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
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
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