The Hurt Garden

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

Most if not all of us have a hurt garden where we prefer not to go in waking moments. Sleep, though, invariably has other ideas …

Dreams may well leave us confused, but mind, body and spirit have a way of making make more sense of us there than any waking moments.

THE HURT GARDEN

Blades of grass

tossing to and fro in the wind

like restless sleepers

trying to make sense of a kind

where logic and reason

have no place, square up to facts

of human nature

from which its indigenous hosts

would run away

but nature will ever have its say

in dreams, struggling to make sense

of us

Stems of flowers

swaying to and fro in a breeze

like drunken crowds

on losing their heads to whims

where logic and reason

have no place lest they make more 

of human nature

than excuses its indigenous hosts

from home truths

put aside, inclined to have a say

in dreams, struggling to make sense

of us

Dead leaves

drifting here, there, everywhere

like lost children

looking for a place called ‘home’

where logic and reason

concede its predilection for love

of human nature,

lend its indigenous hosts access

to life forces

in denial, ever finding their way 

to us left struggling to make sense

of dreams

Birdsong,

signalling a love of life and nature

to practised ears

in the market (for a guide of sorts)

where logic and reason

have a place, but are never enough

for human nature

whose indigenous hosts ask more

of its humanity

than dream litter left in its garden

on the assumption they will clear up

the mess

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015 

New Kids on the Block

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

A slightly different version of today’s poem was published in various anthologies and poetry magazines (1997-2001) before appearing in my first major collection.

I have made numerous revisions to various poems over the years, some minor others major. While most revisions appear on the blogs, I hope (eventually) to publish revised editions of each collection in e-format.

Now, at first glance, nothing seems to have changed much in 20+ years, especially in the sense that a significant proportion of children and young people seem to be having as raw a deal as ever. (Oh, but haven't I said that before once, twice, maybe even a thousand times?) We must encourage our young people to believe in themselves and trust their own judgement a learning curve some young people miss out on altogether ... and whose fault is that ... partly their own, yes, but society needs must accept its fair share of the blame also, and society is you-me-us.

Could it be perhaps that if we all try harder to keep our own little piece of the world clean, safe, and a good place to be, all the other pieces may yet come together in a more bearable, worthwhile  whole…for everyone? 

So many people, rather than act on what their inner self is telling them, prefer to take their cue from the Scarlett O'Hara character in Margaret Mitchell's epic novel, Gone With the Wind. The heroine is always telling herself, 'I'll think about that tomorrow.' It is a common human tragedy that, for some of us tomorrow, never comes...

NEW KIDS ON THE BLOCK 

Gone shopping,

kids left running wild,

trolley rage mums

all smiles (dad’s at the pub);

dog mess everywhere,

kids busy shooting pool

at late-night venues

when not hanging out

on street corners

On the pavement,

collide with some kid

on a bike (my fault

of course, forgot to look);

knives out

in the playground,

acid in the park,

kids chasing death

for a lark

Cops in their stride

(‘Come on, let’s get even.’);

kids on a joyride

to Heaven, street siren

screaming, ‘Amen’;

Mum’s off her trolley,

Dad’s on the booze,

angel on the sideboard,

yesterday’s news …

Copyright R. N. Taber 1997; 2015

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001.]

Circumnavigating Homer OR Engaging with James Joyce

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

At University, in the early 1970’s, I studied James Joyce’s Ulysses. The novel left a deep, lasting impression on me, something of which this poem attempts to convey. Make of it (and 'Ulysses') what you will ...

CIRCUMNAVIGATING HOMER or ENGAGING WITH JAMES JOYCE

Charybdis, blood-sucking history;

myth, reaching out to nourish our fictions

at the breast. Eyes of the navigator...

Burning, like twin saints

Whose lips next to pluck a kiss from me?

I will suck the life from them, spew out the taste

of them - and Pallas won’t care,

my brave Ulysses, (save Mr Joyce put in a plea

for the sheer passion of absurdity)

I'll not be cheated of immortality

or heroes to wrestle the world’s straitjacket

while tin gods debate what’s right...

and what's aesthetic…

Copyright R. N. Taber 1972; 2010

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

L-I-F-E, Achievement Skills (A Personal Best)

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

There is no shame in coming last in whatever so long as we give it our best shot. In my experience, we are often inclined to let the past hold us back to such an extent that we deny our future much of its potential. Childhood hang-ups, failed relationships, being made to feel we are a disappointment to someone whose opinion matters to us…; such issues are never easy to shrug off even as we grow older and (supposedly) wiser.

Life isn’t - or shouldn’t be - a competition. It’s not all about winners and losers. For a start, we’re not all playing the same game even, let alone running the same race. Everyone is different and wants different things from life and that’s how it should be. Even so, we must not - nor should not - live in the past, however tempting sometimes that may be. Besides, we all deserve a decent future even if it doesn't always work out quite as we would have wished.

Body, mind and spirit deserve that we put them first even if it means trailing last in more judgemental eyes (that rarely if ever see a wood for its trees anyway...) Believe me, I know how it feels. I was often put down by family and friends as an 'under-achiever' because I did not do well at school, but still managed to get a good Honours degree at university a few years later, having made time to get to grips with both real life and a less self-conscious awareness of my own potential.

 As I have said before on the blogs - and almost certainly will again - our differences don't make us different only human and we all need to respect that. At the same time, as a teacher of mine used to say, respect doesn't come free but has to be earned. Perhaps if more of us set about earning respect for our differences instead of dragging them into disrepute by employing dubious one upmanship tactics, different people with different perspectives on a common humanity might yet find common ground, even discover that living in peace with one another doesn't have to be an impossible dream...?

This poem is a villanelle.

L-I-F-E, ACHIEVEMENT SKILLS (A PERSONAL BEST)

Judge not the present by its past,
let time fly by
crying, ‘Foul!’ (trailing last)

Beware memory’s fair blast
make us cry;
judge not the present by its past,

Let not life travel light and fast,
pass us by
crying, ‘Foul!’ (trailing last)

Hope, its colours at half mast
each day we die;
judge not the present by its past

Come dawn, let’s feed not fast,
or look it in the eye
crying, ‘Foul!’ (trailing last)

To life, let love a lifeline cast
(if not always at first try);
judge not the present by its past
crying, ‘Foul!’ (trailing last)

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008; 2015

Rites of Silence, Fingers of Blame OR Survival, a Collective Responsibility

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

Time and again, we feel inclined to silently lament how there is nothing we can do about this or that, while expecting someone to do something.

There is always something we can do, even if it is only to lend someone a helping hand or shoulder to cry on or (better still, more often than not) speak up for them.

Arguments rage worldwide while fingers of blame point to the damage humankind is inflicting on the planet. Indeed, there seems to be a majority conscience on the streets that something needs to be done…before it is too late for future generations.

So just whose ear does Earth Mother have, and how effective can we expect it to be, the voice of this majority conscience demanding our leaders listen to and respect our greater hopes and worst fears…and whose silence is deafening?

'Throughout history, it has been the inaction of those who could have acted; the indifference of those who should have known better; the silence of the voice of justice when it mattered most; that has made it possible for evil to triumph.' - Haile Selassie

This poem is a villanelle.

RITES OF SILENCE, FINGERS OF BLAME or SURVIVAL, A COLLECTIVE RESPONSIBILITY

We've heard Earth Mother crying

dutifully considered speaking up often
but chose to say...what, nothing? 

Wherever our senses reaching,

(restless dreams, at work or play even)

we've heard Earth Mother crying

Finally placed on a war footing,
in all conscience asking we be forgiven,

but chose to say...what, nothing?

A welcome peace celebrating

an end to all battles hard lost, hard won;

we've heard Earth Mother crying

The politics of blame resuming,

pointing out certain voices that complain,

but chose to say...what, nothing?

Her weary vigil forever keeping,

world putting its interests second to none,

we've heard Earth Mother crying,

but chose to say...what, nothing?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2018

[Note: This poem has been significantly revised (2015) from a version that first appeared under the title Who’s Sorry Now in an anthology - The Bread of Life, Triumph House (Forward Press) 2004 - and subsequently in  The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; revised edition in e-format in preparation.]

Wannabe Hero or the Real Thing?

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

A 'regular' blog reader has contacted me via the the Comments Box to ask that I repeat the link to an interview I gave about my poetry to a postgraduate student of multi-media journalism who emailed to ask if I would mind being the subject of a project. Benjamin Richter, a very talented young man, and I have his permission to post the link on my blog. As the blog reader did not give an e-mail address, I am posting it here in the hope that he or she will read today's post. You may need to copy the link into your browser to access:

https://r224e31251.racontr.com/index.html

We all have our own take on dreams, psychiatrists not the least. Many if not most of us like to think of ourselves as - subconsciously at least -  painters of our own dreams rather than simply subjected to whatever some proverbial Sandman happens to dish us. Some years ago, someone put to me that the greater part of what we know as wakefulness is but a dream, and the greater part of what we call sleep, a living nightmare. An interesting hypothesis, I thought at the time, and wondered how we would be expected to tell to which mind-body and spirit truly belongs...?

I guess it's much as my old English Teacher, 'Jock' Rankin used to say, "You can set your mind to anything if you try, Taber, but don't always expect to succeed, and never forget there is always a  price to pay one way or another."

For the record, I am still trying...

WANNABE HERO OR THE REAL THING?

I've painted pictures
only I will ever get to see,
an alternative reality
to the world surrounding me,
confounding me, creating
an alternative persona to one 
I am meant to be

I have lived in pictures
where only I will ever go,
a surrealist panorama
of the world surrounding me,
confounding me,
creating the kind of person
I 'm not meant to be

Ah, but in every picture
I'll never (really) get to see
a vibrant wood
for a heavily painted tree
or sail an ocean
for expecting its every wave 
to answer to me

I might even mistake
cloud shapes for skylarks,
even missing out 
on nature's other songs 
for starry heavens 
inviting a poet's (wry) take
on life and death

There are no people
in my pictures, smiling,
waving, kissing...
only ghosts, ever gesturing
loss, regret, and pain,
daring me to make the best 
of a sorry world

I archive the pictures
only I will ever get to see
an alternative reality
to all that's surrounding us,
(still) confounding us,
making of us what we will,
we sleepwalkers

Though the memory
exhibit visions of the mind,
imaging what lies
behind the world's chaos
and our confusion,
let's not mistake art for life,
risk missing out

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015

L-I-F-E, Spelling Us (All) Out

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

Most if not all of us wonder at various stages in our lives just what lies in store for us, and how much of that may be down our own actions whenever giving thanks for the good times or finding excuses for the bad.  

What is the ultimate truth about human life, anyway, but a complex organism of mind, body and spirit embracing all that’s down to us, whomsoever, and whatever it is we like to call ‘fate’ (or God?) to spell out as we go, make sense of as we can, and heed or ignore as we choose.

L-I-F-E, SPELLING US (ALL) OUT

As a child,
I would play as a child,
cry as a child,
try to make sense
of a world I would never
understand

As a youth,
I explored the passion
of youth,
chasing its gods
through a world I struggled
to defend

As a young man,
I would point a finger
at bigotry,
tracking its origins
through looking glass wars 
all around

Older, little wiser,
I would run the gamut
of rogue truths
draining the body
for demanding centre stage 
of the mind

Mature. Human eyes
reassessing any potential,
fast tracking us 
to dog ears pricking up
at even the slightest breath
of ill wind 

Dead to all intents
and purposes, found wanting
for failing to clear
the table of leftovers
for history to make sense    
of a kind

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015