The House of Many Rooms

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

“On the whole, human beings want to be good, but not too good, and not quite all the time.” – George Orwell in All Art is Propaganda: Critical Essays

As the pandemic pursues its relentless course around the world, many of us are taking refuge in kinder, happier times, albeit often tailored to kinder, happier needs; there is a lot to be said for and against the selective power of Memory.

On the whole, though, I would suggest that, for many if not most of us, Memory draws on the finer points of mind-body-spirit, sweeping any darker aspects aside; some specks, though, will inevitably remain, like flaws of human nature best forgotten, but which have a nasty habit of resurfacing now and then, invariably in some unseemly manner as likely as not to cause offence, even where none intended.

Arguably, there are elements of that consciousness we call ‘Memory’ which are genetic, a part of us that has its roots in a family history that can be so persuasive as to plant itself in our subconscious, visit us in dreams so ‘real’ that we may well carry them as ‘memories’ which, in turn, may well have behavioural consequences, for better or worse.

A gay poet, I am, of course very much aware that many people believe sexuality is a lifestyle choice; it is, of course, in the genes if selective in whom it manifests itself.

THE HOUSE OF MANY ROOMS

I go there often, to an old house
of many rooms,
each one different, yet oddly familiar,
but nothing ever quite
the same, it seems, from one visit
to another

I love to explore the old house
of many rooms,
now playing games of hide-and-seek
with childhood friends,
now discovering home truths
and heartbreak

I often shelter in the old house
of many rooms,
seek comfort from cold, mist and rain,
or so I tell myself
despite an inner voice insisting
I’m on the run

Ghosts, too, in the old house
of many rooms
and only so many games we can play,
its doors opening
and closing on shadowy masks
of “live” clay

Dusty corners, in the old house
of many rooms,
I do my best to sweep clear and clean,
but always a residue
left behind that I’ll pretend
I’ve never seen

A guardian of sorts, the old house
of many rooms,
a store of life forces, good, bad and ugly,
reminders of a life
lived for love and its pitfalls;
such is humanity

Everyone knows an old house
of many rooms,
best approached with mixed expectations,
much of a muchness
the world over, despite universal
mutations

Many and varied are such houses
of many rooms,
nor bricks and mortar can we expect to see,
but a consciousness
of personal-posthumous-collective
family history

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

 [Note: This poem also appears on my general poetry blog today.] RT