We are all past-present-future in
the flesh. We inherit certain genes and much of our approach to life is taken
from historical figures who have made a deep impression on just as we, in how
we live our lives, make an impression on others for better or worse; family,
friends, casual acquaintances, even complete strangers. It only takes one
moment in time when something we say or do strikes a chord in someone’s life
that will play out forever.
We won’t all make the national
archives, of course, but there is another, more extensive to the point of being
inexhaustible archive that is the human mind-body-spirit, that key player in
human nature that should never be underestimated; whoever and wherever we are, whatever
our socio-cultural-religious background, gender or sexual persuasions, it is
the backbone of a common humanity that has seen the human race also rise above all
history has thrown at it, just as it will continue to do, even as the C-19 coronavirus
continues to impact on us all.
This poem is a kenning.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE HUMAN RACE
I walk with ghosts, night and day,
a presence as real to me as my own
reflection
greeted in mirrors, shop windows,
still waters in dream-places
keeping memories
and sometime companions alive,
urging mind-body-spirit like voices
in the ear
egging urging me on, regardless
of any obstruction fallen or placed
in my way
whether by accident or design
I talk with ghosts, night and day,
and they listen without
interruption, just a nod
or shake of the head occasionally,
sufficient to persuade or dissuade
any thoughts
to action or inaction gathering pace
demanding I look again or press on,
regardless
where inspiration has landed a hit,
missed its mark altogether,
deserves discussion
or better left to gather dust
I bare all to ghosts, night and day,
far more even than to those who
know me best
if only because I dare not share
any part of me that takes its cue
from the dead
for fear of being misunderstood
or (worse) denied a voice, left
with less of a life
to speak of than even a ghost,
reduced to a skeleton in someone’s
cupboard,
exhibit for some eager archivist
I am that past-present-future making of humanity
what it will, and am called History
Copyright R. N. Taber 2018
[Note: This post/ poem also appears on my general poetry blog today.]
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