I'm a Poem, Get me Out of Here OR Closet Voices

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

I once managed to extricate myself from a contract with a poetry publisher with which I became more and more unhappy as time passed; a member of its editorial team even asked me to shorten some longer poems to fit the page. I responded that a poem becomes a living organism as soon as a reader engages with it, and what they were asking was tantamount to an amputation.

I well recall how, many years ago, my English teacher, 'Jock' Rankin asked the whole class (of teenage boys) to write a poem for homework. "It doesn't have to include any  rhyme," he added for the benefit of those of us who were under the impression that rhyme was compulsory for all poems.

Yours truly rose to the challenge, but few others submitted anything, complaining along the lines of "I don't have a poem in me, sir, it's just not me." The same cry could be heard again after some poems were read out in class later in the week, and Jock expressed disappointment in relatively few people having made the effort. "There is a poem in all of us," he insisted, "We just have to tap into that aspect of ourselves which is especially meaningful to us, and the chances are there will be a poem there champing at the bit to get out. Come on, you sporty types, let's have a sporty poem from you or any of you with hobbies you love, let's see what you can do.

The response this time was an eye-opener as everyone managed to write a poem, even the more bullish and macho among us; indeed, they were the proudest and more boastful of their achievement. Gone forever was the notion that writing and enjoying poetry was 'a girly thing'.

"You see," said a well-pleased Jock, "...there are as many subjects for a poem as there are people, each one with something different to say. We may like, dislike agree or disagree with what it has to say, but that's life, each to their own points of view. Whatever, that poem or point of view struggling to get out of us deserves to be free to say its piece, right?" "Yes, sir"  everyone  yelled at once.

Poetry, no more or less than prose, has a million voices; if you haven't yet found yours, why not choose a collection of poems when you next visit your local public library and I bet you'll find at least one that not only stirs the imagination but that suffocating silence within that's desperate to break out  into words and feeling, and find an audience; an audience of one is often more than enough to ignite the flames of much-needed communication.

Sadly, poetry is not considered commercially viable, poetry on a gay theme even less so even in this s0-called Age of Equality and Freedom of Speech; it is also an Age of Capitalism, of course. Yes, dear readers, I will almost certainly be self-publishing my next collection, if only out of interest to see how well (or badly) a few hundred volumes will sell  Later, as I have said before, all my poems will be available online as I suspect my blogs will disappear once yours truly has gone walkies with the Grim Reaper. wry bardic grin 

I'M A POEM, GET ME OUT OF HERE or CLOSET VOICES

Why any heartbeat

demanding mind-body-spirit

free it from its closet,

left to go wherever it will,

no slave to hypotheses,

but deserving better,

not least to find a voice,

and ways to make itself heard

by the poet within

What is this sound,

like the cry of a lost child

negotiating its way

all but blindly along frantic

highways and byways

whose names but posturing

as spelling lessons

in its past-present-future eager

to make itself felt?

What is this presence

calling on inarticulate reason

for expression, as clear

at first as dawn mist reluctant

to let any sunshine

into a persona grown frantic

for a comfort zone,

offering as close a sense of safe

and sound as any?

Why this falling apart,

now closing any yawning gaps

in a consciousness,

weathering mist and murk,

only to find itself

burning bridges across rivers

of rising passion,

anxious to find release in at least

explaining the smoke?

No end in sight - lost;

left to others to find and help me

if they can, or have time

to let a poem give self-awareness

a clear heads-up

for negotiating the complexities

likely to characterise

any literal or existential soundings

taken from a human heart

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012