New Year, New Hope, Old Story

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

Today’s poem first appeared on the blogs in 2007, and then in Poetry Monthly International (sadly, since discontinued) in 2008 prior to its inclusion in my collection the following year. I am posting it on both blogs, as seems appropriate as we approach New Year’s Eve.

Do try and drop by tomorrow as I will post a new poem by way of greeting 2012 and wishing you all a Happy New Year ahead; as always, regardless of colour, creed, sex or sexuality.

NEW YEAR, NEW HOPE, OLD STORY

Bursting into the New Year
with a sing-song and a prayer
for peace across the world

Toasting our tomorrows
by way of drowning sorrows
for not letting go of pain

Putting on a smile, laughing
at sick jokes, better than crying
for the price of our mistakes

Brave New Year resolutions
little more than poor solutions
to centuries-old problems

Humankind’s record so poor,
less likely to make peace than war
if good at saying prayers…

High and far they fly,
fine words across a New Year sky,
repeating history
 
[From: On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

The Babysitter

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

Years ago, when I first came out, I confided to a friend that, although I had no regrets, I wasn’t confident that I had what it takes to survive a gay life as  it was all a bit scary.

Thankfully, it did not take me long to realise there is no such thing as a ‘gay life’, only life, and it’s down to each and every one of us to make the most of it.  We are all individuals so that ‘most’ will be different for each and every one of us just as different parts will make up different wholes; some parts may even stay out of reach, but if we don’t keep reaching for the whole, we might as well be dead.

As for survival, everything we do and say is like pollen on the wind and as likely as not will plant itself in someone’s mind, someone’s heart, somewhere; it may grow or die, but the chances are it will grow since it found its way there in the first place. And so it goes on, as it has always gone on...until some idiot decides to put the Armageddon Theory to the ultimate test. And then...? 

Who knows? It’s anyone’s guess. Meanwhile, let’s pollinate and create as evergreen a landscape as we can, yeah? Maybe that way no one will ever want to find out if the story of humanity has an ending at all, happy or otherwise.

I once sulkily remarked to a teacher after being humiliated in front of the whole class for talking during an English lesson that I thought imagination was a load of bollocks. I was expecting to be told off again. Instead, the teacher simply shrugged and said, ‘If you want a load of bollocks to babysit you through life, Taber, a load a bollocks is probably what you’ll deserve.’ At the time, I laughed, but those wise words have haunted me for half a century. I hope that, by repeating them here, they won’t die with me when the Grim Reaper pays a visit any more than they died with him.

Oh, but there's no place like home...

THE BABYSITTER

A light shade above my head

casts a pear shaped  shadow

swaying like a cradle to and fro

To and fro, a bored babysitter,

privy to an over anxious moth

seeking maternal reassurance

A door slams, rocking the cradle

as if it were a bully sneaked in

from the Outside, surprising us

Inside, we panic, the moth and I

losing our grip on the ceiling,

it flying off, leaving me to freefall

The pear follows me, catches me,

wraps me in its skin, protective

of its, oh, so vulnerable Insiders

The bully shakes a fist, frustrated

by an inability to impose its will

on either human or winged cousin

Quivering quietly, a sense of peace

ascends if lending a false sense

of security to its baby-in-the-pear

Moth glues itself to the light shade;

I, indifferently, turn the light out

and glue myself to a silken branch

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: This poem will appear in my new collection Tracking the Torchbearer scheduled for publication here in the UK in the spring; readers (including overseas) will be able to purchase direct from me.]

Growing Pains

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

Acknowledging to ourselves that we are gay before we are quite mature enough to take it in our stride is never easy; it is even harder for those who are growing up in a gay-unfriendly home and/or or wider environment.

As for telling family and friends, that can be an even harder nut to crack, and depends on how close and understanding they prove to be; many young gay people are pleasantly surprised when they break the news. Even so, relatively few heterosexual adults have a clue what we go through. So today’s post is duplicated on both blogs since it is for parents as well as for young gay people and their peers everywhere. Not everyone will be happy for us, at ease with our sexual identity or even begin to recognize its integrity. We can but get on with our lives and remember that there are some rotten apples in every barrel.

Now, today’s poem has appeared on the blog before, but not for some time. I wrote it in 1990 after reflecting on my own troubled schooldays, but recently revised its appearance on the page.  In 1993 a youth, also still at school, contacted me anonymously about his desperation at realising he is gay and feeling unable to discuss it with anyone. I arranged with the editor of a poetry magazine, circulated in the area where the youth lived, to include the poem in the next edition although it would be years later before he contacted me to say he’d read it and felt reassured by it. 

On Tuesday evening, a young man phoned in a similar condition. He would not give his name, but we agreed I would call him Simon. I talked to him for a long time. He gradually calmed down and seemed less tearful. I said he could call me any time day or night, but urged him to find a gay support group either within or outside his area; I don’t know what part of the UK he lives, but thankfully there are plenty now, nationwide, all listed on the Internet.

Sadly, Simon would not even consider telling his family or even his best friend. It appears all are devout Christians. Well, if they are devout Christians, they should listen to what Jesus said and let love, not bigotry, lend its weight to their feelings; the first being as natural as a tree that grows where nature planted its seed while the second is a monstrosity created by human beings, and is anything but natural.

This was not the first time someone has called me to confide their struggle with an awakening sexuality it happens every now and then, especially during school holidays. I feel a profound sadness that it can still happen in the 21^st century.

The poem dedicated to young people everywhere who feel alone and scared because they have reason to believe they are gay. You are not alone and it’s nothing to be scared of, but you need to find someone you can really talk to and will listen; the sooner, the better. The best person is always someone to whom you feel close, will support you and whom you can trust to keep a confidence until you feel ready to tell others you're gay and if they have a problem with that, it's their problem, not yours; in addition, or even as a first resort of there is no one else to whom you can turn, counsellors at gay support groups do a great job and it is also an opportunity to meet others who know exactly what you are going through.

GROWING PAINS

It was after Maths, and I had forgotten

a text book so you came back with me,

ostensibly to help me look, only minutes

to spare before Chemistry...

Suddenly, you were holding me

and your mouth missed mine

only because I panicked and ran,

shoving you aside. I remember

how you cried out, all that fear

and pain and love banging in my head

like passionate drums...

But there was no passion in me,

only feelings run riot and I don’t know

how I got through the next weeks,

avoiding you at every turn, demanding

of my anguished Youth other energies

to burn, sought in next-door Mary

other lessons to learn, and learned them well,

hurled into a hell of isolation, playing

at boyfriend, bike mate, regular son, unable

to relate to anyone, riding pillion

on Conversation in perfect rhythm without

much sense until, smashed and weary,

I let peel off all pretence, layer by layer,

sprawled on my bed, hypnotised

by a dippy moth making frantic wing

overhead...

I caught up with you after school

one day, felt foolish fumbling for things

to say, anxiously confided a pain

with geometry. You would not even

look at me…

At your house you turned the key

just as I found words to chance me,

and you (angrily) gave the door

a mighty kick, blinking back tears

that prick me even now, years on,

(no idea where he may have gone)

cherishing still our first nakedness,

who were born to thrill to a freedom

(finally) brought to bear in ritual ending

of our fear

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2011

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in 1^st eds. of Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001; 2^nd ed. in preparation. NB Second editions of my poetry collections will include revisions (some slight, some greater, but always significant) of some poems; I anticipate they will be available after 2015, but probably as e-books rather than in print form. 

Meanwhile, signed 1^st editions are still available at a generous blogger discount; contact: rogertab@aol.com with ‘Blog reader’ in the subject field.]

Just Good Friends...?

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

This poem has not appeared on the blog since 2008 and has been requested by ‘Jordan’ for his partner Keith because ‘it reminds me of how we once were and how we are now. Oh, and it is his birthday on the 27^th...’

Happy birthday, Keith!

Oh, but isn’t it just wonderful to hear a true-life, happy-ending tale, especially at this time of year when the Christmas festivities are over and everyone is feeling a little flat...?

I guess there is hope for closet gay men and women everywhere....

Roll on a time when no one anywhere feels the need to hide away on account of their sexuality.

Meanwhile, those leaders who permit, even promote the persecution of gay people in their countries or so-called ‘community’ localities across the world, are very foolish people if they really think they are doing the right thing by their people, their country or their God.

JUST GOOD FRIENDS...?

Wanting to love you but did not dare;

Wanting to tell you but afraid - of what

I might hear

Wanting to let you see how it hurt me;

caring, sharing just about everything - but

honesty

Trying to concentrate on being a mate

hide this frantic lusting after your body

day and night

We part and I seek refuge in my heart,

where love lies sleeping till we meet again

and it takes flight

Dying to lay the truth on your mouth,

let the world hear my song, a lonely bird

in the cage of its youth

How to voice these feelings I suppress,

risk failing my dreams, see our whole world

collapse?

In tears, I confessed, expecting the worst;

with a shrug and a grin, you let my heart in

and we kissed

At last

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2008

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002]

Up The Down Staircase

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

Today’s post appears on both blogs.

Well, Christmas will soon be over and 2012 is looming ever closer on the horizon. Only on Christmas Eve, a neighbour told me she wished Christmas lasted longer so she could delay having to climb aboard yet another rollercoaster year.

It’s true. Every year life dishes us our highs and lows, successes and failures, fun times and sad times. In less than a week, 2012 will be stretching ahead from Day One. We can but promise ourselves and each other to do our best to make sure it is a better, kinder year...

As for making dreams come true (don’t we all have them?) it has been my experience, on the more promising occasions to which life has treated me now and then, that we may be pleasantly surprised how close we can get just by trying. 

The great thing about sandmen is that they never discriminate; you can be rich or poor, gay or straight, super fit or severely disabled, from any country in the world, whatever...and they don't give a damn, just as it should be among human beings.

So give it a go, yeah?

Me? Oh, I’m just one among millions of dreamers who hold the world, as it could and would be, in the palms of our hands. [Slippery things, though, dreams...]

UP THE DOWN STAIRCASE

A few dreams down, more ahead,

(Well, haven’t we all been here before?)

Earth Mother left (still) seeing red

Integrity as unevenly spread

as ever across the world’s political floor;

a few dreams down, more ahead;

Mutual respect so thinly spread

among this world’s religions’ harder core;

Earth Mother left (still) seeing red

Nations’ survivors bury their dead,

the injured left knocking at Heaven’s door;

a few dreams down, more ahead;

A better world, our forefather’s said,

that’s what our blood and tears are shed for;

Earth Mother left (still) seeing red

A kinder world would bow its head,

seeing fair Progress farmed out for a whore;

a few dreams down, more ahead;

Earth Mother left (still) seeing red

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Making Up With Christmas

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

Today's poem was inspired by a guy I met while strolling on Hampstead Heath on Christmas Day last year. He wished me a Happy Christmas and I replied with what must have sounded like a self-pitying grunt. We got chatting and went for a drink at a pub not far away, where he introduced me to the barman with whom he was planning a Civil Partnership in the New Year. I remarked how good it felt to see two people so happy together. He told me how they almost weren’t, and this is their story; their story, not mine, but I wrote it in the first person, as I often do, because I could so easily relate to it as I dare say many of you can too.

Yes I slept on my own on last night and will again tonight, but where once I may have been prone to lapse into cynicism about even happy memories, especially at this time of year, now they conspire with past, present and future to keep the Poetry of Love alive in me, and life (good times and bad) well worth the living if only for having lit its eternal flame.

Strip away prayer and ritual that are part and parcel of religion and we are meant to discover the heart of love and peace.  

Now, I fell out with Christmas when I fell out with religion years ago; then I got to thinking that, whether or not we relate to Christmas or any other religious celebration its religious sense, can we not all take our cue from its beating heart? I guess the only way to find out is try it and see...

Here's wishing you all many, many, many Happy Days, not just for Christmas, but always.

MAKING UP WITH CHRISTMAS

I slept on my own on Christmas Eve,

woke alone (as usual) on Christmas Day,

reflecting how this year has flown,

robin at my window busy singing away;

I had breakfast as usual, television on,

some politically posturing one-eyed Jack

trying to pull the wool over our eyes

about winning a worthwhile peace in Iraq;

I hastily turned on the radio instead,

hoping to hear some good news for once,

only to hear of another soldier killed

in Afghanistan’s deadly Helmand province

so decided to go for a walk in the snow

I felt like Good King Wenceslas’ page

as my heart grew heavier with every tread,

wished I’d stayed and let cock robin

ease my lonely heart (at least a little) instead;

I reached a bar I’d not visited a while,

Christmas tree in the window, lights ablaze,

sending my thoughts to times long gone

when love filled my heart, nights and days,

recalling how we’d drunk here singing,

two voices as one, never alone in a crowd,

getting high on a real sense of belonging

to each other, and in a kinder, happier world

of its own volition if only a fiction

I entered the bar; it was all but empty,

most of the locals spending Christmas Day

with loved ones, friends and family,

welcoming the truce of it, come what may;

the handsome barman served me a beer,

a knowing look in his eyes that seemed to say,

another lonely soul, nothing better to do

than drown his sorrows and wish them away;

I didn’t like what I saw in those eyes

as he pulled my pint and I bought him one too;

it was as if I were looking in a mirror

at a ghost of the person I was when I had you

for the loving, no thoughts of leaving

Barman and me, we (finally) put things right

and slept together again that Christmas night

London: December 25^th 2011

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

Close To Christmas

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

Sorry, I am getting my days muddled up this week and intended to post yesterday’s poem today. Oh, well, never mind. Here’s a poem that has appeared on the blog before and has been especially asked for by ‘Harrison and George’ who say they enjoy my villanelles; it seems this one is special for them as Harrison’s mother died one Christmas Eve so it is always a difficult time for him. Even so, he says, ‘...just when it seems that even love is not enough to see us through bad times, something comes long to make us realise it IS enough after all.’  

My sentiments exactly...although we might have to wait a while before that realisation makes itself well and truly felt. Oh, but it will find a way so long as we leave the door of our hearts at least ajar if not wide open for it to enter.

Now, as regular readers know, I love robins. For me, they are a living metaphor for what life is all about; stoicism and survival in the face of despair...wherever the twin spirits of peace and love are not only singing from the same hymn sheet for a change, but finding a voice all year round.

The first Christmas after my partner died was both the worst and best I’ve ever experienced; the worst for its loneliness, the best for my discovering that love is everywhere. Even a winter of the heart cannot but find peace, hope and love in a robin’s sweet song.

CLOSE TO CHRISTMAS

One day close to Christmas

in a time long ago…

cock robin sang for us

Life had not been kind to us

but dealt a savage blow

one day close to Christmas

Icy rain, camouflage for tears,

our love no place to go,

brave cock robin sang for us

A kind snowman hid our fears

under a coat of snow,

one day close to Christmas

In a time of gifts and promises

making a fine show,

cock robin sang for us

Our love, it lit up the loneliness

of death’s dark hollow;

One day close to Christmas

cock robin sang for us…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

The Snowflake

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

Today’s post appears on both blogs.

Many thanks to all of you for your support again this year; I am delighted to say that both blogs are likely to pass 13,000 hits by New Year or soon afterwards, which is encouraging for any poet. [Let’s face it. Poetry is never likely to appear near the top of anyone’s wish list.] Do feel free to send the URL/s to anyone you think may enjoy my posts and poems; the more, the merrier.

I hope some of you will order copies of my new collection, Tracking the Torchbearer, which will be available from early March; it will contain some 150 poems in seven themed sections. I’ll let you know when it is ready; I am still collating the poems at the moment, and deciding which to include and which to leave out. In the past, sales have paid for additional print runs of previous titles as well as new publications. However, this may well be the last collection I publish in book form. I may publish direct to Kindle next time, especially if book sales are as poor as I am half expecting given Governmental austerity measures world-wide. Whatever, I will continue posting new poems on the blogs from time to time and readers can explore the archives any time.

A BIG thank you also goes to those of you who have expressed pleasure at the videos my friend Graham and I have uploaded to YouTube; we probably would not have continued without so much encouragement. Oh, the hits are relatively small compared to videos uploaded by others, but, yet again, surprising for poetry videos. I only hope you have enjoyed the poems as much as Graham’s photography:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

To those of you who are enjoying the fiction blog I only started a couple of moths ago (with grave reservations) I hope you will continue to enjoy the storylines I plan to serialise during the months ahead; there will be a mixture of gay-interest and general titles since, as with poetry, I don’t see them as separate genres within a genre. [It is always particularly rewarding when heterosexual readers get in touch to say they have enjoyed a gay-interest story like Dog Roses or a poem like Three Little Words]:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com

Meanwhile...

I sent this poem to everyone on my mailing list instead of a Christmas card. Last but not least, it comes to you, dear readers, as I wish you a very happy and peaceful time...whoever and wherever you are, and whether you celebrate Christmas or not.

THE SNOWFLAKE

I spotted a snowflake on a leaf,

watched it settle for seconds there,

and in those precious seconds saw the face

of my love appear

Eyes that glittered like the snow

smiled back at me as you used to do,

and in that smile I relived the happy times

we’ve  shared, sad times too

By the light of a solstice moon,

snowflake and leaf began to dance,

and their togetherness recalled how we met,

not quite by chance

Lips as red as a robin’s breast

kissed mine, like a breath of spring

gently insisting that you to me and me to you

are its life, love, everything

You were my snowflake on a leaf

seconds before a feisty white flurry

interrupted our waltz, Earth Mother insisting

we home in on eternity

I spotted a snowflake on a leaf,

watched it settle for seconds there,

and in those precious seconds saw the face

of my Christmas appear

[London; December 2011]

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

Apollo In Winter

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

I hadn’t intended to write a poem for the winter solstice even though it happens to fall on my birthday. [I am 66 years-old today...oo-err!] However, ‘Joel from somewhere in the universe’ has asked me to write something for his granddad whose eightieth birthday is also today. It seems that Joel’s granddad is from Greece originally, but hasn’t lived there for years, and came out in 1991 when he was sixty.

Oh, but it’s just as the old adage goes; it’s never too late to get a life.

Congratulations go to Granddad and partner, and many thanks to Joel for getting in touch. I have tried to open up the poem so it is not only the likes of Joel’s granddad that can relate to it.

This poem is a villanelle.

APOLLO IN WINTER

Risen on the winter solstice,

in the firing line of ungodly bigotry,

forever proposing an armistice

As vulnerable to distress

as wintry hearts a summer memory;

risen on the winter solstice

Driven close to The Abyss,

never giving ground on a spirituality

forever proposing an armistice

Savouring freedom in openness,

nurturing every seedling to maturity;

risen on the winter solstice

Resilient if tearful under duress;

among shades of awakening sexuality,

forever proposing an armistice

No lack of strategies for peace,

despite a warring twenty-first century;

risen on the winter solstice,

forever proposing an armistice

London: Dec 21^st 2011

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

[Note: According to Greek mythology, Apollo, the sun god, was bisexual, but had a special preference for male companionship, and more...]

A Christmas Story

http://aspectsofagaymanslifeinverse.blogspot.com/

So many readers have asked me to repeat this ‘alternative Christmas story’ poem that I could hardly refuse.

I’ll be posting a new poem for readers of both blogs on December 24th and 25th and another on January 1^st. Until then, enjoy rummaging the archives, and here’s wishing you all as much peace and love in your lives as there is to be had...

A CHRISTMAS STORY

Standing close to me in the queue,

buttocks pressing on my groin;

my sex aroused, I could but surf waves

of desire, tumbling like blond

highlights in the long brown hair;

if I’d stuck out my tongue,

it would have brushed the pale neck

gracing a denim shirt collar

like down of an angel’s wing making

moves on my heart’s reawakening

Moving forward in the queue till just

us pair, a lump in my throat hard

and throbbing like an erection (that, too)

as in craters of a full moon I made

frantic love…to you; a taxi pulled up

alongside us, your turn to vanish

into a darker side of town. You casually

asked if I’d care to share, and I could

but nod, anxious to pursue those highlights

in your hair just about anywhere

In the back seat, leg pressing against mine,

we gladly revealed our names - and

more. It was time, we both knew, to stop

playing games, answer a question

in the wing mirror’s eyes as the taxi

pulled up outside your door;

It was now or never. I yielded to temptation,

said ‘yes’ without further hesitation;

if only a one-night stand, I was well hooked,

my place in your bed long since booked

Our Christmas goose all but cooked...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2011

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from an earlier version that appears in 1st eds. of Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007; 2nd ed. in preparation.]

Angel Watch, 2011 AD

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

Today’s post is duplicated on both blogs. An earlier version of the poem appeared in the anthology, Tomorrow’s Harvest, Triumph House [Forward Press] 2000; subsequently, in my first poetry collection and on my general blog in 2007. I have only slightly revised it.

Now, you may well ask how I can write about angels when I am not even religious. Well, I happen to believe that much religious language is metaphor and/or mythology; the language of an ages-old philosophy rather than religion. I may often agree with the philosophy, but do not subscribe to the religion. [No offence intended to religious minded readers; it's just the way I am. As I have said many times on the blogs, our differences do not make us different, only human.] 

Many of us like to think there is a Force for Good watching over us and inspiring us from within ourselves to not only survive the good and bad times but also come through them a better, hopefully wiser and stronger person than we started out.  For some people, this Force for Good is God. For people like me, it is nature or Earth Mother.

Whatever, where angels or the like represent a guardian Force for Good in any language, I have no hesitation about including mention of them in a poem.

ANGEL WATCH, 2011 A.D.

Through a hole in the sky, 

a star wishing Christmas

on a pair roasting chestnuts;

kids in the street below

grab all the comfort and joy

of innocence still going,

courtesy of Santa’s grotto

Light, cause for celebration.

Darkness, a natural diversion

if only for the duration;

a minute's silent prayer, for

poor souls everywhere

running for cover at Christmas;

(Sing, angel choirs!)

Hear tills ringing out Gloria

in the stores...

Mary and Joseph still banging

on doors...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2011

 

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in 1^st eds. of  Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001; 2^nd ed. in preparation.]

First Christmas

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

This little poem has not appeared on the blog since 2008 so I thought I’d give it an airing, especially for those gay readers, whoever and wherever they may be, who may feel weighed down by that sense of guilt which the less enlightened among certain public figures love to inflict upon us.

There is nothing sinful, criminal or wrong with the love between two gay men or women. Others will always disagree, and sometimes we might even feel sufficiently put down by various socio-cultural-religious bigots among the heterosexual majority to start doubting the deeper truth and wisdom of our own feelings.

In my experience, something (or someone) always happens along to restore our faith in ourselves and a greater good that does not exclude the gay ethic in its ringing endorsement of human love.

FIRST CHRISTMAS

I could hear cock robin’s song in the air;

at a window I watched first snowflakes fall,

missing you so and wishing we could share

that gift of love at Christmas to us all

In the distance I could hear bells ringing,

a sound to fill this lonely heart with cheer;

at my own front door, an angel’s singing

calling on Christmas to bring its love here

In the window’s reflection, next to mine,

I watched a sad face break into a smile,

aching heart soaring, a white dove divine,

lifting the snowflakes like a wedding veil

Breathless at the front door, I flung it wide...

Our gay love redeemed, its first Christmastide

[From: Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]

Winter Warmers

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

Today’s post is duplicated on both blogs. (Most posts will be for a while.) The poem hasn’t appeared on either since 2009, and has been requested by ‘Sandy and Stuart’ who say they like my attitude towards growing old. Well…older anyway…

Some people warn against looking back and insist we should only look forward. I see where they are coming from, but as I get older I take great pleasure in mulling over happy times. Moreover I come through the experience feeling more ready, willing and able to take on whatever the future may have in store, including death.  No, I am not being morbid. Death is as much a part of life as life itself so where’s the harm in thinking about it sometimes? Thinking about issues can lend them a degree of familiarity in the mind’s eye; the more familiar we are with them, the less afraid we become.

I have had my fair share of ups and downs in life and had to cope with regular bouts of depression since early childhood. Even so, in the sense that I don’t have the HIV-AIDS virus, I’ve led a charmed life!  [Being careful doesn’t come with a guarantee.]

While relatively few of my gay-interest poems are strictly autobiographical, there is a lot of ‘me’ in all of them as I try to recapture something of that charmed life and pass it on for others to enjoy.

Too many people among my generation (I will be 66 on the winter solstice) tell me how they wish they had done this or that during their lives, and maybe they would have more to show for it all.

For a start, life doesn’t grind to a halt just because we get old. [Mind you, if we choose to become couch potatoes and/or give up on ourselves and everyone else it might as well have done.]  As for what we may or may not have achieved in life, this cannot be measured against any temporal yardstick. Indeed, it cannot be measured against any yardstick.  It is impossible to quantify what we have put into or taken out of life. It may seem very little, yet a chance encouraging word to a complete stranger at a bus stop may have made all the difference to their lives and even changed the course of history… Who knows?  Whenever we compare ourselves with other people who appear to be and have everything we are not, we are invariably left feeling very dissatisfied with out lot, even our very identity; it is a very false comparison.

We are all individuals and our contribution to this life cannot be compared to anyone else’s; certainly not in terms of wealth, status, fame etc. Mind you, having wealth, status, fame, etc. isn’t always the hollow shell many such people come across as in the media. (Who knows what goes on in their private lives?)

You and me, we know who and what we are, and if we’re unhappy with that we need to do something about it; at any stage in our lives. Being unhappy just because we do not see ourselves as having accomplished as much as someone else, though, that’s just a waste of time and tears.

WINTER WARMERS

The hair is greyer

than yesterday;

one more furrow

on the brow;

sight less clear than

it used to be;

hearing gradually

getting worse

What now?

A loving heart beats

as yesterday;

no fewer dreams

to inspire;

looking back, on

a good life;

glad to chat with

old friends

By the fire

Counting blessings

in the flames;

seeing (clearly) this

and that mistake,

but happy just to be

who I am;

if a failure, done

my best...

Deserve a rest

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2011

[Note: This poem has been slightly but significantly revised from an earlier version that appears in 1^st eds. of  First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Book, 2002; 2^nd ed. in preparation]

The Dancing Snowmen

http://www.authorsden.com/rogerntaber

Today’s post appears on both blogs. After all, weren’t we all children once, we adults who should be pulling together to make the world a kinder, safer, better place for children everywhere?

Now, they say we discard the whimsy and magic of childhood once we grow up and start making our way in the real world.

Oh, yes? And what do ‘they’ know...?

THE DANCING SNOWMEN

I was rudely awakened 

one Christmas Eve by the rapid beating

of my heart and a tugging

at one frayed, striped pyjama sleeve,

but there was no one there,

no one at all, and then I heard someone

calling my name, ran to the window

and looked up into the sky

where snow was falling, moon blinking

between cotton wool clouds,

but no sign of Santa

so it couldn’t have been him getting

up to his old tricks

I looked down on the garden,

could not believe my eyes, the snowmen

dancing there, carrot noses

like the glow of old coal fires, chestnuts

where eyes should be,

lips reminding me of scarlet ribbons

I first heard tell of in a song

played on the radio only yesterday,

while on their heads

the snowmen wore hats of all shapes

and sizes, the sort

found in an attic. Me, I was already

lost in the magic

I shinned down a drainpipe,

didn’t feel cold at all, soon jigging away

at the Snowmen’s Ball,

a passing owl hooting its approval,

Man in the Moon

showing his face now and then, torchlight

in a steady, sleety rain,

looking for Santa, last seen heading...

(could be for my room)

so I’m saying goodbye to my new friends

returning, oh, so quickly

to where everyone’s favourite story ends

and its magic begins

Where childhood innocence dead and gone,

the dancing snowmen live on...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

A Robin's Take On Winter

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

This poem appears on both blogs today.

Now, regular readers will know that I love the villanelle poetic form almost as much as I love robins...

Once, when I woke on Christmas Day and was feeling sorry for myself as I’d be spending the first Christmas on my own since my partner died, I heard the sweetest sound. When I pulled back the curtains, it was to find a fat robin singing its heart out on my windowsill, its red breast bursting with a pride and joy that touched me as no other birdsong has before or since. Unperturbed by my presence behind the glass, the bird I still think of as ‘my’ robin did not instantly fly off, but stayed as if to treat me to the performance of a lifetime.

We had only a few years together, my partner and I, but I can look back on them with pride and joy rather than despair for never having found anyone with whom I wanted to share my life ever again. [Not for want of looking.] It could have been so different but for ‘my’ robin not only reminding me that life goes on even during wintry days, but also there is beauty to be had there too and not to be missed.

This poem is a villanelle.

A ROBIN’S TAKE ON WINTER

Among stoic evergreen, a robin’s peeping,

singing in answer to a snowman’s call;

 world weeping, Earth Mother but sleeping

Hungry winter days, a fine harvest reaping

of summer’s illusions autumn let pile;

among stoic evergreen, a robin’s peeping

If Heaven. its duty watch, faithfully keeping,

why do its tears freeze even as they fall?

World weeping, Earth Mother but sleeping

Bleak though the landscape, albinos leaping

like children grabbing time to be playful;

among stoic evergreen, a robin’s peeping,

Where a silvery twilight stealthily creeping,

interlopers quick to grab its treasure haul,

world weeping, Earth Mother but sleeping

At sand in a hourglass relentlessly seeping

via cracks in some amateur’s crystal ball,

among stoic evergreen, a robin’s peeping;

world weeping, Earth Mother but sleeping

  

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011