When I
was in Brighton the other day, I kept thinking (gladly and fondly, not in the
least sadly) of the times my mother used to take me there for day trips when I
was a child. Someone contacted me to ask what I am thinking about for much of
the time as I stroll along the beach in the video. Now you know:
Like many
of my poems, this one appeared in an anthology before I subsequently included
it in a collection; it is, for obvious reasons, a favourite of mine.
It is
Mother’s Day here in the UK. I wrote the poem as a tribute to mothers worldwide,
not least my own mother who died at the age of just 59 during that long, hot
summer of 1976. I was 30 years-old then, and still miss her.
Mum was
none too happy when I finally got around to telling her I am gay, but she was
supportive in her own way and it made it clear that she loved me no less for
it. This has made a world of difference to me, giving me a self-confidence in
my sexuality I might otherwise have lacked and encouraging me to be open about
it for a good thirty years, even if it did
take a severe nervous breakdown to make me shake off the shackles of those
offensive stereotypes with which I’d grown up.
Now,
mother love isn’t just about mothers of course; there are many women (and men)
who, for various reasons, may be called upon to take on the maternal role to
children other than their own; like birth mothers across the world, they, too,
rise to the challenge and well deserve our love, admiration, respect and
gratitude.
Ah, but
we should never forget (as I fear we often do) that mothers are only human; we should give them some space sometimes, and never take them
for granted.
LISTEN WITH MOTHER
Listening, she and I, to a mad
world
making history
Commuters, shoppers, trick
cyclists,
all out to beat the clock
Muggers, pickpockets, rogue hoodies
targeting old ladies
Says a prayer for loved-ones spat
on
in our courtrooms
Wonders aloud why, surely, no
spring
so cold and bleak?
Yet…claps her hands, laughs, mimics
the first cuckoo in my ear
Proves it just isn’t true that no
one hears
nightingales any more
Tells fairy stories with happy
endings
to kids with HIV-AIDS
Remarks how grey the landscape
where
once green fields
Sings lullabies to frail tree
spirits made
homeless in old age
Never a life more lived or, even in
death,
a voice more loved
[From: Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books,
2007]
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