https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
Long before I realised I am gay, I was very self-conscious of my failings on both home and school fronts. I wore horrible glasses for years, had a bad lisp that was not all but obliterated with speech therapy in my 20's and a hearing problem neither I nor anyone else understood until I was referred to a specialist, also in my 20's. Other kids would often make fun of me although I pretended to take it in my stride and with good humour. Once, it was all too much for me and a teacher found me sobbing in the cloakroom. 'I wish I wasn't so different from all the other kids,' I confided. 'Being different makes you vulnerable,' she said, 'Start believing in yourself, Roger. You'll see, others will soon catch on and start respecting you for it.' Sound advice, from the only female teacher in the whole school.
Here’s another poem from the archives, rediscovered in an old exercise book last year and slightly revised (where I couldn’t read my handwriting!) and gave it a title. It was written in 1982 as I was beginning to emerge from the other end of a severe nervous breakdown and probing my past for ways of exorcising certain ghosts that continued to haunt me.
I should add that my ghosts were (and still are) a mixed bag of downright vindictive, placidly benign, incredibly friendly and spiritually inspiring. Consequently, a crude but demonstrably effective self-assessment took place over many weeks as I undertook to sort the good from the bad.
Even in those days, I found no peace of mind in religion so turned to nature instead. I refer to God in a very loose sense, a synonym for rather than a source of spirituality. Some people would call me an agnostic or atheist, even a pagan, while I prefer to think of myself as a pantheist.
HINDSIGHT
I lay under a sycamore tree
sunshine cascading down on me
like a slide we used to play on
when we were just children;
it was by the sycamore tree,
sunshine cascading down on me,
you slid into my embrace,
childhood gone, youth in its place
I lay under the sycamore tree,
sunshine cascading down on me,
watching an angel take a turn
on the slide we’d made our own;
the angel whispered in my ear
home truths I didn’t want to hear,
told me time would pass me by
once life had me hooked on a lie
I lay under the sycamore tree,
sunshine cascading down on me,
conscience in as slippery a skin
as the slide we had finally chosen,
one long, lovely, secret summer
bringing us ever closer to each other,
into as sweet an intimacy sliding
as an angel sending God’s blessing
We took a decision that day
to tell the world we’re proud and gay,
vowed to run its gamut
(no matter who or where or what)
of societies not on our side,
where prejudice and history preside,
humanity in as slippery a skin
as the slide we’d finally forsaken
Yet, you reneged on that vow;
it was years on before I discovered how
to look society in the face
(fellow members of the human race)
while you married, had children,
chose a far more slippery slide to play on
than you’d shared with me
long ago under the sycamore tree
Ugly road signs now, the old tree cut down
where a roundabout leads in or out of town
Copyright R. N. Taber, 1982; 2010 (Rev. title 2017)
Long before I realised I am gay, I was very self-conscious of my failings on both home and school fronts. I wore horrible glasses for years, had a bad lisp that was not all but obliterated with speech therapy in my 20's and a hearing problem neither I nor anyone else understood until I was referred to a specialist, also in my 20's. Other kids would often make fun of me although I pretended to take it in my stride and with good humour. Once, it was all too much for me and a teacher found me sobbing in the cloakroom. 'I wish I wasn't so different from all the other kids,' I confided. 'Being different makes you vulnerable,' she said, 'Start believing in yourself, Roger. You'll see, others will soon catch on and start respecting you for it.' Sound advice, from the only female teacher in the whole school.
Here’s another poem from the archives, rediscovered in an old exercise book last year and slightly revised (where I couldn’t read my handwriting!) and gave it a title. It was written in 1982 as I was beginning to emerge from the other end of a severe nervous breakdown and probing my past for ways of exorcising certain ghosts that continued to haunt me.
I should add that my ghosts were (and still are) a mixed bag of downright vindictive, placidly benign, incredibly friendly and spiritually inspiring. Consequently, a crude but demonstrably effective self-assessment took place over many weeks as I undertook to sort the good from the bad.
Even in those days, I found no peace of mind in religion so turned to nature instead. I refer to God in a very loose sense, a synonym for rather than a source of spirituality. Some people would call me an agnostic or atheist, even a pagan, while I prefer to think of myself as a pantheist.
HINDSIGHT
I lay under a sycamore tree
sunshine cascading down on me
like a slide we used to play on
when we were just children;
it was by the sycamore tree,
sunshine cascading down on me,
you slid into my embrace,
childhood gone, youth in its place
I lay under the sycamore tree,
sunshine cascading down on me,
watching an angel take a turn
on the slide we’d made our own;
the angel whispered in my ear
home truths I didn’t want to hear,
told me time would pass me by
once life had me hooked on a lie
I lay under the sycamore tree,
sunshine cascading down on me,
conscience in as slippery a skin
as the slide we had finally chosen,
one long, lovely, secret summer
bringing us ever closer to each other,
into as sweet an intimacy sliding
as an angel sending God’s blessing
We took a decision that day
to tell the world we’re proud and gay,
vowed to run its gamut
(no matter who or where or what)
of societies not on our side,
where prejudice and history preside,
humanity in as slippery a skin
as the slide we’d finally forsaken
Yet, you reneged on that vow;
it was years on before I discovered how
to look society in the face
(fellow members of the human race)
while you married, had children,
chose a far more slippery slide to play on
than you’d shared with me
long ago under the sycamore tree
Ugly road signs now, the old tree cut down
where a roundabout leads in or out of town
Copyright R. N. Taber, 1982; 2010 (Rev. title 2017)
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