Twenty Thousand Streets Under The Sky, And Counting

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

All over the world there are gay boys and girls coming to terms with their sexuality, and the fact that not everyone has either the maturity or understanding to recognize the moral courage it takes to ‘come out’ nor the inhumanity if not immorality of a holier-than-thou attitude towards  anyone who is ‘different’. 

As I have said many times, our differences do not make us different, only human.

This poem has not appeared on the blog since 2010 and reader ‘Bryan’ has requested its reappearance. Bryan says, ‘I have been happy living with the same partner for some years now, but will never forget my first rejection by a boy in the 6^th form at school. It haunted me well into my thirties, and it wasn’t until I met my partner that I found the courage of my sexuality...’

I love that phrase ‘the courage of my sexuality’ don’t you?

Here’s sending a BIG HUG to Bryan and his partner.

  

TWENTY THOUSAND STREETS UNDER THE SKY AND COUNTING

Wandering a maze of streets where we’d played,

innocents in childhood’s special places,

I recalled dreams we’d had and plans we’d made,

chocolate and ice cream on our faces

Later, during teenage years, I’d dared confide

a sensation of being in freefall,

swept along by feelings compelled to hide

yet bound to answer nature’s frantic call

Wary of streets where once you’d walked with me,

tossed aside by our childhood’s secret haunts

on feisty waves of brave maturity,

I turned a deaf ear to your jeers and taunts

These streets, alone, stood by and embraced me,

kept faith with a youth’s sexuality

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

Accomplices To Illusion

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

Today’s post is duplicated on both poetry blogs as several readers of both have been in touch asking who it was took the photo for the cover of On the Battlefields of Love that I posted the other day. Well, it was my close friend Graham who also designed the cover for my previous collection, Accomplices to Illusion (see below).

Graham has also taken responsibility for my 7^th major collection Tracking the Torchbearer to be published in the spring. [I will post an image once the collection becomes available.] In his job as a graphic designer for a notable Charity, Graham has typeset and produced covers for a number of books for which the Charity has cause to be grateful since there is no denying that his work has encouraged sales and helped raise much needed revenue.

Now, regular readers will know that when I started publishing my collections in 2001, I wondered whether I would sell many if any copies since various poetry publishers were ‘unhappy’ with the idea of my combining gay-interest with more ‘conventional’ themes in one collection; for this reason, I created my own imprint and went ahead anyway. I am delighted to say that I have not only recovered costs with each collection, but also sold enough copies to pay for new print runs and further publications.

Sales of poetry will never be remarkable, but I remain very pleased, especially with positive feedback from gay and straight readers alike. Well, the occasional heterosexual poetry lover has complained about the fact that I include gay material, but this has been the exception rather than the rule. It feels good to have proven various publishers wrong who thought there would be little or no interest in poetry on a gay theme.’ Not only that, but also the fact that I often write ‘form’ poems, use rhyme a lot and even my blank verse poems  and many of often bear little resemblance to the critics’ notion of what comprises modern poetry. If that means I am I am something of an anachronism in poetry circles, I remain a shameless one.

Although my poetry books are only on sale in the UK (and also available in many public libraries), I also sell copies to overseas readers (via PayPal) who email me with enquiries to rogertab@aol.com with ‘Blog reader’ in the subject field. ; I give my blog readers a discount of 35% of  (retail cost + shipping) so please make sure that any initial enquiry includes where in the world you live.

ACCOMPLICES TO ILLUSION

Snowflakes, like miniature chandeliers

performing a magic show

Silvery shadows, dancing across fields

like the homeless at a party

North star, a shiny nugget of white gold;

moon slopes like ski runs

Owl, hunting down the ghosts of spring

to what passes for their fate

White Rabbit knows a trick or two, finds

sanctuary in a storybook

Carrot-nose snowman kept busy posing

for Christmas cards

Churches, mosques, synagogues - iced

like birthday cakes

First light of day, Apollo starts throwing

cold water on it all

Party over, the homeless left to work what

magic they can on a world in denial

{From: Accomplice to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]

Keeper Of the Flame

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

Today’s post is duplicated on both poetry blogs.

After a sleepless night on Friday, I managed to get a reasonable night’s sleep last night so am feeling less washed out today. I don’t mind anyone throwing a late-night party now and then, but ALL night is not fair on the neighbours in a residential area.

Now, I promised everyone a new poem so this post is duplicated on both poetry blogs.

Meanwhile...

Reader, ‘William’ who has to use an Internet café to go on-line has asked me to repeat the link to my YouTube channel.  I hope you enjoy it. My friend and cameraman Graham and I are hoping to record more poems ‘on location’ for YouTube during this year:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Meanwhile...

Raking the heart’s embers is easy enough. It takes but one precious memory to stir the flames of a love that was never meant to fulfil its promises...until, with all the passion of regret, we can but watch them fall away.

Now, a man or woman may be gay or straight, but neither is more or less vulnerable than the other to a love that, for whatever reason, is a secret only two will ever share.

KEEPER OF THE FLAME

I pile on wood,

and the flames leap higher,

bringing us together

as we were that summer

we’d meet up again

and again to go swimming

in the sunshine,

walking in the rain,

playing with fire

from each dawn to sunset,

now flaring, now fading

like love’s wistful voices,

its weepy echoes

I pile on wood,

and the flames are dancing,

lovers romancing

as we were that summer

we’d cherish

precious moments together,

each one stolen

from those who thought

they knew us,

yet never once suspecting

we were lovers,

not just best of friends

hamming it up

I run out of wood,

and too soon the flames start

to fall away

like an audience once a play

has reached an ending

well deserving of applause

even if no one cares

to admit the staged goings-on

were too close

for comfort, disturbing

vulnerable ghosts

ever tearful for being shut

in some secret closet

Fire smouldering, but a flicker

braving it out

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Where The Jury Is Still Out

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

I am still recovering from a BAD cold while trying to proof my new poetry collection ready for publication in February/March. I am also still suffering some side-effects of hormone therapy for my prostate cancer, but no real worries there. As this wasn’t enough, I have been kept awake all night by a nasty, thoughtless, neighbour in the flat upstairs and had to use six buckets of water to clear vomit from the steps outside. [Nor is this the first time.] I would have gone upstairs and confronted him and his guests in the early hours, but he has behaved very aggressively towards me in the past so I’m afraid I chickened out. He is, after all, more than half my age, and I am not feeling very strong right now.  

So you will understand why I haven’t the energy to publish two posts today and [again, sorry] this one is duplicated on both blogs. Hopefully, it may be of some interest to all readers.

As I do with poems, from time to time, I have revised this one since an earlier version appeared on the blogs in 2010. Regular readers will be only too familiar with the sentiments expressed.

Political correctness can be such a pain sometimes, responsible as it is for many people being afraid to say what they really think; in public, anyway. For example, I would rather know if someone is a homophobe or how am I to know he or she is an enemy. More importantly, how am I supposed to know unless people are honest with me to my face that I need to encourage them to develop a more human, positive, responsible attitude towards sexuality?  Also, many people are quick to play the political correctness card as soon as they feel things aren’t going their way. Take my noisy neighbour for example. I am in no doubt that he would try and play the race card were I to make a formal complaint against him.

Incidentally, I can honestly say I have never played the gay card and never would. [Equal Opportunities and diversity legislation here in the West has its flaws, and is often abused.]

As for the homophobes among us, making a friend of an enemy is just about the best Public Relations gets on any field of play, but you have to know your enemy first.

[NB Look out for a new (love) poem tomorrow.]

WHERE THE JURY IS STILL OUT

Some people say there van be no safe haven

for gay men and women in that place some need

to call Heaven

Some people say no God would ever tolerate

the kind of so-called ‘sin’ perpetrated by such as  

gay men and women

Some people say Holy Books are a measure

of spirituality compensating for any open-minded

take on homosexuality

So who are they that so love to pit humankind

against its own on the grounds of this socio-culture

or that religion?

So who are they who rail against those gay men

and women that are but as we are, and by nature’s

rule, not ours?

So who are they who say they side with doves

of peace, and then go to war with such honourable

intentions?

Let them speak who claim to know how God

will have his way with men and women who happen

to be gay

Let them speak who would rail against those

of us who are gay, and don’t let political correctness

win the day

Let them speak who say gays cannot be forgiven

for, oh, such a sin on the grounds of this socio-culture

or that religion

No matter who or where, all humankind deserves

a voice, gay folks too, each of us gifted with a feeling

for freedom

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2011

The Yearling

http://www.authorsden.com/rogerntaber

Today’s poem last appeared on the blog about 18 months ago and I have been asked to repeat it by ‘Rhys’ who says he can relate 'only too well' to the poem, but adds that he later found love again with his partner 'Owen' with whom he has been living for several 'very happy' years.

It is perhaps appropriate that the poem should follow hot on the heels of yesterday's post and poem...

THE YEARLING

You body relaxed,

the tip of your tongue stroking my lips

as we made love,

exploring, adoring, each other’s bodies,

oh, so tenderly at the start

then letting rip with pent-up passions

of the heart

It was our first time

and you gave no hint It would be our last

as we made love

in a manner that was sheer poetry

desire in perfect rhythm,

naked flesh feeding on the pleasures

of wet dreams

We became as one,

riding a pale yearling over misty meadows,

majestic mountains,

finally down heather-scented slopes

leading to the sea

where we lay, spent, on a sandy shore

content in its embrace

I stroked your hair

where its flames but flickered in the hearth

you’d made of my heart

and I longed to rouse your heat in me

again, again, again…

even as each exquisite flame died

one by one

You stirred, kissed me

until my mouth felt bruised by the intensity

of that long goodbye

though not as I sensed you’d have it be

but much the same as I,

lying in sun-kissed sand, no one

making demands

That kiss was magic, its spell cruelly broken,

your mind set on marrying a woman

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

A Gay Dad's Story

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

Over the years (I am 66 now) I have met a number of men, with female partners and children, who are essentially gay, but choose not to go there; not publicly anyway. Many haunt late-night/early morning cruising areas while their partners think they are working late at the office, or they may have a secret gay lover who is willing to settle for always being second-best just as a straight man’s mistress has dome for centuries. They give me lots of reasons, these gay dads; some cannot envisage a life without children while others (still) fear being stigmatised for their natural sexuality. Some make happy enough marriages, if you can ever be happy living such a BIG lie; others  live out their lives as best they can, carried along by a genuine love for wife and children.

Today’s poem has only ever appeared on my general blog (in 2007)  prompted two wives getting in touch with me  to ask how any man can be so selfish as to marry for  convenience only to announce at a later date that he has decided to make a new life with a boyfriend?  Do they have no conception of pain and humiliation?

Of course gay married men have a conception of pain and humiliation; many if not most experience it every day at some time or another.

I could not tell these women why their husbands chose to marry them, only that I am sure they were and are loved. I can understand and deeply sympathise their feeling of being ‘used’ ...but it isn’t as simple as that is it?  Acknowledging sexuality is nearly always a formidable first step, not least due to prevailing misguided attitudes in various homes, work places and societies world-wide. Arguably, moreover, a person cannot be accused of living a lie if they have never got around to acknowledging the truth. The next step is moving forward, and can be even more complex; so much so that some gay people either refuse to take it or feel prevented by circumstances from doing so.

Now, I know from personal experience that it is possible to be in love with two people at the same time. In my case, it was two men, but why shouldn’t it be a man and a woman?

Yes, a gay man should be honest with a female partner about his sexuality, but he risks losing her and someone in love is not always up to taking that risk. No, it isn’t fair - on either party - and yes, honesty is the best policy, but some gay men  stay in denial all their lives and genuinely don’t see themselves as living a lie; any casual sex with someone else on the side is seen as ‘a male thing’ to which they are entitled and they see nothing wrong in it.  Is it any wonder that a partner who is left to discover this for herself feels betrayed? The heterosexual majority does not have a monopoly on sexism.

Right and wrong are two sides of the same coin; it is rarely difficult to make a case for either, no matter which way the coin falls. I am focusing on men here, but the same applies to women of course. [Suffice to say, this is a gay man’s blog, but much if not most of what I have to say applies to lesbians as well.]

So all you gay and bisexual dads whose wives/partners may have no idea that you fancy men and/or enjoy sex with them, take heart as there are many, many of you out there. [I am not encouraging this particular element of deceit in a male-female partnership, but simply acknowledging a fact.] However, bear in mind that love deserves honesty; nor is love as fragile as some like to make out, and I know lots of people who have  been amazed at how much love can bear in the longer if not always the shorter term.

I remain on the fence with this one, neither condoning nor condemning, but sympathising with all those people playing happy families out there while never quite as happy as they could be were men and women world-wide given less cause  by the environment/society in which they live to be fearful of the ultimate challenge facing each and every one of us...to be ourselves.

A GAY DAD’S STORY

Married, with kids, and not unhappy,
lives all but running true;
Trying to be a good husband, dad,
seems the right thing to do;
Of daily life, real love no less a part
for phantoms tugging at the heart

like children longing to come out to play
but made to stay indoors, lest angels
with dirty faces lower the tone, heaven

but looking on

Married, with kids, and not unhappy,
lives all but running true;
trying to be a good husband, dad,
seems the right thing to do;
few greater joys of Mother Earth than love,

togetherness and birth,

nor do these fade as others burst through

like spring flowers,

a long, hard winter done, heaven

but looking on

Parted, kids grown, and not as happy
as we ought to be,
but a sense of integrity, worthy
of our sexuality;
time enough for friends and family
to understand, lessons learned;

love, once freely given and shared,

never quite overturned;

same sun rising and setting, heaven

cheering, weeping

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2012

[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 Books, 2002; 2^nd ed. in preparation. NB 2^nd eds. of my poetry collections will not be available until after 2015 and will contain revisions of some poems. Meanwhile, 1^st eds. remain available at a generous blog discount. Contact rogertab@aol.com with ‘Blog reader; in the subject field. ]

Dark Secrets

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

Today’s post is again duplicated on both poetry blogs.

Some readers who also enjoy my fiction blog have been in touch to ask for more details about my novel Catching up with Murder published by Raider International last year. So I am publishing a synopsis (+ poem) here today.

I cannot publish it as an e-book until next year (due to publishing contract) and may well serialise it on the blog eventually. Meanwhile, interested readers who may be interested can buy the novel from http://amazon.com & http://www.barnesandnoble.com/ (overseas) while UK readers can purchase from http://www.amazon.co.uk; all readers can access at the publishers’ own site: http://raiderpublishing.com/Home_Page.html

CATCHING UP WITH MURDER: a novel in three acts (approx. 100,000 words)

By Roger N. Taber

SYNOPSIS:

The novel divides itself naturally into three acts.  Act One commences with a young woman, JULIE SIMPSON, asking retired Chief Inspector FRED WINTER to investigate the death of an aunt, RUTH TEMPLE, found dead in her bath. Since a large amount of alcohol was found in Ruth’s body, the coroner records a verdict of accidental death.  Julie thinks otherwise but cannot convince Winter at first...

Once Winter is on the case, he not only embarks on various avenues of enquiry regarding Ruth Temple but is also reunited with an old flame CAROL BRADY whose husband had been murdered some years ago and whose son LIAM has been killed in a car accident although no body recovered and assumed washed out to sea. One potential lead after another leads to the same dead end, a village on the south coast called Monks Tallow. Moreover, Winter starts to suspect that Liam Brady is not only alive but inextricably linked to a series of tragic ‘coincidences’ there.

Act Two now takes the reader back twenty years to the early 1980s. A young man, RALPH COTTER, shoots his friend, SEAN BRADY, at Brady's home, witnessed by Brady's young son, LIAM.  Cotter, a married, closet homosexual, is terrified that Brady will expose him. Cotter runs to his lover, Darren “Daz” HORTON for help. They head for a cottage belonging to Horton’s aunt. (The aunt is visiting her daughter in New Zealand so the cottage is empty). En route, they stop to give a lift to a woman, SARAH MANNERS, whose car has broken down in a storm. Shortly afterwards, the car skids and smashes into a tree, killing Sarah.  The two men bury the body and Cotter evades capture by taking her identity.  Darren’s aunt dies and he inherits the cottage. He and Cotter live there, happily enough, as man and ‘wife’ in an obscure English village called...Monks Tallow.

In due course, the past catches up with Cotter and Horton, driving them to commit three more murders.

Act Three follows Fred Winter to Monks Tallow where he slowly pieces together this jigsaw of audacious masquerade and murder while inadvertently putting himself and loved ones in mortal danger...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007 

Meanwhile...

Here’s a poem about dark secrets if not the necessarily as dark as those that Horton and Cotter hug to themselves for so long. For me, as regular readers well know, one of my darkest secrets was once my sexuality. I had acknowledged to myself that I am gay by the time I was 14 years-old.

In those days, same sex relationships were a criminal offence here in the UK. Throughout my teenage years, I told neither family nor friends. I wasn’t ashamed, just scared. Even as a young adult, it would still be some years before I’d find the self-confidence to come out once and for all. It had been drummed into me during my vulnerable formative years that being gay was something dirty if not perverted.

Within my family I only ever discussed my sexuality with my mother just a few years before she died of cancer in 1976; she warned me against telling my father or brother. It took a severe nervous breakdown in my early 30s before I came out of that dark, lonely closet once and for all.

This poem is a villanelle.

DARK SECRETS

Dark secrets of the heart,

like claws of a trapped bear

ready to tear us apart

Under threat at the start,

nature’s soul stripped bare;

dark secrets of the heart

See truth’s unerring dart

sent flying through the air

ready to tear us apart

No sweet a fruit or tart

than words we cannot share;

dark secrets of the heart

Tools of a far subtler art

than Medusa’s stony glare,

ready to tear us apart

Endgame, a poison dart

(any time, anywhere);

dark secrets of the heart

ready to tear us apart

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

Blasphemy

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

Today’s post appears on both poetry blogs today, not least because a number of heterosexual readers got in touch to say they enjoyed my serial Dog Roses. 

The poem has appeared on the blog before, and introduces a new serial - Blasphemy - on my fiction blog; a gay-interest crime novel set in London UK that was published in 2006. 

For details and a synopsis: http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com

Meanwhile...

According to Psalm 14 of the Bible, people who don’t believe in God are filthy, corrupt fools, entirely incapable of doing any good. Although those sentiments were written over 2,000 years ago, non-believers are still stigmatized to this day, especially by Christians and various other religious groups regardless of which Holy Book they purport to follow.

Does the fact that I take a strong sense of spirituality from nature where I found none in religion and cannot begin to relate to a personified God make me an non-believer? Religious groups would say, yes. Me, I am not so sure...


This poem is a villanelle.

BLASPHEMY

Where the blasphemy in any Belief

that takes its cue from humanity,

shining through like a spring leaf?

Why the pain, recriminations, grief

put down to a person’s sexuality?

Where the blasphemy in any Belief?

Earth Mother has given us our brief

for each season of our mortality,

shining through like a spring leaf

Let religious leaders make mischief,

undermining a common equality,

where the blasphemy in any Belief?

Another word pit against us is ‘if…’

confusing us, its very duplicity,

shining through like a spring leaf

While bigots use God’s handkerchief

to sneeze at our integrity…

where the blasphemy in any Belief

shining through like a spring leaf?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

Casual Chat In A Greasy Spoon

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

This post is duplicated on both blogs today.

Some heterosexuals are (still) all but obsessed with the belief they cannot possibly contract HIV-AIDS  because they are not gay. Yes, it’s unbelievable, but true. When it happens to them, they haven’t a clue how to handle it. The same can be said for some gay men and women of course; a lot of gay guys, too, live in a complacent little bubble of their own making.

I have written many poems about HIV-AIDS but it is today’s poem that last appeared on both blogs in February 2010 which has caught a reader’s eye. I have been asked to repeat it by ‘Rudi’, who apparently has a friend in denial about recently been diagnosed HIV + while being treated in hospital for something else. Rudi says, ‘It is like he can’t believe it could happen to a super fit heterosexual like him even though he sleeps around and doesn’t always use a condom. It has never occurred to him that one of his casual girlfriends might have been infected by another casual male partner...as if he’s the only one into casual sex!’ Rudi adds, ‘They have tried to help him at the hospital, but he won’t listen. He has convinced himself there has been a mistake, and they are a bunch of incompetents.’

Playing the blame game is always a waste of time. Rudi’s friend needs to see a doctor and counsellor and get medication/advice NOW. Just because people can live for years with the HIV-AIDS virus these days is no cause for complacency and is wholly dependent upon the right medication and a mature attitude to sexual responsibility.

Even talking to a complete stranger in a 'greasy spoon' café is as good a start as any although why so many straight guys seem to think we gay guys should be any more comfortable with the idea of HIV-AIDS than they are remains a mystery to me. Maybe they think that, because we have lived with the possibility longer and perhaps more intimately; it is ingrained in our psyche, forewarned, so to speak, being forearmed? There may even be something in that, but living with HIV+ is no easy ride for anyone.

This is an autobiographical poem and the guy who told me he was HIV+ plainly thought I’d be ‘a good guy to talk to’ because he thought I ‘looked gay’ and ‘would know about these things.’ I tried to reassure him and gave him some good advice for which he was grateful, but squirmed a lot. We shook hands when we parted, and he told me in a  well meaning if also very patronising way, ‘It’s been nice talking to you. Hey, you lot aren’t so bad, are you?’ I took it to be a rhetorical question and summoned a diplomatic smile.

By the way, Rudi didn’t say if he is gay or straight [does it matter?] but did mention that he is tested for HIV-AIDS on a regular basis, but a lot of his friends ‘can’t be bothered’ and/or ‘would rather not know anyway.’  Good for you, Rudi, and I hope you manage to knock some common sense into those idiots.

This poem is a villanelle.

CASUAL CHAT IN A GREASY SPOON

He blurted he’s HIV+ but isn’t gay

and blames people like me

(what was I supposed to say?)

I met him in a cafe one spring day

(me wearing a bright pink tee);

He blurted he’s HIV+ but isn’t gay

He was sad. I said, ‘Hi, a nice day’

and he got really angry

(what was I supposed to say?)

He said he doesn’t do nice, no way,

to ‘my sort’ especially;

He blurted he’s HIV+ but isn’t gay

I struggled to keep my hurt at bay,

fend off his hostility

(what was I supposed to say?)

Sex is a game it takes two to play,

we agreed over Fair Trade tea;

He blurted he’s HIV+ but isn’t gay

(what was I supposed to say?)

[Note: From: On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

Bus Fare

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

Yesterday, I posted a poem inspired by a song sung by Doris Day. A reader has been in touch to ask, ‘It is bad enough that someone who claims to be a serious poet writes gay rubbish, which I find offensive, but to write about Doris Day is really the last straw!’

Well, for a start I have never claimed to be a serious poet only someone who takes poetry seriously; well, most of the time. I am certainly no poetry snob, and readers will know that I write on all manner of themes. Nor am I a music snob. I love Doris Day just as I love Ella Fitzgerald and Johnny Cash.  I love some classical music, but I also love some pop and adore rock ‘n’ roll. I love some opera but cannot claim to be an opera buff. With me, it’s pick’n’mix. So what’s wrong with that? If it is good of its kind, I will usually enjoy it. Why shouldn’t I enjoy Elvis Presley every bit as much as Placido Domingo or adore Shirley Bassey just as I do Diana Ross and Leona Lewis. And let's not forget the late, great Dusty Springfield or, for that matter, Mario Lanza or Frank Sinatra. I could go on all day...

If people choose to limit their appreciation to one kind of music, one genre of literature or one period of art, that’s up to them. But there are lots of people like me who love to dabble in this ‘n’ that, and where’s the harm?

So I offer no apology for offending that particular reader. What planet is he (or she) from, I wonder?

Meanwhile...

Several readers have been in touch over a period of a year or so to say they could relate to this poem and have asked me to repeat it so, as it hasn’t appeared on the blog since May 2010, here it is again.

Who says public transport is boring?

BUS FARE

He was a very ordinary guy,

with an ordinary face,

wearing ordinary clothes;

I couldn’t place why

he stood out from the crowd,

he just did

Fair, wavy hair that never

saw a dye; a twinkle

in the eye, probably a lie

and never meant

to be read, leastwise,

not how I did

When the seat next to him

became free, I sat down,

and would have engaged

in light conversation;

instead, we both stared

straight ahead

He brushed against me

as he left the bus;

for a while, he was just

a Thought for the Day

till I got off, turned back,

ran all the way

Caught up with his smile,

no ordinary guy at all

[From: First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002]

Frontiersmen

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

The phrase ‘making love’ can be something of a misnomer, but is always a new experience and usually a delight, whether with the same person or someone different. 

Now, sex may well give physical pleasure, but genuine affection, whether or not it transcends into love later...  These will take us to indescribably wonderful frontiers of existence and beyond ... Well, so long as we are not simply playing games with it.

The prevailing irony for many people is that we don’t even need sex to take us on what are, long or short, literally journeys of a lifetime...

FRONTIERSMEN

I love to lie naked with you,

letting the warmth of your flesh

invade mine and comfort me,

making me so glad to be - alive!

In an embrace or lying still,

asleep or awake, your nearness

touches my heart as surely

as your lips parting to receive

my yearning tongue…

as we make love, rediscovering 

each other and ourselves

during each gloriously intimate

moment as we, in the gutter,

reach for the stars and discover

new galaxies to explore,

plant our seed, express a need

denied all known art forms

for more, oh, but far more than sex

and its ready Box of Delights

can expect to offer as we lie here

together, secure in the knowledge

that we are soulmates, bound

by a love beyond mere parameters

of time and space and I gaze upon

your face, content to caress

its outline, lightly, with a forefinger,

knowing that soon your smile

will cross new frontiers, lips raise

a cheeky grin before we begin

again, again…to show the world

how it matters far, far less than

our being here together, like this...

I love to lie naked with you,

letting the warmth of your flesh

invade mine and comfort me,

making me so glad to be - alive!

 [Note: This poem has been slightly revised from the original as it appeared in 1^st eds. of A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books2005]

Bonding With Nature

http://www.authorsden.com/rogerntaber

I bonded with nature even as a child, but as I grew older the bonding became more intense and intimate. In part, it was a form of escapism, enabling me to be myself in a way the world of human beings rarely let me; in part, too, it was the kind of spiritual bonding I had sought but never come close to establishing with religion even long before I realised I am gay. [Why does religion have such a problem with sexuality anyway?]

Most important of all perhaps was realising how insignificant I was amongst all this vast expanse of natural beauty and how little it really mattered who I was or what I achieved in this life any more than who I wasn’t or what I didn’t achieve. So what had I to lose by simply being myself, a gay man with aspirations that may or may not ever be realised, but where was the harm in trying? I am over simplifying, of course, but that is the gist of what my growing affinity with nature taught me.

In 1973 when I wrote the original draft of the poem, I had just completed Finals and was sitting on a hill overlooking Canterbury, its splendid cathedral barely visible in an ethereal heat mist but no less splendid for that.

I’d been watching a butterfly gliding leaves of grass for some time before I was overwhelmed and all but swept away by a huge wave of relief; after three years of establishing an immensely enjoyable but somewhat artificial bond with literature, I could still feel more inspired by a common butterfly than a single stanza from a great poem, one of Shakespeare’s finest monologues or even the likes of Tennessee Williams’ brilliant take on a metaphorical streetcar named Desire.

Capturing that moment was more important than writing the poem. Years on, recapturing that elation, almost like lovemaking but even more intimate and lasting, and sharing it with you, is far more meaningful than a mediocre poem I drafted very roughly on the back of an exam paper because it was all I had.

The closest I had to a mentor during schooldays, an English teacher known affectionately to generations of school kids as ‘Jock’ Rankin, once told me that experiencing a poem, or any creative piece for that matter, is as important as the piece itself because it takes us where more often than not we hadn’t even realised we wanted to go. I’d been studying literature at degree level and only just discovered what he meant afterwards

I was so accustomed to jumping in and out of the closet like a jack-in-the-box whenever it suited me that I’d almost persuaded myself it was the way things had to be.

Oh, I’d enjoyed my flirtation with academia, and it wasn’t quite over yet, but it was a world away from creativity, not to mention real life. I was glad to return to my roots, no matter what the consequences of that might or might not prove to be. Regular readers may recall that one immediate consequence was a brief fling with a fellow student. I had adored him from a distance for what felt like an eternity, but had been too scared to go there, convinced he was a raging heterosexual since he always had a pretty girl on his arm...

Oh, but how appearances can be so deceptive, and epiphanies so liberating...!

BONDING WITH NATURE

Trees, rustling

their leaves;

Birds, singing

their songs;

Clouds, smiling

at us,

gay lovers finding

each other

Trees, nodding

their heads;

Birds, heaving

their breasts;

Clouds, passing

us by,

gay lovers kissing

each other

Trees, cheering

us;

Birds, singing

us;

Clouds, blessing

us,

gay lovers, coming

to life

Trees, shaking

their heads;

Birds, flying

off;

Clouds, frowning

at bigots

charging gay lovers

with sin

Trees, welcoming

us back;

Birds, singing

for us;

Clouds, smiling

at us,

gay lovers, returning

to life

Copyright R. N. Taber 1973; 2010

Cocktail

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

I wrote the original draft of today’s poem years ago, and it still pumps new life into this ole dog now and then when his tail starts to droop...

COCKTAIL

You smiled at me. I looked away,

(my companion had already noticed,

warned me you were gay) tried

to ignore an invitation in your eyes

I couldn’t help but read, longing

to respond with unrestrained  delight,

but family and friends all thought

I was straight

You edged closer. I tried to follow

my companion’s lively conversation,

nod and smile in the right places

while keeping an appreciative eye 

on contours of your body running

true for someone who’s working out

regularly, full lips blowing

kisses at me

My companion glared at you, even

suggested we leave, find another bar,

where our private space would not

be intruded upon by the likes of some

openly gay man claming the right

to make a play for just about anyone

who might take his fancy

(in this case, me)

You leaned across me at the bar,

an erotic cocktail of breath on my lips

demanding I rub a tingling calf

oh, so, subtly against your tight jeans

nor did I pull away a hand on the bar

you brushed with yours, my companion

hastily downing his beer, insisting

we get out of there

I finally met your searching look,

let you read me through and through,

closed book though I had been

for years, recipient of a prejudice fed me

by the less enlightened among us

who prefer to see home truths buried

under a heap of lies, if only to secure

outrageous stereotypes

You took your drink, moved away

and turned your back on me, but not

before you mouthed the invitation

your twinkling eyes had been so keen

to pass on from the start. I fought

in vain to give my companion my full

attention and resist a frantic tugging

at my heart

Suddenly, I did what I’d wanted to do

for years and threw caution

to the wind, saw that peace of mind

would elude me forever and a day

until I not only accepted that I am gay

but refused to hide away, let family

and friends see the whole of me

unashamedly

A bemused companion wishing me well,

I went to tell you I fancied you like hell

Copyright R. N. Taber 1982; 2009

National Trust Outing

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

Today’s poem last appeared on the blog in February 2010 and is not only a firm favourite of mine but, judging by feedback, has proven popular with many readers, straight as well as gay. It has always gone down well at poetry readings and I love reading it, especially to mixed gay/straight audiences.

New readers may be interested to know that I included it in a very informal poetry reading I gave on the 4^th plinth in Trafalgar Square back in July 2009 as my contribution to sculptor Antony Gormley’s One and Other ‘live sculpture’ project to view the performance, click on the link, but be warned the whole thing lasts an hour:

http://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223121732/oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T

I have also read the poem on YouTube and you can catch the recording below; it is the second of the two poems I read.

NATIONAL TRUST OUTING

On my way downstairs, I paused

to look at a portrait on the wall

and it winked at me, opened

its mouth and said (laughingly),

“Yes, I too was gay in my day

although the word not invented

nor times quite ready to receive

the unseemly likes of a common

painter and his patron lover - so we

had to lie, indulge in subterfuge.

No one had the faintest idea,

certainly not the family (wife and

children included) or that ogre

Establishment whose inner circle

I was free enough to tread, so long

as I dared not bring it into disrepute

by word or deed. Oh, I loved them

well enough, indeed. But it’s not for

love of those I pose - radiating,

I suspect, an inner happiness?

Ah, yes, you understand. It is my

lover’s brush, exploring mind

and soul, touching what makes life

real (no trappings and trimmings

comprising Society’s notion - of

propriety or political expediency,

nor even an image of home fires

burning) – but Love, in all its

rampant glory, telling my story

here and now, for whomsoever might

care to consider, critically, a glow

in the cheek, lift of the eyebrow,

crook of the knee, hands pointedly

showing off slender fingers, touches

invariably missed in critique, put down

to art’s mystique, few appreciating

the intimacy between lover and lover,

bouncing off each other, long after

the oils runs dry, spoils of eternity.”

In my own time I descended,

feeling befriended

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2006

[From: The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; a printing error in the first print run was subsequently corrected and the above version also included as an Appendix to A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time, Assembly Books, 2005.]