http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
I saw my consultant the other day about my prostate cancer. She was very understanding and we have agreed a compromise. I will continue with hormone therapy for another nine months, and then stop for a while. If my PSA level does not shoot up, I will continue the hormone therapy, but if it does I will need to have radiotherapy. Even so, should the latter scenario arise, we can take into account my weak bladder next time so maybe it won’t be so stressful! Fingers crossed that the hormone therapy will keep the cancer at bay.
Meanwhile...
Some people who enjoy my YouTube channel expressed delight at my latest attempts at voice-over poems. My close fried Graham and I plan to use the same technique from time to time:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pT-qqOje4vY
[NB If the link doesn’t work, go to my YouTube channel, click on ‘see all’ and look for ‘Engaging with History’ (You may have to register with YouTube):
http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber
Now, I feel fine, but could be better, and am less able to travel these days as I need to pass water (that’s go for a pee to the initiated) a LOT.
Meanwhile ...
The poem below has appeared on my general blog and is posted here today especially for ‘Glen’ and ‘Ronan’ who spotted it and have been in touch to say it struck a chord with them. It appears they have ‘homophobic neighbours who son has just come out’! Well, I hope those neighbours will revise their views and continue to love the guy just the same. Most parents do even if it is a struggle for them at first. Sadly, love does not win every battle, but it has been my experience that it usually wins the war.
Now, communication (or the lack of it) between people is a regular theme of mine since I first started writing poetry years ago. It continues to strike me as ironic that in this Age of Technology that has given us mobile phones and the Internet, there are many, many people out there who never really talk to each other.
I learned the art of listening and talking things through from my mother. My father and brother never did; neither would take any interest in what anyone had to say unless they were likely to agree. As for even trying to enter into someone else’s point of view, that was completely beyond them. It led to all kinds of tensions at home. In time, especially being gay, I began to realise that this, for the majority of people, was the rule rather than the exception.
For years, I envied two straight friends who seemed to have everything; a great relationship with each other; a beautiful home; successful careers... One died of a heart-related illness and a hundred or so family and friends packed the little churchyard where he was laid to rest. Later that day, I found myself alone with his partner and commented how fortunate they were to have had 20 great years together.
‘Well, one great dream year anyway,' she confided. 'After that, just nineteen years of more dreaming because it was easier to go along with the damn dream than admit the reality. We should have split up years ago.'
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘Nor did he,’ murmured my friend. ‘That was our reality.’ She looked right at me. ‘I won’t miss it, Roger. I certainly won’t be shedding any tears over it. We were like manikins in a shop window for years. Who's fool enough to cry over a manikin, eh?’ She walked away, dry-eyed and as pale as a ghost. Weeks later, she moved away and did not keep in touch. The last I heard about a year ago, she has a new partner, a baby, and is very happy.
Ah, but who knows what goes on behind closed doors...?
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
I’d hear a knocking at the window,
a creaking on the stair,
but every time I looked for you,
you were never there
I’d write you unfinished love poems,
sing your praises in your ear,
but every time you looked at me,
I was never there
We’d join rambles in the countryside,
ride on dodgems at the fair,
but every time I looked for you,
you were never there
I’d bring you flowers from the garden
we’d nurture and share,
but every time you looked at me,
I was never there
The perfect couple, we’d hear them say,
an irony I learned to bear;
whenever I looked to you for love,
you were never there
Ghosts, come alive in chance memories
of the after-dinner kind,
a template for wishful thinking
written on the wind
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
[Note:I plan to include this poem in my new collection - Tracking the Torchbearer - for which I am collating poems for its publication, spring 2012.]
I saw my consultant the other day about my prostate cancer. She was very understanding and we have agreed a compromise. I will continue with hormone therapy for another nine months, and then stop for a while. If my PSA level does not shoot up, I will continue the hormone therapy, but if it does I will need to have radiotherapy. Even so, should the latter scenario arise, we can take into account my weak bladder next time so maybe it won’t be so stressful! Fingers crossed that the hormone therapy will keep the cancer at bay.
Meanwhile...
Some people who enjoy my YouTube channel expressed delight at my latest attempts at voice-over poems. My close fried Graham and I plan to use the same technique from time to time:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pT-qqOje4vY
[NB If the link doesn’t work, go to my YouTube channel, click on ‘see all’ and look for ‘Engaging with History’ (You may have to register with YouTube):
http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber
Now, I feel fine, but could be better, and am less able to travel these days as I need to pass water (that’s go for a pee to the initiated) a LOT.
Meanwhile ...
The poem below has appeared on my general blog and is posted here today especially for ‘Glen’ and ‘Ronan’ who spotted it and have been in touch to say it struck a chord with them. It appears they have ‘homophobic neighbours who son has just come out’! Well, I hope those neighbours will revise their views and continue to love the guy just the same. Most parents do even if it is a struggle for them at first. Sadly, love does not win every battle, but it has been my experience that it usually wins the war.
Now, communication (or the lack of it) between people is a regular theme of mine since I first started writing poetry years ago. It continues to strike me as ironic that in this Age of Technology that has given us mobile phones and the Internet, there are many, many people out there who never really talk to each other.
I learned the art of listening and talking things through from my mother. My father and brother never did; neither would take any interest in what anyone had to say unless they were likely to agree. As for even trying to enter into someone else’s point of view, that was completely beyond them. It led to all kinds of tensions at home. In time, especially being gay, I began to realise that this, for the majority of people, was the rule rather than the exception.
For years, I envied two straight friends who seemed to have everything; a great relationship with each other; a beautiful home; successful careers... One died of a heart-related illness and a hundred or so family and friends packed the little churchyard where he was laid to rest. Later that day, I found myself alone with his partner and commented how fortunate they were to have had 20 great years together.
‘Well, one great dream year anyway,' she confided. 'After that, just nineteen years of more dreaming because it was easier to go along with the damn dream than admit the reality. We should have split up years ago.'
‘I don’t understand,’ I said.
‘Nor did he,’ murmured my friend. ‘That was our reality.’ She looked right at me. ‘I won’t miss it, Roger. I certainly won’t be shedding any tears over it. We were like manikins in a shop window for years. Who's fool enough to cry over a manikin, eh?’ She walked away, dry-eyed and as pale as a ghost. Weeks later, she moved away and did not keep in touch. The last I heard about a year ago, she has a new partner, a baby, and is very happy.
Ah, but who knows what goes on behind closed doors...?
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
I’d hear a knocking at the window,
a creaking on the stair,
but every time I looked for you,
you were never there
I’d write you unfinished love poems,
sing your praises in your ear,
but every time you looked at me,
I was never there
We’d join rambles in the countryside,
ride on dodgems at the fair,
but every time I looked for you,
you were never there
I’d bring you flowers from the garden
we’d nurture and share,
but every time you looked at me,
I was never there
The perfect couple, we’d hear them say,
an irony I learned to bear;
whenever I looked to you for love,
you were never there
Ghosts, come alive in chance memories
of the after-dinner kind,
a template for wishful thinking
written on the wind
Copyright R. N. Taber 2011
[Note:I plan to include this poem in my new collection - Tracking the Torchbearer - for which I am collating poems for its publication, spring 2012.]
No comments:
Post a Comment