Homing in on a Brave New World

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

If learning is a rites of passage, the foundations of learning must lie with love or why do any of us make the journey in the first place…? 

Love is the greater of all human life forces, whoever and wherever we are in the world, regardless of any socio-cultural-religious and, yes, sexual persuasion, not least because it does not discriminate but takes us as it finds us, no holds barred.

It takes various shapes and forms, of course, love; places and aspects of the natural world will often feed us lovely memories, all the more so, though, if they include loved ones and/or close friends who share them also.

HOMING IN ON A BRAVE NEW WORLD

Once upon a time

in the sunshine, fickle world

spinning me round

till a mist closing in on me

where mistakes

and regrets come to haunt

as they always have, and I dare say

always will…

Oh, but hastily passing them by,

my world and I

The mist begins to clear,

and instead of taunts,

I can hear sweet birdsong

in summer air,

singing love songs, reciting poems

about kinder

as well as darker aspects

of humanity…

Oh, but hastily passing them by,

my world and I

Music, still tugging  

at heartstrings,

inspiring we nature lovers

everywhere

to let open mind and spirit take us

by the hand

as a child to its elders bound,

asking questions…

Oh, but hastily passing them by,

my world and I

Words, lightly hovering

on each ear

like birds in mid-flight before

journeying on

(and who knows why or where?);

sense and sensibility

converging from the start

on the human heart

Oh, but hastily passing them by,

my world and I

Love, invading the senses

like sunshine,

lighting up shadowy corners

of the self,

left inarticulate and ineffective

by inexperience,

ready to accept responsibility

for a new maturity

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015

A Sense of Sepia

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

I was born in Gillingham (Kent) UK. Although I rarely return to Gillingham, it is never far away from my thoughts, especially as I grow old(er) and find myself looking back on my childhood with a mixture of fondness and regret. 

Whatever, I still experience a thrill whenever I travel on the railway line that crosses the river Medway and gives me a glimpse of Rochester castle and cathedral before passing through Chatham and alongside what used to be my old secondary school before arriving at Gillingham station. 

The last time I stood outside my old home in Priestfield Road (also home to Gillingham Football Club) so many shouting, laughing, happy (and unhappy) ghosts came to play hide-and-seek with me that it was like being transported back in time…

Oh, the wonder (and pitfalls) of childhood! How well I wonder, for any of us, do they measure up against the wonders and pitfalls of adult life?  Whatever, it occurred to me as I stood there, confronting my past, that I am but as I am, and all that I am (or will ever be) is the sum of my ghosts. Is it the same for everyone, I wonder…?

A SENSE OF SEPIA 

Confronting the house

where I was born,

so much older now, sadder

(world weary like me);

a poor copy of memory’s

bright front door,

opening up shadowy corners

of the mind

Quite alone in the road

I used to play,

all but empty now, quieter

(time-trodden, like me);

a poor copy of hide-and-seek

and go-karts sure

to bring life to laughter lines

on the brow

Football stadium, home

to comic strip heroes,

looks different now, better

preserved than me

where once shabby red fencing

would sneak me in

to get up a sweat for sandmen

in muddy shorts

Here it was, I would dream

about growing up,

doing things, going places,

being someone else;

a livelier, kinder, inspiration

to mind, body and spirit

than this poor copy preserved

in shades of sepia

Ah, but less of this standing

on time’s misty shore,

letting its fast, outgoing tide

get the better of me …

Rather, I shall bid my ghosts

a fond farewell,

let the Here and Now count

and colour me in

Copyright R. N. Taber (2015)

Flight of the Bluebird

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

This poem was inspired by a growing interest in memorial woodlands since attending a funeral service at one some time ago. Hopefully, it will be read as it was written, in inspirational not morbid mode.

Someone once told me that love is the dare only a fool will refuse. Well, not everyone will accept a dare, and that doesn’t make him or her a fool, but when it is love - whatever our colour, creed, sex or sexuality - the chances are we risk a lifetime of regret by walking away.

The same person told me the Bluebird of Happiness is just a dream, but how like all the best dreams,

we would do well to spot it if we can, and be thus  inspired to keep the memory alive evermore...

FLIGHT OF THE BLUEBIRD 

There are woodlands where I go
whenever life finds me feeling low;
I have but pause beneath a tree,
see its branches shape our history
for giving the Bluebird of Happiness
due leave to reunite us 

I feel the pull of Memory Lane
to peace of mind, away from pain;
among the lines in your fair face,
subtle comforts of a warm embrace,
the finest poems of earth and sky
closet lives we shared you and I,
young, impatient to let it be known
how well we wore love’s crown
if only where bluebirds in twilight’s lace
perform acts of grace 

Though winter bite, nature rest
such is the spirit of renewal we trust,
I have but to pause beneath a tree,
let bare branches rework our history,
have the Bluebird find its way back to us,
among evergreen leaves 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2021

[Note: Revised (2021) from an earlier version that first appeared under the title 'Love on Call' in an anthology, Thoughts and Reflections for Throughout the Year, Forward Press, 2009 and subsequently in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

The Extra Mile

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

Religion or no religion, love has its own sense of spirituality that will always go the extra mile with us regardless of our colour, creed, sex or sexuality...or what other people might say.

Religion or no religion, love has its own sense of spirituality that will always go the extra mile with us regardless of our ethnicity, religion, gender or sexuality...or what other people might say.

THE EXTRA MILE

Eyes, falling among petals, 
veins of flushed cheeks baring all
where roughly torn

Over cold stone, trickles
a crimson grief, upon raging fingers
fall scalding tears

By chance alone, a friendly breeze
has spilled nature’s blood, rebel heart
tearing, crushed

Petals, like confetti on the ground
bodies whimpering without a sound,
seeds in the wind

Among the wreaths, a rose laid low,
yet as we part, risen again, a crowning
of defiant buds 

O, rose, so glorious a resurrection!
Among splendid petals poised to open,
hope springs eternal

One by one, the letters of our names 
smash the stone, pricking the pool like 
life's sweeter tears

Star-crossed lovers, sending ripples 
across the world by way of messaging 
a renewed affinity

Copyright R. N. Taber 1993; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem first appeared in anthologies How Can You Write a Poem When You’re Dying of AIDS?, Cassell, 1993 and Momentous Occasions, Triumph House (Forward Press), 2000 plus subsequently in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]













RESURRECTION or LOVE, THE EXTRA MILE 

I drop my eyes into a flowery pool,
see the veins of one gay cheek split,
baring a thread of ash light

Against cold stone, trickles
a crimson grief. On angry fingers,
fall hot tears

By chance alone, a friendly breeze
has spilled this, Nature’s blood; not so,
a rebel heart - tearing, crushed

Petals, like confetti on the ground;
our bodies, whimpering without sound;
seeds, scattered in the wind

Among the wreaths, a rose laid low
yet as I make
to go…

Risen again, newly crowned!
No glad petals to shine, but looks
familiar embracing mine

One by one, the letters of your name
break off the stone,
prick the pool

This the moment, this the Peace;
you and I together, making ripples
forever

Copyright R. N. Taber 1993; 2015


[Note: A slightly different version of this poem first appeared in anthologies How Can You Write a Poem When You’re Dying of AIDS?, Cassell, 1993 and Momentous Occasions, Triumph House (Forward Press), 2000 and subsequently in 1st eds. of Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]

The Busker OR Music, Spirit of Life

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

When people ask me what kind of music I like, I usually reply that if it is good of its kind, I will almost certainly enjoy it. Many people hate that answer, but it is true. Pop, Classical, Country and Western, Blues, Gospel, whatever...if it is good of its kind, it will have a quality able to reach and move the human heart if only the human heart will let it. In the natural world, the same can, of course, be said for birdsong, various animal sounds, wind in trees, waves lapping (or lashing) at a shoreline...

Now, I well recall an evening some years ago when I was on my way home after a particularly BAD day at work. The thought of returning to my lonely, empty flat was killing me. For no particular reason, I took a different route which meant taking in a subway where a busker was playing. I passed, paused, and stopped to listen to a lively mixture of jazz and other shades of popular music. It talked to me, the music. More than that, it told me a good few home truths like feeling sorry for myself would get me nowhere fast and being lonely was nobody’s fault but my own. I had to go to the world as it sure as hell wasn’t going to come to me.

The busker finished playing and I asked the name of the piece which turned out to be something he’d only recently composed himself, and called it ‘Hello, world, I’m Here, Where Are You?’  I gave him all the loose change I had and headed straight for my local pub where I had a meal, got chatting to people (some of whom would become good friends) and felt all the better for saying, yes, you’ve guessed…‘Hello, world, I’m here…’

What happened to the busker? I have no idea. Over the years, I’ve watched out for him on TV and listened out for that piece of music on the radio, but in vain.

Oh, but one way or another, the world, thank goodness, has always had and always will have...music.

THE BUSKER or MUSIC, SPIRIT of LIFE

Busker, making music,

all kinds of music;

without music, we might

as well be dead

Body rhythms, vibrations,

they all make music

even deaf people can hear

for everyone to share;

if a ‘sound’ means nothing

it has to mean something,

making mind, body and spirit

equal to the occasion

aware something’s out there

keeping us happy, sad,

fulfilled… as only music can

Busker, making music,

all kinds of music,

drowning out war cries,

making peace instead

It’s a happy heart that sings,

a heavy one that cries;

joy and tears are universal

to one and all;

where ‘song’ means nothing,

it has to mean something

making body, heart, and spirit

equal to the occasion

aware something’s out there

keeping us happy, sad,

fulfilled…as only music can

Busker, needing music

like we all need music,

all kinds of music turning

stress on its head

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008; 2015

Where's Robin?

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

Gay or straight, people without a partner or close loved ones, for whatever reason, can feel very lonely; it can so easily seem as if everyone else has someone, and we feel shut out. Yet, love comes in many shapes and forms. We don't have to be in a relationship or even a family to be comforted and inspired by love wherever it makes itself felt.

Simply going for a walk and soaking up the landscape can bring us into contact with other people and help us find words to go further than that first 'hello'. Then, of course, there is always the power of imagination; reading has taken me to some wonderful places and introduced me to a range of wonderful characters. I used to love reading and miss it now that my eyes get too tired to read as often as I would like. Earth Mother, too, is a great comforter, inviting us to share and be inspired by the beauty of the natural world for all its unpredictability.

There is only one cure for loneliness; think positive and do something about it. Oh, and never for one second believe you are the only lonely person in your locality. The trick is to home in on a feeling for love, nurture it, and leave the rest to nature and human nature…

WHERE’S ROBIN? 

Two people meet and fall in love,

live happy-ever-after,

though tears of grief and pain

among sounds of joy

and laughter like drops of acid rain

in leafy evergreen

Some never fall in love,

stay single ever after,

conceal tears of grief and pain,

among sounds of joy

and laughter like drops of acid rain 

in leafy evergreen

Oh, how love confounds us,

many its shapes

and sounds joining with nature

to bring happiness,

like the song of redbreast rarely seen

in leafy evergreen

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2015

[A slightly different version of this poem appeared in Hands of Time, Poetry Now [Forward Press] 2001 and subsequently in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

National Curriculum OR Connecting with Wannabe Heroes

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

When I worked in public libraries as a librarian, it seemed that children and young people were frequently given homework projects on the subject of war. To confront them with the horrors of war has to be a good thing. However, when they were telling me all about their respective projects, enthusiasm would nearly always stem from getting a buzz from the idea of war rather than being appalled by its consequences…

A parent once complained to me that her son wept while repeating a teacher’s graphic description of how a relative had suffered a lingering death from ‘undignified’ wounds sustained during WW2. “No child should hear such things!” she protested. The ‘child’, though, was 16 years-old and (surely?) deserved to know that war just ain’t like it is in the movies.

I well recall being caught out by a teacher engaging in whispers with a classmate. I was invited to share the subject of our discourse with the whole class. I confessed that we had agreed that the lesson was boring. i expected a severe reprimand at the very least. To my surprise, the teacher merely shrugged. Learning, Taber;' he said, is the key to life. You can take it and use it or leave it and lose it, up to you. Now, where were we ...?'  The incident was more years ago than I care to remember, but  I recall it as if it were yesterday, and glad I am that I do; of course, I didn't have a clue at the time what he meant and was simply relieved to be let off so lightly. 

NATIONAL CURRICULUM or CONNECTING WITH WANNABE HEROES

Today we have History

and World War Two

spills across the classroom,

filling every trench

with a stench of homesickness

and blood, desks dripping

pools of mud, where elbows

nudge each other,

half an eye on the clock

as we get stuck in

Under fire, bayonets fixed,
human clocks ticking;

somewhere, there's birdsong
and sunshine overtaking
rain clouds where Death’s face
pours acid tears
on an atomic bomb package
in texts selected
to temper any gung-ho

perspective

Science, and time to discover

more about ticking clocks

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2015

[Note: An earlier version of this poem  appears in Words of Wisdom, Poetry Today (Forward Press) 2001 and  First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002; alternative title added 2015.]