Leaves On The Track

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

I don’t usually believe in Fate, but every now and then, something happens, and I wonder ...

(Photo taken from the Internet)

LEAVES ON THE TRACK

I first glimpsed him on a railway station,

he on one platform fretting about a late train,

me doing much the same on mine,

both of us making time for glances in the rain;

his hair was the colour of a summer storm,

eyes, shining like leaves in the late afternoon,

lips as full and red as cock robin’s breast,

and kisses as feisty as midsummer raindrops

rehearsing a lively tune

I felt as if I’d known him all my life

though he was but a complete stranger to me;

it was like taking off in a time machine,

revisiting every lovemaking in a gay life history;

the rain turned to tears for lost loves

though its freshness on my skin so exhilarating

it took me through cruel hoops

without fear, and me a one-time victim

of its storytelling

The roar of his train raged in my ears

(the cries of thwarted lovers through centuries)

then my train arrived, screaming at me

to get real, be rational, dismiss foolish fantasies;

boarding the train, a hand on my arm

made me to turn around but I saw no one there

only a sad, lonely, empty platform

much as a poet might describe a fairytale

stripped bare...

I flung open the door and jumped down

(just seconds before your train took off with a yell)

only to be tossed on a sea of waving hands

as if I were object and subject of a witch’s spell;

Ah, but I had forgotten about white magic

and how hope will always get the better of despair,

like the best poems and fairytales

conspiring to make us miss our trains,

keep us there

It didn’t seem long before we caught another train,

looking forward to the time we’d be together again

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009; 2011

[Note: From: Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012 (without photo)]

Seasons Of The Heart

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

Like most people, I love my home country, not least because it is my home but also, too,  for its seasons. We may complain about winter but it is always good to look forward to spring.

It often seems to me that as the seasons pass, return, and pass again...so the human heart follows them rather like an adoring fan trying to copy the ways of this celebrity hero or that.

As regular readers know only too well, Earth Mother has been my heroine since childhood. She endures and survives humankind’s repeated attacks on her yet remains, for the most part, a force for good. Oh, yes, she can be harsh, even mercilessly cruel, but isn’t that true of the human psyche also?

I like to think that human nature, too, is a force for good; at least, for the most part. Yet, I look around at what is happening on my own doorstep, let alone the world at large, and cannot hep but wonder...

Photo: Men Kissing Under Tree by Kay Tobin Lahusen (Internet)

SEASONS OF THE HEART

My love came with the swallow
that nests in spring;
in fairest flight I’d follow,
hear its bluebells ring

My love, it sang loud and clear
across earth and sky
for the whole world to hear
though some deny

My love, it told me that I’m gay
nor less a man for that;
whatever some people say,
home truths will out

Come winter’s freezing chill,
together still

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004. 2011

[Note: A slightly different version of this poem first appeared in an anthology, Heart and Mind, Poetry Now (Forward Press) 2003 and subsequently in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; 2nd (revised) e-edition in preparation.] 

Surfing

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

This poem was written in 1970 while I was reflecting on a brief, necessarily closet affair with a youth only a few years older than me at a time when gay relationships were still a criminal offence here in the UK. I had adored him from afar for ages. (I thought he was way out of my league.)

One rainy night in a backstreet café, we had our first in-depth conversation and a very close relationship blossomed until he was killed in a motorcycle accident. a few weeks before his 21st birthday. I happen to believe in a posthumous consciousness (or ghosts if you prefer) and I often hear him whispering in my ear, especially when I have important decisions to mak, but words of love as well.

The poem last appeared on the blog in 2008 and is repeated today especially for 'Simon' who contacted me to say his boyfriend was killed in similar circumstances; theirs, too, had been a closet relationship. 

Simon wrote, '...[we] used to go surfing a lot. Reading what you said on the blog made me cry. I hadn't been able to do that. It has helped me to carry on.'

I am so sorry for your loss, Simon, but glad my words have helped you, if only just a little, to get on with your life. Grief is hard enough to bear without having to bear it on your own. I'm sure all my blog readers will join me in wishing you well. Here's sending a BIG HUG.

It was hard for young Roger all those years ago, not being able to confide in anyone how much I loved and missed that rascally, streetwise youth who was my first real love if not my first sexual relationship. Nearly fifty years later, it grieves me that I still find people in much the same position, afraid to be openly gay for all manner of socio-cultural-religious reasons of which few if any pay but lip service to the deeper meaning of humanity.

Photo: taken from the Internet

SURFING

Surely, the tide, as surely as my life
at this place where dreams must end
and all fears come. Oh, how I wished
things different, waters of the womb
taken me to another place than such waves
dragging me down! And I see your face
in a brave moon straining to catch the dawn
as would I, or I die. Surely, the tide,
as surely as dreams of fame and fortune,
someone to care. When they laughed,
you shrugged the score, taking on more
than I bargained for and I wouldn’t chance
your blushes but hung back, to let you
ride white horses with the pack – to hell
and back! Surely, our lives, as surely
as pride picking at my bones. I love you!
Yet,I only had time for this tide’s amen,
none for its daily giving and taking. You shy
like a wild thing at the world’s taunts,
refuse to be dragged into line, braving heaven
head-on. Now! A sure tide’s surfing me
where I want to be, with you...
who wore a sandman’s mask but tore it off
to show how some dreams last

Soulmates, drowning in the world’s nightmares,
Saved! On this, our first BIG wave

Copyright R. N. Taber 1970; 2011

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from the original as it appears in Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]

Between Land And Sea

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

We grow and mature, yet the child we were is never far away, encouraging and influencing our further growth and maturity just as it always did if gravely tempered now by the absence of innocence.

BETWEEN LAND AND SEA

At the sea’s edge, I met a boy like me
who smiled, said let’s be friends;
we laughed, dipped toes in the water
and splashed each other;
later on, we taught ourselves to swim
blue skies smiling down at us
as we laughed, chased fish in the water
and splashed each other

At the sea’s edge, I met a youth like me
who smiled, said let’s be friends;
we laughed, dipped toes in the water
and splashed each other;
later on, we stripped naked in a cove,
blue skies smiling down at us
as we laughed, chased crabs in the sand
and tumbled each other

At the sea’s edge, I met a man like me
fishing for the moon in the water;
a dark wave came, the mirror smashed,
pieces everywhere;
later on, a near deafening cannonade
sent us scuttling for shelter…
and (finally) a man who looks like me
found it in Earth Mother

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

Love Under Siege

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

[Update Boxing Day 2016: The news broke earlier today that George Michael has died, aged just 53. It is a great loss to the world of music and our hearts go out to his family, friends and many fans around the world at this sad time.] RT

I am often being asked about a CD of my poetry reading on the 4th plinth in Trafalgar Square, summer 2009. Sorry, there isn't one available but here's the link to my contribution to Sir Antony Gormley's One and Other 'live sculpture' project during which 2400 people were randomly selected to do 'their own thing' on the plinth for one hour 24/7 over 100 days:

http://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223121732/oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T  [For now, at least, this link needs the latest Adobe Flash Player  and works best in Firefox; the archives website cannot run Flash but changes scheduled for later this year may well mean the link will open without it. Ignore any error message and give it a minute or so to start up. The video lasts an hour. ] RT 3/18

Now, I read in the press recently that singer George Michael has split from his long-time partner, Kenny Goss. While I don't believe everything the press has to say, it appears to be true. My thoughts and hopes for their making the best rather than the worst of things go to both men. It is always hard when a loving relationship deteriorates. It comes as a shock, too, as it is often a gradual process; sometimes neither partner realises it is happening or they are in denial.

Although I have not managed to sustain a serious relationship with anyone since my first and only partner in life died some years ago, after a relatively brief time together, that’s not to say there haven’t been times when I thought I could. I even persuaded myself I was in love again once. Yet, between us, we could not keep hold of whatever it was had brought us together in the first place. I dare say it wasn’t love although it was far more than mutual attraction. Ah, but his friends and work colleagues didn’t have any time for poetry and poets and he would never admit to anyone but me that he loved poetry and even wrote the occasional poem. Nor was he openly gay. He’d often express a desire to come out to family and friends but was afraid it might alienate his family and/or damage his career prospects. I doubted both, but he remained unconvinced. I dare say it was inevitable that we would drift apart, and probably for the best.

Whatever, with all due respect to William Shakespeare, I have never experienced any ‘sweet sorrow’ in parting, only hurt and regret.

LOVE UNDER SIEGE

We were friends first
then lovers, yet could not stay friends
for long after that;
mutual affection strong,
but unable to withstand the inevitable
fallout from gossip,
you being the cleverer
at tracking the various twists and turns
of malicious tongues

While I snuggled under
your duvet to enjoy the cosy comforts
of love’s embraces,
you would be fretting...
over what people might well be saying
about us;
Only, I couldn’t care less,
but you did because you wanted a career
more than ‘us’

I tried to distract you
from the trials and tribulations of this life
turning you against me...
but you would cock an ear
at this window, that door and whispering
wallpaper...
telling me you loved me
while reassuring those subtly warning you
against

I never understood
the subtler strategies of jealousy disguised
as well-meaning,
was ill-prepared for your tears
on my face, even in the course of passionate
lovemaking...
or the sad sighs on your lips
after murmuring white lies meant to save me
from hurt

Yet, I felt a parting
even when we were together, nor was it any
sweet sorrow, but sheer hell,
those windows, doors
and wallpaper people in a tug-of-war
to pull me down.
Oh, our love will remain,
but we can't reach it nor ever will again;
they won

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

The Kiss

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

Readers often ask for the link to my poetry reading on the 4th plinth in London's Trafalgar Square in 2009 by way of being my contribution to sculptur Anrony Gormley's One and Other 'live sculpture' project during which ordinary people from all walks of life and parts of the UK did their 'own thing' for one hour 24/7 over 100 days:

http://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223121732/oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T  [NB: Sept 19, 2019 - The British Library confirmed today that he video is no longer available as it was incompatible with a new IT system, However, it still exists and BL hope to reinstate it and make it available to the public again at some future date.] RNT

Now, I have always enjoyed kissing. When readers contact me to ask why I have written several poems about kissing...well, that’s why. When I am kissing another man, I spread wings and the entire subsequent sexual experience develops not only as a sensual but also a spiritual one. Mind you, it needs the right man and he needs to feel the same about me. It doesn’t even have to be love. Love is a bonus. Mutual attraction can be spark enough to ignite the fires of passion. [Not that I get much of that these days except when I am writing a gay-interest poem!]

Oh, yes, I love all sexual foreplay, including kissing, and have never been interested in the sex act for its own sake. It may work for some people, but not for me. Ah, but don’t get me wrong. I’m not being judgemental. Whatever works for you, go for it, that’s what I say.

THE KISS

One kiss, I place above all others,
conveying the passion of a midsummer night,
bringing to the heart of my darkness
all the comfort and joy of an armchair firelight,
letting my natural sexuality go free,
drop all pretence of pandering to conventions
bent on persecuting me

One kiss, I place above all others,
urging me not to feel ashamed but come out
fighting (win or lose) if I must ...
not for my sake, but a centuries-old birthright
to wear Earth Mother’s colours
with pride instead of pandering to conventions
nailing bars at my windows

One kiss, I place above all others,
treading, oh, so gently on the sweetest dreams,
flooding my body with the heat
of an insatiable spirituality tearing at its seams,
anxious to wear its colours
with pride instead of pandering to conventions
mapping out the world’s scars

One kiss I place above all others
brought me to my knees as you lay me down
in the cradle of history
that has cherished the same christening gown
handed down across centuries
by those choosing not to pander to conventions,
be taken for freaks, put in cages

It’s a gay kiss I place above all others, my first,
that I’ve since nurtured, seen grow, and let last

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

[From: Tracking The Torchbearer by R N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]

Extracts from a (Gay) Schoolboy's Diary

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

It has always been and still is absurd to suggest there are no gay boys and girls awakening to their sexuality besides all the other teenage angst.

This poem was written in 1970, three years after homosexual relationships ‘in private, and between consenting adults’ were decriminalised here in the UK. I looked back then with a mixture or pain and pleasure. 40+ years on, I have much the same feelings. Yes, it was tough having to live a lie. [That is why I sympathise so with those who still do, for whatever reasons.] Yet, there was a strong sense of camaraderie among gay men in those long-ago days that gave me a powerful and much needed sense of belonging; it often seems to me that much of that is missing now. It was easier to talk to other gay men and make friends, whether it led to sex or not. No one assumed that striking up a conversation was necessarily a chat-up strategy.

I used to think it was just a generation gap thing, but a young blog reader (still at school) confided only recently that he wished more gay guys would see him and want to get to know him as a person, not just for sex. Mind you, he was talking about the Gay Scene I felt I should point out that it’s what the Gay Scene is all about...sex. There are still some great friendly gay bars and social groups where you can make friends and, well...who knows? In the old days, there were no gay social groups but the bars were easier to find because there were  so few of them.

Seek (try the Internet) and ye shall find. Just be careful out there, though, yeah? Oh, and always trust you better instincts. Now, you like someone and they seem to like you? They invite you back to their place for the proverbial coffee but your head is saying one thing even while your nether regions are crying out for something else? Ah, well, in that case, it’s usually wiser if not safer to go home and jerk off instead. [Some things never change...]

EXTRACTS FROM A (GAY) SCHOOLBOY’S DIARY

All I asked was for love
to take me into its care,
keep me safe from the bigotry
I was finding everywhere;
little did I know of the ways
of love or how it likes to play
hide-and-seek or the false trails
it invariably lays

Desire, it played its part
and led me by the hand
to a secret place, hidden world
sanctuary for the damned;
I met up with other gay men
sharing all I’d imagined
for years, through tell-tale tears
on the stains in my bed

I discovered I was not evil
as defined by convention,
religion or morality as requiring
parental instruction;
I learned to recognise how
the crook of one finger
or a light in lowered eyes meant
come closer, closer...

So it was, my youth was a lie
a potpourri of self-denial
for meaningless sex acts in secret
that made me a criminal;
Yet, far more than cheap thrills
and passing balls, this journey
into sexuality showed me who I am
and was born to be

Came a day I didn’t need to lie
even saw convention bend
its rules, move on to kinder times,
some of that kindness spent
on gay people who want to be
free to live and love as they will
without others passing judgement
and moving in for the kill

Oh, but if kindness were all it takes
to make bigotry slam on its brakes!

Copyright R. N. Taber 1970; 2009

Storm Lantern

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

Now, for years after I came out as an openly gay man, I hated those who had locked me in that horrible closet throughout my youth and young manhood. Oh, I’d broken free often enough but I’d always scurry back for fear of being caught enjoying my life, being myself.

Break free, did I say? Huh!

When I finally made a break for freedom and stayed free, I was so haunted by that damn closet that, , try as I might< i could never quite rid my mind of all that torment and anger. But the torment was over, apart from the occasional homophobic ignoramus trying to revive it, and I could deal with that. [Didn’t I have years of practise?] So why was I still so angry it was chewing me up?

Yes, I was (and still am) angry for people all over the world still having to endure the same torments for their sexuality as had been inflicted on me. But it was more than that, much more; it was an inner rage that was turning in on me and threatening to destroy me...until it dawned on me that the greater part of how I felt wasn’t anger at all, but hate.

Oh, the anger is still there, but I’ve managed to lock the hate in its own dark closet and throw away the key. You don’t have to be a religious person (and regular readers know I’m not) to discover forgiveness.

This poem is a kenning.

STORM LANTERN

I am the child that cried
in the night but no one came
to see why,
thinking it was right I should
get used to living
with this bogeyman, that ghost,
and not be afraid
of monsters in the playground
I dreaded the most

I am the teen that cried,
after playing truant from school
then lied about
gay places visited, people seen,
when all I wanted
was for someone to listen to me,
hear why I don’t always do
as I should, know I’m not all
they would have me be

I am the man that cried
in the night until someone came
to ask why,
listened to what I had to say,
drove my ghosts away,
demythologized the Bogeyman
under my bed,
last words at the break of day
that being gay is OK

World, bully terrorising its victim
till I, Forgiveness, chose freedom

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2016

[Note: This poem is a slightly but significantly revised (2016) version of that which appears in 1st eds. of On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010; revised ed. in e-format in preparation].