https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber
I bonded with nature even as a child, but as I grew older the bonding became more intense and intimate. In part, it was a form of escapism, enabling me to be myself in a way the world of human beings rarely let me; in part, too, it was the kind of spiritual bonding I had sought but never come close to establishing with religion even long before I realised I am gay. [Why does religion have such a problem with sexuality anyway?]
Most important of all perhaps was realising how insignificant I was amongst all this vast expanse of natural beauty and how little it really mattered who I was or what I achieved in this life any more than who I wasn’t or what I didn’t achieve. So what had I to lose by simply being myself, a gay man with aspirations that may or may not ever be realised, but where was the harm in trying? I am over simplifying, of course, but that is the gist of what my growing affinity with nature taught me.
In 1973 when I wrote the original draft of the poem, I had just completed Finals and was sitting on a hill overlooking Canterbury, its splendid cathedral barely visible in an ethereal heat mist but no less splendid for that.
I’d been watching a butterfly gliding leaves of grass for some time before I was overwhelmed and all but swept away by a huge wave of relief; after three years of establishing an immensely enjoyable but somewhat artificial bond with literature, I could still feel more inspired by a common butterfly than a single stanza from a great poem, one of Shakespeare’s finest monologues or even the likes of Tennessee Williams’ brilliant take on a metaphorical streetcar named Desire.
Capturing that moment was more important than writing the poem. Years on, recapturing that elation, almost like lovemaking but even more intimate and lasting, and sharing it with you, is far more meaningful than a mediocre poem I drafted very roughly on the back of an exam paper because it was all I had.
The closest I had to a mentor during schooldays, an English teacher known affectionately to generations of school kids as ‘Jock’ Rankin, once told me that experiencing a poem, or any creative piece for that matter, is as important as the piece itself because it takes us where more often than not we hadn’t even realised we wanted to go. I’d been studying literature at degree level and only just discovered what he meant afterwards
I was so accustomed to jumping in and out of the closet like a jack-in-the-box whenever it suited me that I’d almost persuaded myself it was the way things had to be.
Oh, I’d enjoyed my flirtation with academia, and it wasn’t quite over yet, but it was a world away from creativity, not to mention real life. I was glad to return to my roots, no matter what the consequences of that might or might not prove to be. Regular readers may recall that one immediate consequence was a brief fling with a fellow student. I had adored him from a distance for what felt like an eternity, but had been too scared to go there, convinced he was a raging heterosexual since he always had a pretty girl on his arm...
Oh, but how appearances can be so deceptive, and epiphanies so liberating...!
BONDING WITH NATURE
I bonded with nature even as a child, but as I grew older the bonding became more intense and intimate. In part, it was a form of escapism, enabling me to be myself in a way the world of human beings rarely let me; in part, too, it was the kind of spiritual bonding I had sought but never come close to establishing with religion even long before I realised I am gay. [Why does religion have such a problem with sexuality anyway?]
Most important of all perhaps was realising how insignificant I was amongst all this vast expanse of natural beauty and how little it really mattered who I was or what I achieved in this life any more than who I wasn’t or what I didn’t achieve. So what had I to lose by simply being myself, a gay man with aspirations that may or may not ever be realised, but where was the harm in trying? I am over simplifying, of course, but that is the gist of what my growing affinity with nature taught me.
In 1973 when I wrote the original draft of the poem, I had just completed Finals and was sitting on a hill overlooking Canterbury, its splendid cathedral barely visible in an ethereal heat mist but no less splendid for that.
I’d been watching a butterfly gliding leaves of grass for some time before I was overwhelmed and all but swept away by a huge wave of relief; after three years of establishing an immensely enjoyable but somewhat artificial bond with literature, I could still feel more inspired by a common butterfly than a single stanza from a great poem, one of Shakespeare’s finest monologues or even the likes of Tennessee Williams’ brilliant take on a metaphorical streetcar named Desire.
Capturing that moment was more important than writing the poem. Years on, recapturing that elation, almost like lovemaking but even more intimate and lasting, and sharing it with you, is far more meaningful than a mediocre poem I drafted very roughly on the back of an exam paper because it was all I had.
The closest I had to a mentor during schooldays, an English teacher known affectionately to generations of school kids as ‘Jock’ Rankin, once told me that experiencing a poem, or any creative piece for that matter, is as important as the piece itself because it takes us where more often than not we hadn’t even realised we wanted to go. I’d been studying literature at degree level and only just discovered what he meant afterwards
I was so accustomed to jumping in and out of the closet like a jack-in-the-box whenever it suited me that I’d almost persuaded myself it was the way things had to be.
Oh, I’d enjoyed my flirtation with academia, and it wasn’t quite over yet, but it was a world away from creativity, not to mention real life. I was glad to return to my roots, no matter what the consequences of that might or might not prove to be. Regular readers may recall that one immediate consequence was a brief fling with a fellow student. I had adored him from a distance for what felt like an eternity, but had been too scared to go there, convinced he was a raging heterosexual since he always had a pretty girl on his arm...
Oh, but how appearances can be so deceptive, and epiphanies so liberating...!
BONDING WITH NATURE
Trees, rustling
their leaves;
birds, singing
their songs;
clouds, smiling
at us,
gay lovers finding
each other
Trees, nodding
their heads;
birds, heaving
their breasts;
clouds, passing
us by,
gay lovers kissing
each other
Trees, cheering
us;
birds, singing
us;
clouds, blessing
us,
gay lovers, coming
to life
Trees, shaking
their heads;
birds, flying
off;
clouds, frowning
at bigots
charging gay lovers
with sin
Trees, welcoming
us back;
birds, singing
for us;
clouds, smiling
at us,
gay lovers, returning
to life
Copyright R. N. Taber 1973;
2012
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