Autobiography of a Light Bulb

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

Today's poem first appeared on my general poetry blog in 2010. A reader, Marc, who admits "I don't visit your other poetry blog often enough, especially as your poems and comments there are often support of gay people worldwide. Yesterday, I did, and discovered 'Autobiography of a Light Bulb'.Do put this on the gay blog please, I loved it, and am sure my gay brothers and sisters around the world will too." Well, many thanks for that, Martin. Hopefully, more gay readers will enjoy the poem. [It is always hard to choose which poems to publish on which blogs; a poem is a poem is a poem just as a person is a person is a person ... but it would be pretty boring for readers if I put the same poem of both blogs all the time, yeah?]

Now,people often tell me they have a feeling for poetry and would love to write a poem but never seem to find inspiration. Well, look around you. As I have often said, you can write a poem on just about anything,  I have written poems about tables, chairs, even puddles...

A reader once challenged me on this.He contacted me to suggest I could not write a poem about a light bulb.

Never let it be said I’d duck such a challenge.

Too many of us, I suspect, remain in the dark about so many things, including ourselves, but it is never too late to switch on, and take a good look; thereby lies the path to discernment and understanding...of ourselves, others too.We may be a diverse human race, but no one person in or facet of it has a monopoly on the human spirit; it is common to us all if less common is how, when or whether we ever choose to acknowledge and address it.

[Image taken from the Internet]

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A LIGHT BULB

I have coloured the cheeks of a child
at a birthday party

I have seen quarrels turn into beatings
and draw blood

I have watched over students yawning
for trying to concentrate

I have watched over meetings ringing
with raised voices

I have followed the progress of lovers
with delight

I am privy to secrets a journalist would
die for

I have been amused by such melodrama
as politicians love to stage

I have been moved by a significant few
brokering for peace

I become incensed by folks playing safe
for a quiet life

I despair of clerics reworking scriptures
to exonerate themselves

I empathise with poets transcending light
to justify darkness

Yet, party as I am to the whole sorry mess,
at least I can switch off

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

L-I-F-E, Theatre of the Absurd

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

I recently added a wonderful DVD to my collection. It is called Contracorriente (Undertow) and is a must-see movie for world cinema fans; it is a gay love story set in a fishing village in Peru and tells the story of a young married fisherman’s love for a visiting painter. Movingly told and beautifully acted, it includes stunning shots of the Peruvian coastline I will definitely watch it again.

Meanwhile…

Theatre of the Absurd has been defined as theatre in which standard or naturalistic conventions of plot, characterization, and thematic structure are ignored or distorted in order to convey the irrational or fictive nature of reality and the essential isolation of humanity in a meaningless world.

Born December 21st 1945, I will be 68 this year. I’ve been the victim of several nasty homophobic scares over decades, mainly in the 1980s and 1990s.  Sadly, in the 21st century, homophobia is still widespread among some socio-cultural-religious sections of world (including western) societies. Worse, in some ways, I feel similarly threatened by political correctness. Me, I prefer to know my enemies (allies too) not be confronted and possibly taken in by layers of camouflage and/ or stereotype.

Now, regular readers will be well aware that I see the world’s religions as among my greatest enemies, and not just because I am gay. It strikes me that more often than not they are inclined to wear masks customized with slogans like peace, love and compassion while they would see gay people (and anyone else who does not subscribe to their way of life and thought) pay the ultimate price. Not just in the southern hemisphere either. Here in the West, the same feelings fester behind a mask of political correctness. Get close enough and you can smell it, taste it on your tongue as certain people throw hypocrisy after hypocrisy at us. True, there are (many) exceptions to every rule although I fear they are a minority.

I would feel the same way even if I were not gay, not least because I am an integrationist and a man of peace. (Look at how many wars and divisions have been over religion for centuries). But yes, my sexuality reinforces my feelings towards religion.

Gay people have come a long way since the dark days of my youth. Yet, we should neither be complacent or afraid but continue to stand up and be counted so the homophobes among us know we are here to stay. Nor do we stand alone. We have many straight friends and allies (whatever their socio-cultural-religious persuasion) who may not have much time for our sexuality but have even less or bullies and hypocrites.

The incident on which this poem is based happened in 1960's London, UK. Sadly, sickeningly, homophobia among the less enlightened remains alive and kicking around the world to this day.

“The world more often rewards outward signs of merit than merit itself." - Francois de La Rochefoucauld (1613 -1680)

“But above all, in order to be, never try to seem.” - Albert Camus, Notebooks, 1935-1951

L-I-F-E, THEATRE OF THE ABSURD 

Suits were chanting,

‘Die, Queer! Die, Queer!’

and I could only stand there

back to a garden wall,

unable to speak a word,

paralysed with fear

They closed in on me

like wolves to an easy prey

but it wasn’t hunger I could smell

on their breaths but hate,

see it in their eyes, taste it

on my tongue

Masks, throwing stones,

yet I felt no pain, only blood

mingling freely with red hot tears

likely to leave scars

if I lived through this hell

to tell the tale

I closed my eyes

as the chanting became a roar

threatening to burst my eardrums

then - suddenly - sounds

like shooting stars trailing

light years

Now, an eerie silence

like the inside of a coffin

and I opened my eyes, unsure

if I were dead or alive,

to see three Hells Angels

crowding me

The gang had fled,

and in less than a minute

my saviours, too, sped away

without a word said,

V-signs in leather, theatre

of the absurd

Copyright R. N. Taber  1964; 2016

Jack-in-the-Box

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

Many thanks to those readers who have been in touch to say they are enjoying Dog Roses and Blasphemy, gay storylines serialised on my fiction blog. I hope to upload them as e-books later this year or early next:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com

Meanwhile...

Looking back, I feel ashamed that I was such a Jack-in-the-box for so long before coming out of the damn box once and for all.

My only excuse is that it took a long time to shrug of the shackles of criminality imposed on me throughout my youth and in the early years of adulthood by a society that, in those days, saw gay relationships as not only a criminal offence but also something lower than anything the proverbial cat is ever likely to drag in... It is the 21^st century’s continuing tragedy that some people and some societies still do.

Never condemn a gay person for caving in to socio-cultural-religious pressures and trying to go straight, but hope for their sakes that they see sense and salvation sooner rather than later.

 JACK-IN-THE-BOX

Once, I’d make up life as I went along

with Jack, my invisible friend;

He was always there for me, teasing

but never passing judgement;

Only Jack knew I was gay, a teenager

in love with the boy next door

whose mother thought fate meant me

for her daughter; cue for laughter

from Jack , no matter my shame for

going along with the farce, even

asking the daughter on a date because

her brother is her mate’s boyfriend

and we’d all hang out; I’d grab every

chance to be close to him, feel his

breath on me, a finger brushing mine,

getting higher on the sheer poetry

of his voice than any music, dancing

or wine

At his door, I’d kiss her briefly, ignoring

the pain in her eyes, her best friend

embracing my love nearby, lips meant

(surely?) for mine, a place in his life,

stealing my passion, usurping my dreams

and (worse) making them real while I

dare not reveal how I feel, Jack at my ear

saying less harm in lies than let truth

run its course, better play charades than

drop the mask, show a private face;

(Oh, to feel his heat and taste his kiss!)

She knew, of course, yet kept saying

she loved me and I fear she did, though

Jack knows I never said the words

she longed to hear nor let her passion

get the better of us, he at my ear

saying, no matter…wasn’t as if I didn’t

care for her at all

Youth long past, stumbling into maturity,

I finally told everyone I am gay;

Most people stood by me, gave me a hug,

said it didn’t matter, sexuality less

important than a sound mind, good heart

by far; most people, that is, except the guy

who used to be the boy next door;

But I don’t need him any more and Jack’s

gone too, nor is gay love a make-believe

dent on the pillow next to me, invisible lips

mouthing words of desire…for I am out

in the world, high on a love and friendship

restoring my integrity, replacing regret

for an unrequited youth with a self-respect

and honesty; the man I used to be, scared

of reality and behaving badly, finally ready

for a sexual identity demanding I accept

responsibility for it

[From: Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]

Behind Closed Doors

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

I saw my consultant the other day about my prostate cancer. She was very understanding and we have agreed a compromise. I will continue with hormone therapy for another nine months, and then stop for a while. If my PSA level does not shoot up, I will continue the hormone therapy, but if it does I will need to have radiotherapy. Even so, should the latter scenario arise, we can take into account my weak bladder next time so maybe it won’t be so stressful! Fingers crossed that the hormone therapy will keep the cancer at bay.

Meanwhile...

Some people who enjoy my YouTube channel expressed delight at my latest attempts at voice-over poems. My close fried Graham and I plan to use the same technique from time to time:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pT-qqOje4vY

[NB If the link doesn’t work, go to my YouTube channel, click on ‘see all’ and look for ‘Engaging with History’ (You may have to register with YouTube):

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Now, I feel fine, but could be better, and am less able to travel these days as I need to pass water (that’s go for a pee to the initiated) a LOT.

Meanwhile ...

The poem below has appeared on my general blog and is posted here today especially for ‘Glen’ and ‘Ronan’ who spotted it and have been in touch to say it struck a chord with them. It appears they have ‘homophobic neighbours who son has just come out’! Well, I hope those neighbours will revise their views and continue to love the guy just the same. Most parents do even if it is a struggle for them at first. Sadly, love does not win every battle, but it has been my experience that it usually wins the war.

Now, communication (or the lack of it) between people is a regular theme of mine since I first started writing poetry years ago. It continues to strike me as ironic that in this Age of Technology that has given us mobile phones and the Internet, there are many, many people out there who never really talk to each other.

I learned the art of listening and talking things through from my mother. My father and brother never did; neither would take any interest in what anyone had to say unless they were likely to agree. As for even trying to enter into someone else’s point of view, that was completely beyond them. It led to all kinds of tensions at home. In time, especially being gay, I began to realise that this, for the majority of people, was the rule rather than the exception.

For years, I envied two straight friends who seemed to have everything; a great relationship with each other; a beautiful home; successful careers... One died of a heart-related illness and a hundred or so family and friends packed the little churchyard where he was laid to rest. Later that day, I found myself alone with his partner and commented how fortunate they were to have had 20 great years together.

‘Well, one great dream year anyway,' she confided. 'After that, just nineteen years of more dreaming because it was easier to go along with the damn dream than admit the reality. We should have split up years ago.'

‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

‘Nor did he,’ murmured my friend. ‘That was our reality.’ She looked right at me. ‘I won’t miss it, Roger. I certainly won’t be shedding any tears over it. We were like manikins in a shop window for years. Who's fool enough to cry over a manikin, eh?’ She walked away, dry-eyed and as pale as a ghost. Weeks later, she moved away and did not keep in touch. The last I heard about a year ago, she has a new partner, a baby, and is very happy.

Ah, but who knows what goes on behind closed doors...?

BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

I’d hear a knocking at the window,
a creaking on the stair,
but every time I looked for you,
you were never there

I’d write you unfinished love poems,
sing your praises in your ear,
but every time you looked at me,
I was never there

We’d join rambles in the countryside,
ride on dodgems at the fair,
but every time I looked for you,
you were never there

I’d bring you flowers from the garden
we’d nurture and share,
but every time you looked at me,
I was never there

The perfect couple, we’d hear them say,
an irony I learned to bear;
whenever I looked to you for love,
you were never there

Ghosts, come alive in chance memories
of the after-dinner kind,
a template for wishful thinking
written on the wind

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

[Note:I plan to include this poem in my new collection - Tracking the Torchbearer - for which I am collating poems for its publication, spring 2012.]