason, in my opinion, why we should be allowed choices regarding how we live and even leave it. I, for one, would not want to stay if my quality of life (as I see it) was such that I felt unable to give to or take from it as I would like.

We should never underestimate or shrink the capacity of children and young people to think for themselves, the more so as they grow into a subtle if inarticulate awareness of the world into which they have, unasked, been brought. The better, greater part of instinct, if nurtured with loving care, will always be the cornerstone of humanity nor is it entirely lacking in nature.

Now, I have always maintained that quality of life is more important than life itself while how an individual assesses his or her quality of life will vary considerably since we are not (yet) a race of clones. As for so-called ‘success’ and ‘failure’, they are very overrated and far less important than aspiring to goals where the very process of aspiration helps make us (hopefully) better and kinder human beings.

Everyone sees life differently and wants different things from it. We should respect that at every level of society; home, school, workplace etc. Children and young people are not vessels for the aspirations of parents or teachers; they have minds of their own and should be encouraged to develop the moral stamina to make their own way in life.

Why do I refer to the human spirit when I subscribe to no religion? As my mother once told me when I said I did not want to go to Sunday School any more, religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality, and she was a Christian. Moreover, it is a spirit that endures long after death in the form of a posthumous consciousness whereby something of us, by word or deed, lives on to be passed on in turn by someone somewhere who may not even have known us well, if at all. [No religion has a monopoly on immortality, only its own interpretation of it.

LANDFALL, HUMAN SPIRIT

Faces, competing
to offer a helping hand
where I cower
in my corner from wind
and acid rain eroding
a world ever whimpering
in pain

Hands, reaching out
to drag me into the world,
urge me stand tall
among rats running rings
around human beings
looking on and/or placing
bets

Hopes, aspirations
and pipe dreams staking
a claim on me, tossing
fistfuls of straws where left
to surf a perfect storm
on my own, make for a safe
haven

Eyes, closing, as sure
as the world’s blood, sweat,
and tears customizing
its tee-shirts with this or that
social, cultural, political,
or religious divide, no place
to hide

Ocean of voices,
a crashing hypocrisy urging
I strike a balance,
take its swell in my stride,
do tin gods proud,
last spotted strutting cloud
nine

Landfall, blanket
of noises (potential choices)
and new senses
wrapping me in silver foil
to keep me warm
and safe from harm, peace
in our time

Waking refreshed
and inspired to sail on whatever
life throws at me,
stay true to mind-body-spirit.
each new day
reassuring me it's OK
to be gay

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2014 

[Note: An earlier version of this poem under the title Waters of the Womb first appeared in an anthology All Our Tomorrows, Triumph House (Forward Press), 1999 and subsequently in Poetry Monthly (43) the same year before I included it in Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]

An Affinity (of sorts) with Ghosts

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

We need to measure time in seconds, minutes, hours and days etc. to give our very existence a semblance of structure; similarly, we need language to communicate and try (at least) to make sense of it.  Time and again, though, I get the feeling we are working from false premises. Certainly, means do not necessarily justify ends which, in turn, as often as not, prove to be unfit for purpose. They may well satisfy some of us some of the time, but what about the rest of us and all that leftover time?

For a bigger picture than even the most detailed archives convey, we can but try to read between lines we so love to draw in sand (and the arts) if only to explore the spaces and establish an affinity of sorts with the immeasurable and indescribable…

The emotions invoked by death are immeasurable, not least because death itself remains beyond even the most creative imagination. Better, surely, if and when we are made to face the indescribable, to focus on we can describe and share by way of giving voice to and in part reliving the joys whose loss threatens us with free fall?

Memory helps, of course and is an infinite source of comfort as we recall happy  times spent with loved ones; a bitters-sweet comfort some might argue as there can be no adequate compensation for their loss and absence from our lives; for me, memories, dreams, daydreams and yes, poetry conjure up the spirit of a person which, albeit posthumous, is as much a part of me as it ever was ...

AN AFFINITY (OF SORTS) WITH GHOSTS

Where wintry days  

would have left us hanging

by dark memory’s thread,

returned to life in the flicker

of a sparrow’s eye seconds

before closing its Here-and-Now

on a world where death

attends creatures great and small

by way of their inclusion

with as select a company of ghosts

as inspire peace and love

Shadows, a gathering

of ghosts around weepy graves

littered with fading flowers,

a pooling of a-political policies

of positive thought to share

without fear or favour with eyes

to see, ears to listen,

lips able to move (no strings)

human hearts engaging

with aeons of having to learn

and unlearn, human minds

discovering and rediscovering,

shaping and reshaping,

working and (ever) reworking

parodies of human nature,

cartoons giving home truths a run

for their money

Earth Mother, lending us

an affinity with ghosts so voyagers

across time and space

may follow such tracks as mock

a humankind obsessed

with a Here-and-Now vulnerable

to its vanity’s attempts

at measuring the immeasurable

if only for sanity’s sake,

its worst fears last seen dissolving

into a rainbow, rain clouds

already parting to let the sun back in,

bring hope where there is despair,

give any heart wings to fly wherever,

share love and peace

among all the world’s winners and losers,

each to their own

I took poor sparrow

in my bare hands, clinging

to life in a sticky heat,

faint pulse denying death

its victory until nature

in its greater wisdom giving

the nod to its passing

an evergreen memory in us

of its winging free of time and hour

in every beat the heart skips

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014; 2019

Heartlands

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

Life offers a variety of landscapes, each one a challenge; how we react to these challenges,   defines who we are…but never believe that is written in stone; we all have choices and, yes, we all make mistakes.

While some mistakes can never be properly rectified, and may well haunt us all our lives, we can at least try and compensate for them. Never easy, but a small price to pay for peace of mind if a fragile one, yet strong enough, too, to survive the cut and thrust of human nature in response to which, for good or bad, we shape and reshape our very identity from cradle to grave...

I once asked a friend why he loved so exploring and didn't the potential dangers worry him ? He shrugged. "It's in the blood," said, but the trick is to know when and where to stop. That's in the blood, too," he added with a disarming grin. A good enough template for life for anyone, I thought at the time...and still do,

Oh, and as my mother would often tell me, the only way to think is positive ...or it's downhill all the way.

HEARTLANDS 

Forgotten dreams, lost causes,

a mountain of broken promises

daring us climb and conquer,

save ourselves and each other;

higher we climb, farther away,

yet bringing us closer every day

to a scary, grey, loneliness,

weeping landscape of distress

A faery mist issuing a threat

to those seeking an easy way out,

nature is not (yet) done with us

in denial of its greater mysteries;

kind faces in clouds beckoning,

frail ego and willpower conspiring

to revive an all but dead hearth,

kiss the sky and inherit the earth

Ghosts, sharing our tears,

wiping clear a window on years

that have not been kind to us

nor we to ourselves or each other;

parting now, eyes wiped dry,

Apollo advising let live, let die,

time to descend the mountain,

into the heartlands of its creation

Forgotten dreams, lost causes,

a mountain of broken promises

daring us climb and conquer,

save ourselves and each other;

no easy way up or even down

only (potentially) peace of mind

in scaling peaks of desperation,

making peace with imagination

Fearful, yes, yet anxious to be seen

colouring grey landscapes green

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

Getting it Wrong

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

I often look at contemporary UK society and don’t like what I see; more litter louts; more people strung out across pavements so other cannot pass; more folks on the MP3 players or mobile phones who have no awareness of their immediate surroundings and expect everyone else to get out of their way; more elderly people having to stand on crowded trains and buses where the majority of those sitting down are under thirty-five; even more occasions when it’s a case of first in the bus queue and last (if at all) to get on the bus…the list is endless.

My first boss at a public library where I worked after leaving school (in 1964) told me that a public library is a microcosm of society. It is so true. You meet all types in libraries. As many if not most public library services in parts of the UK have gone into freefall so, too, has society. Good manners, for a start, seem to have flown out of the proverbial window. Few people say ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ any more, but take any services rendered, even everyday acts of kindness for granted. On the streets of London, the majority push, shove, everyone for themselves without as much as an ‘Excuse me please’ or a ‘Sorry, I pushed you into the road or against a wall. If you complain, the chances are you will be verbally or even physically abused. The last time I shouted at a cyclist riding on a busy pavement who sent me sprawling as I came out of a shop…I was told, ‘F***k off, you old fart!’ Needless to say, I continue to protest.

Life is a balancing act, I guess; we can get it right some of the time (even most, with any luck) but few if any of us can expect its scales to weigh in our favour all the time...however hard we try.

Thankfully, there are many exceptions to bad apples; if we look hard enough, we will see the bigger picture, and find some lovely people out there…

GETTING IT WRONG

Bus stops, anarchy;

assault-by-default on mad,

rush hour trains

Death on our roads,

date rape in bars, gun law

on angry streets

Disabled access

in key places leaving  much 

to be desired

Perverts coasting;

hypocrites anxiously taking

Communion

Minority groups,

milking political correctness

for all its worth

Human rights,

where the machinery of justice

badly need oiling

Imagination, 

getting the better of worsening 

world scenarios

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appeared under the title 'All the Wrong Pieces' in an anthology Upon Reflection, Poetry Now (Forward Press), 2004 and in  A Feeling for the Quickness of  Time by R. N. Taber  (2005)]

Ghosts, a Posthumous Consciousness

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

Yes, I believe in ghosts just as I believe in an all-embracing posthumous consciousness or presence to which each of us contributes and in which everyone plays his or her part in a spiritual dimension that does not even recognise so has no need to measure any human concept of time. I do not mean 'spiritual' in any religious sense either, but in a far wider, more inclusive sense and continuum than it strikes me any 'closed shop' world religions can offer.

GHOSTS, A POSTHUMOUS CONSCIOUSNESS

I have sat with Greats

at a round table, chewing flesh

off bones

I have fought at battles

won and lost, seen vultures pick

the bones

I engage with political

and religious leaders in disputing

old bones

I’ve been good and bad,

done right and wrong, all for a bag

of bones

I have shared a beggar’s

patch, withering looks freezing up

the bones

I have lain in The Road,

and felt the wheels of time crushing

my bones

I urge the young to learn

a thing or two from the home truths

in their bones 

I urge the old to live, let live,

and breathe fire for the next phoenix

rising

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

First Symphony, Play On ...

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

Who can ever forget the first time they made love, and discovered that religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality...? 

'If music be the food of love, play on...' [Shakespeare, Twelfth Night]

FIRST SYMPHONY, PLAY ON ....

Our very first lovemaking 
saw me nervous, shy,

and very unsure of myself,

scared you might

feel let down, disappointed

in me, that I wouldn’t

send the same electric shocks

through your whole body

as you were passing into mine

with every deft caress,

each lingering kiss on my lips,

gently tongued apart

for strawberries and cream

on as glorious a summer’s day
as to waken the dead

My fears, they melted away

the more I felt at ease 
and safe with you, learning 
how best to respond 
to the all-inspiring rhythm 
of a your nakedness
teaching me that same symphony

of sex as composed

by the twin spirits of Passion
and Desire, worshipped 
by lovers across all time and space;
fine men and women 
creating brave new worlds
for future generations to explore, 
and leave their mark

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.]

I, Person [Not Box]

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

No one likes to be stereotyped, and I mean anyone not just gay men and women. 

Worse, is being subjected to verbal/physical/ psychological abuse simply because we don’t tick the ‘right’ boxes; right for some people, that is.  So what can we do about it? 

As a child, I was sometimes bullied and teased (by adults as well as peers) because I had a very bad lisp. I finally confided in someone and asked what I should do. ‘Don’t do anything,’ I was told, ‘just be yourself, and when these nasty people see they are not getting to you, they will get bored and stop. Too often, we only see what we want to see in others, for better or worse. The trick is to let everyone know that what they see is what they’ll get, end of story. The chances are they will respect you for it. They may not like you, but they will respect you…’

Years later, this advice served me in very good stead when I came out as a gay man.

This poem is a villanelle.

I, PERSON [NOT BOX]

Be brave, and to the self be true

(none of this playing a part);

let others see, for looking at you

Bigots, though (relatively) few 

leave good folks sick at heart;

be brave, and to the self be true

We all run life’s gamut, it’s true,

(few of us make a good start);

let others see, for looking at you

Gossips have little better to do

(innuendo, a poison dart…);

be brave, and to the self be true

Get a life, and then see it through

(challenge the stick, try carrot);

let others see, for looking at you

Just rewards may well seem few,

(don’t let it break your heart);

be brave, and to the self be true;

let others see, for looking at you

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009