G-A-Y, Days of Wine and Roses OR At Home with Sexuality

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

I am in my 70’s now and people often ask me if I regret not growing up with new technology, especially mobile phones. On the contrary, I see so many people preferring to engage with their phone than with the person/s accompanying them, even over a meal at a restaurant or on a night out with friends that I am grateful for small mercies.

The use of personal pronouns in my poems rarely refers wholly to first-hand experience/s; they comprise ‘borrowed’ experience/s, recall from chatting to people from all walks of life in bars, cafes, even at bus stops.  For me, it was a way of engaging with aspects of human nature on which all the arts turn; while my poetry has always been more of a creative therapy to keep depression at bay, it is nevertheless an art form deserving (no less than any other) that its author make an effort to become familiar with form as well as content.

You will not be surprised to learn then that much of my enjoyment in writing a poem lies in taking walks down Memory Lane and recalling conversations (if not always faces) that have helped shaped and reshape my approach to life. As to whether or not my poems succeed in passing on any of this, that, dear readers, is for you to decide.

"Perhaps home is not a place but an irrevocable condition."- James Baldwin, Giovanni's Room

  

G-A-Y, DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES or AT HOME WITH SEXUALITY

Mutely, you crept into my bed

and I froze, all of me, heart and soul,

fingers, thumbs and toes,

eyes tightly shut, dreams on hold

of what might happen

once open wide, acknowledging

your body close to mine,

caving to desires archived in denial

for years, words left unsaid

rounding on me (yet again) demanding

I turn over, face you, get real,

let our holiday hotel see the start

of our truly getting to know

each other all over again, kids no more

but the grown-ups we are

Your body closed in on me

and I could barely breathe for joy

of your invading my space,

entering a door in this body-mind-spirit

left ajar for emotions

such as these to surface, encouraged

by shared feelings engulfing me,
and (finally) giving bigotry

the old heave-ho whose acolytes

so love to gang up on us,
on the back of this or that social, cultural
or religious convention justified

only by tailoring dogma to address,

excuse and embrace all its prejudices
with a clear conscience

I turned over, opening eyes

(eventually) looking directly into yours,

holding your searching gaze,

hoping you'd discern what I was thinking,

(knowing for sure you could)

begging you satisfy a desperate longing

in me for you to break

with macho-man taboos, your lips

on mine, a kiss to end years

of making out we were just mates so we all 

but convinced ourselves

it was true, warding off any moment of truth, 

daring us accept the challenge

to all humanity, be positive about our identity 

or play patsy to conformity

I watched the certainty in your face

give way to old doubts, read new fears there

(would I reject him...?)

I had to take the lead if only to prevent tears

in his eyes brimming over,

inviting mine (not far away) drowning us both

in a sea of conflicting thoughts

threatening to force natural instincts back

into that hell we'd dreamed

of escaping on lonely pillows made for sharing

since schooldays when sexuality

had no voice in classrooms for fear of offending

parents whose notions of education

exclude bringing kids to such self-awareness
as encourages direct action

I took the plunge, held and kissed you,

all lingering doubts dissolving into nothingness,

instantly replaced by a fullness

second to none, two hearts now beating as one,

a sense of coming alive again

like nature in spring rain opening up to potential,

making Earth Mother offerings

of pink blossom, green leaves, petals pf daffodil

and tulip, shoots of grass passaging

mud and worms to give every human being cause

to rejoice in birth and renewal

instead of constantly maligning winter’s approach

to a dreary status quo 

feeding all manner of discontent to roots put down

with certain expectations 

The next day, we went for breakfast
holding hands, aware of assorted looks and stares
as well as a buzz of conversation
meant to intimidate us though failing miserably
because we were past caring
what others are thinking, we two ordinary people
having just discovered
how the art of being human deserves better than we
fake it for appearances sake,
as if there isn't  distress enough in the world
without imposing more
on men and women, boys and girls but endeavouring 
to get to know themselves,
as they make their own way in life not as mapped out 
by well-meaning ‘betters’

Years on, a photo of You-Me-Us on that holiday

continues to assert how it’s good to be gay   

Copyright R. N. Taber 2018