Growing Pains OR Waking Up to Sexual Identity

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

Acknowledging to ourselves that we are gay before we are quite mature enough to take it in our stride is never easy; it is even harder for those who are growing up in a gay-unfriendly home and/or or wider environment.

As for telling family and friends, that can be an even harder nut to crack, and depends on how close and understanding they prove to be; many young gay people are pleasantly surprised when they break the news. Even so, relatively few heterosexual adults have a clue what we go through. So today’s post is duplicated on both blogs since it is for parents as well as for young gay people and their peers everywhere. Not everyone will be happy for us, at ease with our sexual identity or even begin to recognize its integrity. We can but get on with our lives and remember that there are some rotten apples in every barrel.

Now, today’s poem has appeared on the blog before, but not for some time. I wrote it in 1990 after reflecting on my own troubled schooldays, but recently revised its appearance on the page.  In 1993 a youth, also still at school, contacted me anonymously about his desperation at realising he is gay and feeling unable to discuss it with anyone. I arranged with the editor of a poetry magazine, circulated in the area where the youth lived, to include the poem in the next edition although it would be years later before he contacted me to say he’d read it and felt reassured by it. 

On Tuesday evening, a young man phoned in a similar condition. He would not give his name, but we agreed I would call him Simon. I talked to him for a long time. He gradually calmed down and seemed less tearful. I said he could call me any time day or night, but urged him to find a gay support group either within or outside his area; I don’t know what part of the UK he lives, but thankfully there are plenty now, nationwide, all listed on the Internet.

Sadly, Simon would not even consider telling his family or even his best friend. It appears all are devout Christians. Well, if they are devout Christians, they should listen to what Jesus said and let love, not bigotry, lend its weight to their feelings; the first being as natural as a tree that grows where nature planted its seed while the second is a monstrosity created by human beings, and is anything but natural.

This was not the first time someone has called me to confide their struggle with an awakening sexuality it happens every now and then, especially during school holidays. I feel a profound sadness that it can still happen in the 21^st century.

The poem dedicated to young people everywhere who feel alone and scared because they have reason to believe they are gay. You are not alone and it’s nothing to be scared of, but you need to find someone you can really talk to and will listen; the sooner, the better. The best person is always someone to whom you feel close, will support you and whom you can trust to keep a confidence until you feel ready to tell others you're gay and if they have a problem with that, it's their problem, not yours; in addition, or even as a first resort of there is no one else to whom you can turn, counsellors at gay support groups do a great job and it is also an opportunity to meet others who know exactly what you are going through.

GROWING PAINS or WAKING UP TO SEXUAL IDENTITY

It was after Maths, and I had forgotten

a text book so you came back with me,

ostensibly to help me look, only minutes

to spare before Chemistry...

Suddenly, you were holding me

and your mouth missed mine

only because I panicked and ran,

shoving you aside. I remember

how you cried out, all that fear

and pain and love banging in my head

like passionate drums...

But there was no passion in me,

only feelings run riot and I don’t know

how I got through the next weeks,

avoiding you at every turn, demanding

of my anguished Youth other energies

to burn, sought in next-door Mary

other lessons to learn, and learned them well,

hurled into a hell of isolation, playing

at boyfriend, bike mate, regular son, unable

to relate to anyone, riding pillion

on Conversation in perfect rhythm without

much sense until, smashed and weary,

I let peel off all pretence, layer by layer,

sprawled on my bed, hypnotised

by a dippy moth making frantic wing

overhead...

I caught up with you after school

one day, felt foolish fumbling for things

to say, anxiously confided a pain

with geometry. You would not even

look at me…

At your house you turned the key

just as I found words to chance me,

and you (angrily) gave the door

a mighty kick, blinking back tears

that prick me even now, years on,

(no idea where he may have gone)

cherishing still our first nakedness,

who were born to thrill to a freedom

(finally) brought to bear in ritual ending

of our fear

Copyright R. N. Taber 1996;2011

[Note: An earlier version of this poem first appeared in August and Genet by R. N. Taber (Wire Poetry Booklet Series) aramb Publishing, 1996 and subsequently in Community of Poets, Winter 1999 prior to its inclusion in my first collection Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]

Apollo In Winter

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

I hadn’t intended to write a poem for the winter solstice even though it happens to fall on my birthday. [I am 66 years-old today...oo-err!] However, ‘Joel from somewhere in the universe’ has asked me to write something for his grandpa whose eightieth birthday is also today. It seems that Joel’s granddad is from Greece originally, but hasn’t lived there for years, and came out in 1991 when he was sixty.

Oh, but it’s just as the old adage goes; it’s never too late to get a life.

Congratulations go to grandpa and partner, and many thanks to Joel for getting in touch. I have tried to open up the poem so it is not only the likes of Joel’s grandpa that can relate to it.

This poem is a villanelle.

APOLLO IN WINTER or CUE FOR AN ARMISTICE

Risen one winter solstice,

in the firing line of ungodly bigotry,

forever proposing an armistice

As vulnerable to distress

as wintry hearts a summer memory;

risen one winter solstice

Driven close to The Abyss,

never giving ground on a spirituality

forever proposing an armistice

Savouring freedom in openness,

nurturing every seedling to maturity;

risen one winter solstice

Resilient if tearful under duress;

among shades of awakening sexuality,

forever proposing an armistice

No lack of strategies for peace,

despite a warring twenty-first century;

risen one winter solstice,

forever proposing an armistice

London: Dec 21^st 2011

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

[Note: According to Greek mythology, Apollo, the sun god, was bisexual, but had a special preference for male companionship, and more ...]

Epilogue OR G-A-Y, Survivors

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

Today’s poem is a rare self-indulgence in so far as it is probably the closest to a strictly autobiographical I have ever written. Oh, I draw on personal experiences and feelings often enough, but try to give the reader space to explore their own. Getting too personal can often inhibit the reader. On this occasion, though, I will chance it. Not only is it one of the longest poems I have ever written but it is also one of the most therapeutic.

I have met many people who, for whatever reason, don’t ‘do’ family. Some of them are bitter, and I can empathise with that. I once met a young man who told me he loved his family, but they were very religious and would not be able to accept he is gay so he felt he must stay in the closet if only for their sakes. I dare say he is still there. I only hope his bitterness does not erode the love he has for his family until it becomes hate. 

Bitterness is such a destructive force. Just because family life doesn’t come up to storybook expectations doesn’t mean we have to live an epilogue in the same vein.

A neighbour recently asked me if I am spending Christmas with family and was visibly shocked when I told him I’m not much of a family person. Nothing and no one will ever change that. I count myself lucky to have some good friends, which more than compensates. Even so, at this time of year my thoughts often turn to my brother and his family with whom I’ve had no contact since 1985. Oh, I dare say they blame me for most of the reasons why, just as I used to blame them. The irony is we have never sat down and talked any of these reasons through, not a single one.  

It is a Taber family trait, predominantly but not entirely on the male side, this reluctance if not inability to talk things through. Thankfully, my mother was an exception and taught me all I know about how to talk, how to listen, and when.  Believe me, this is a real education for a fire sign like me. At the same time, it can backfire (often does) as I get very frustrated and angry when people won’t talk through any issues we might have with one another. I’ll restrain myself for just so long, and then something (usually trivial) bursts open the floodgates and I let rip...  

I dare say my own family estrangements (immediate and peripheral) makes me something of a hypocrite when I advise people to kiss and make up with family members if they really want to and believe there’s a real chance their efforts will be reciprocated. Oh, well, no one is perfect...

Whatever, especially at this time of year when families are supposed to enjoy happy times together - as many, many, will do, and I envy them - I can’t help wondering what it is about some families that they seem to have an innate if subconscious fascination with the nature of self-destruct...

Christmas is a religious festival. How many other religious festivals, I wonder, are a camouflage for what secrets, lies, dysfunctional relationships...and what does that say about religion?

EPILOGUE or G-A-Y, SURVIVORS

Staring into a hearth fire
from the comfort of an armchair,
half afraid of shadows
that pose no real threat here,
cannot hurt me now,
even those to whom I’ve not been fair
so no blame there
for seeking revenge on a night
such as this, by a coal fire,
stoking up old memories, recalling
other Christmases

We were but a small family,
just Mum and Dad, Bro and me
trying to convince ourselves
and each other we were making out
well enough, Dad working
his socks off to see wife and kids okay
if always too tired to listen
to a word we had to say, never asked
about our day, demanding
affection, never dreaming he needed
to earn it

My mother, she did her best,
nursed pulp fictions of family unity
till the day she died,
loved us all to bits, and always tried
to make us see
how my dad had lived for navy days
for many a year,
surviving a savage World War,
dreaming of peace,
a wife and family he hardly knew
and so much more...

In my home fire’s cosy glow,
I mingle with shadows on the wall
hear them telling
tales about me I’d heard long ago
lying on my bed,
listening to my parents rowing below
about how I’d done this
or hadn’t done that, should know better
at my age, blotting another page
in the daily life of an extraordinarily
ordinary family

Christmas would come and go,
excitement about presents and whether
it would snow,
roasting chestnuts with neighbours,
picking at the turkey
in our kitchen, the whole house full
of fun and laughter
for as long as the magic lasted,
then back to normal,
all hell broken out, and me at the heart
of it all

It’s not as if my childhood
was deprived or my parents beat me
or I went hungry,
missed out on friends, halcyon days
of children at play,
engaging in delightful fantasy,
escaping from the horror
of the school playground and times
I’d hear my dad shout,
‘Elbows off the table, and don’t
look at me like that!’

Was it really all my fault?
I used to ask the shadows on the wall
at cosy fires
when I’d feel safe from an ever present
enemy having at go at me
for not answering, not listening, having
my head stuck in a story...
so I’d act the fool or throw a tantrum
and it wouldn’t occur
to any of them I had difficulty
hearing...

By the time I realised I’m gay,
relations with my family were so poor
that I was a stranger
to them all, and if close to my mother
dared not tell even her
for years, when she burst into tears
and swore me to secrecy
while doing her best to reassure me
my sexuality was neither crime
nor terrible sin if a matter better left
well alone

Amber glow, it’s fading fast,
fire sure to die soon if I make no move
to save it,
scary shadows grown so small I could be
a giant in a fantasy
risen from the ashes of my family
to reassure me,
tell me  it really doesn’t matter any more,
no one is to blame,
and forgiveness is the name of the game
this Christmas

I’ll feed the fire and read a book, a pleasure
since no need for an escape route any more

[London: December 2011]

Copyright R, N. Taber 2011

Chasing the Dragon OR A Walk on the Dark Side

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

None of us, gay or straight, man or woman, are immune to the pressures this sorry world brings to bear, and if most of us manage to survive on better terms, each of us in our own way is no less responsible for those that go under.

Oh, but it could never happen to us? That’s what they all say before the light dims in their private space and they fall foul of predators cruising a twilight world most of us can barely imagine.

For those spending Christmas or any festive occasion on our own, it can be sad time... if we let it.

There are far sadder ways to spend what is a living nightmare for some people, and not just at festive times. Drugs and alcohol addiction, domestic and street violence, poverty, homelessness... they take their toll all year round, but especially perhaps when it seems (outwardly at least) everyone else has something to celebrate. It is much the same for a significant minority in many large towns and cities worldwide, and a poor indictment, indeed, on this 21st century of ours that (so far, at least) nowhere near enough is being done to give these people hope and the means by which to get a better, kinder and more secure life.

CHASING THE DRAGON or A WALK ON THE DARK SIDE

One night in December
dragons roamed London town
in a rainy mist curtaining down
on carols in the Square;
nine-to-five heroes making cheer,
fog lights in red-rim eyes
quizzing here; there, ghosts
of Christmas grabbing shelter
in a doorway, foot nudging
a cradle of rags that’s stirred,
snored, slept on, not worth
a second glance; so let’s lead
a merry dance through the streets,
wondering where those beasts
have gone whose scales turn brightly
in the forest nightly?

I saw no dragons, whose roars
of distress and pain blinding me
like acid rain; no end in sight
but light under a door, a whore
my saviour! Together, scared
of Christmas

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2011

[From: Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001.]

I wrote this next poem a few days before Christmas in 1986 after I got chatting to a young rent boy in a café in Piccadilly Circus.

No, I wasn’t looking for sex, but we struck up an instant rapport. He told me how he had run away from home and wanted to earn enough money to enable him and his girlfriend to ‘get a life, like other people.’ At the same time, he hastened to assure me that ‘being up for rent is okay as far as it goes.’ He confided that both he and the girlfriend were mad about cricket and had plans to migrate to Australia. [Plans, I wondered, or pipe dreams?] He kept insisting his current way of life was only a temporary measure, but when pressed, admitted he’d been ‘doing business’ for a couple of years. What of his family, I asked, did they even know he was alive? He shrugged, ‘They never gave a toss about me, and I certainly don’t give a toss about them,’ was all he’d say.

He was sixteen years-old.

After I’d bought us several cappuccinos, he left. A well-dressed punter, shiny shoes and smart suit oozing affluence and a comfortable life if an unfulfilled one, had been covertly observing us from a nearby table for some time; finally, he had signalled an interest.

What kind of Christmas would ‘Danny’ have, I wondered? [Yes, I could have intervened on the youth’s behalf, but would probably have ended up the worse for wear, and he‘d neither have thanked me for it nor missed out on an opportunity to boost his savings for Dreamland. Besides, I’d gone with the occasional rent boy myself during my dark, closet years, so am no better or worse than that punter, except he was wearing a wedding ring and I never would.

As I watched him go, the idea for Danny, one of the chief characters in my gay-crime trilogy (Blasphemy-Sacrilege-Redemption) came into my head and refused to leave. [By the way, apologies to readers who keep asking when Redemption will be available as I have not been well enough to finish it; hopefully, it will be ready sometime next year although I’ll probably post it on my fiction blog, and then publish to Kindle rather than in book form.]

Few rent boys haunt Piccadilly Circus these days although there are plenty to be found in various cruising areas and bars across London as in most big cities. I never saw ‘Danny’ again, but only recently chatted to a homeless man who has been sleeping rough for years. He told me he is HIV+ (among other things) and had once been a rent boy ‘...when I was young and pretty. But as you get older, the looks go and so do the punters.’ Not all rent boys end up like this, of course, but a good many do.

I have often wondered why relatively few rent boys seem able to get their lives together the way many if not most female prostitutes used to here in the UK; before, that is, the illegal drugs trade got out of hand and cheap alcohol became so readily available. I used to know a prostitute (I’ll call her Lisa) who stayed on the game for years even after investing her ‘ill-gotten gains’ in property and becoming ‘all but respectable’ as she would say. She was a very kind person and great fun. Tragically, some bastard drugs pusher infiltrated her defences, and got her hooked on heroin. She overdosed while alone in her apartment one Christmas when she was barely into her forties.

We should not be quick to judge. It takes a stronger and more mature person than ‘Danny’ or ‘Lisa’ to avoid going into freefall. Sometimes, the more we aspire to a better, kinder life, the farther away it all seems...and when those better off than ourselves tell us to get our act together while we spend every waking moment trying to do just that...Well, who can wonder that some people succumb to despair?

No, this isn’t a 'Happy Christmas' post, but it does none of us any harm to give some thought to the darker side of life while we are tucking into the turkey and pulling crackers. The world has more than its fair share of Danny's and Lisa's. May they survive the winter, and let us hope the New Year will give them a chance to bring their hopes and dreams closer to fulfilment.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL

Come all ye faithful, ghosts
of near and far,
shades of swing and see-saw
haunting every bar

As joyful and triumphant,
as leather on willow;
(if such a good innings, why
tears on the pillow?)

Came ye to old London town,
prostrate before Eros
on a ticket to the Circus
one Christmas...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2011

[Note: A slightly different version of this poem appears in  Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]