A Poet's Shrewsbury

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The poet, Wilfred Owen, was born on this day in 1893. Owen, a homosexual (the word ‘gay’ was not used in this context in those days) is probably one of the best known of the World War 1 poets. His name appears on the Great War Memorial tablet inside Shrewsbury Abbey.

A poetry reading in 2007 took me to Shrewsbury where I engaged with a lovely audience in a local bookshop. I did not get around to including my poem in a collection until this year and have to say I feel more than a shade self-conscious about posting a poem of mine alongside mention of such a fine poet as Wilfred Owen.

Wilfred Owen (1883-1918)

Photo: Shrewsbury Abbey

‘Symmetry’ in the grounds of the abbey is sculpture, by Paul de Monchaux commissioned by the Wilfred Owen Association (Owen went to school in Shrewsbury) to commemorate the poet’s life and work; it was unveiled in June 1993. The line "I am the enemy you killed" engraved on one side is from Owen’s poem, ‘Strange Meeting’ The design is meant to convey the symmetries in Owen’s poem as well as the trenches of 1917 and the Sambre-Oise canal in 1918.

Photo: ‘Symmetry’

On 4th November 1918, the British 32nd Division crossed the Sambre-Oise canal at Ors, in the face of strong opposition. Wilfred Owen was killed on the towpath on this side of the canal about one kilometre to the north of the bridge.

Photo: Western Front Association plaque for Wilfred Owen by the Sambre Canal, Ors, France. 

Regarding my poem, I should mention that Laura's Tower is a folly built on the summit of Shrewsbury Castle motte around 1790 by Thomas Telford for Laura, the daughter of Sir William Pulteney, as a summerhouse. It is of an octagonal design in red sandstone with conical copper roof. The river Severn flows by

…Photo: Laura’s Tower

Mount House, birthplace of Charles Darwin

A POET'S SHREWSBURY

Follow the market trader’s cry

across old Shrewsbury town

where the fickle Severn flows by

Discern in history’s cloudy eye

scenes of Parliament v Crown;

follow the market trader’s cry

At Laura’s tower, dare lift high

the hem of Nature’s gown

where the fickle Severn flows by

Swans over the English Bridge fly

with dive-bombing precision,

follow the market trader’s cry

See sunset’s flames lick at the sky

as if the grand abbey burning down

where the fickle Severn flows by

Ponder a war poet casting the die,

Darwin giving heaven cause to frown;

follow the market trader’s cry

where the fickle Severn flows by

[Shrewsbury, August 2007]

[This poem appears in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012 and on my general poetry blog in October 2012 where it has been visited many times; feedback suggests it has helped foster a more gay-friendly attitude among some readers.]

Last Post

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This poem can also be found in my gay-interest blog archives for September 2010.

'They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.' -  a stanza from 'For the Fallen' by Robert Laurence Binyon 

(1869-1943) as published in The Times newspaper on 21^st September 1914.

Yes, let us remember always...not only our war dead and their families - among them, many LGBT people - but also those wounded in wars past and present and their continuing battle with pain just for getting on with their everyday lives in ways so many of us take for granted. We owe them, all of them ...and how!

Ah, but when will humankind ever learn? Oh, when will we ever learn...?

LAST POST

They shot me down on foreign soil
and the first sound I heard was a child’s cry
at the moment of birth
and I wished the child and parents well,
that they would see a kinder end
than me, wracked with pain, no less so
for knowing I would never see
either homeland or loved ones again
yet had done my best (can anyone
do more?) and had no regrets but one
about fighting a war like this

A continuing absence of peace

They lay a black cloth over my face
so I should not see comrades close to tears
for the worst of fears
we put behind us who fight such wars
as we don’t always understand
but do our duty though it be in a land
as far away from the pub
on the corner of our street as heaven
from hell where they all but meet
here in Afghanistan

A continuing absence of peace

They put me in a box and closed the lid
so I would not feel the tears of passing clouds
on the journey home
or hear the strains of the Last Post
acknowledge me gone
nor see the flags lowered as silent crowds
line the streets of a small town
taking me to their hearts as if I were one
of their own, as they have done
for others like me, making our journey
less lonely for this

A lasting empathy with peace

The first sound I heard as they lowered me
into the earth was a child’s cry at the moment
of birth and I wished the child
and parents well in a kinder world than this
that saw me fight to save it
from a hell of its own making, no less so
for centuries of tradition
and a culture of oppression seeking
to break free while keeping faith
with its finer principles and (far) kinder
ways than this

A continuing absence of peace

“A good person, worthy sacrifice, fine soldier...”
Too late, I cannot hear.

Copyright R. N. Taber 1999, 2010

This second poem is a villanelle, written July 2009 to mark the death of Harry Patch, the last British veteran of the First World War.

A FEELING FOR PEACE AND QUIET

On old Memory Lane, all is quiet
for those who fought a war to end war
so we may make our peace with it

Among cries of the fallen, a shout,
(At ’em lads, at ’em, that’s the score!);
on old Memory Lane all is quiet

They bore old age, faces firmly set
to do them proud who had gone before
so we may make our peace with it

We will always be in their debt,
dead and wounded on a foreign shore;
on old Memory Lane all is quiet

We must never even try to forget
those whose freedom’s colours wore
so we may make our peace with it

War, war and still more of it yet;
on the landscape of love, a weeping sore;
on old Memory Lane, all is quiet
so we may make our peace with it

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: 'Last Post' first appeared on the Internet in Ygdrasil, an online poetry journal 1999; both poems are included in my collection On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]

Keeping Company with Ghosts

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Those who condemn gay people simply for our sexuality would do well to remember that many gay men and women have risked and given their lives - and continue to do so - to preserve the peace and freedom we all desire.  

World War 1 was meant to be a war to end all wars. Yet, it remains one of humankind’s greater tragedies that its history is inclined to repeat itself. 

Since World War 2 there have been numerous conflicts around the world, its various peoples suffering immeasurable heartbreak. At the root of it all, an unwillingness of certain politicians to take a common sense let alone humanitarian or democratic view, and others in the business of selling arms (directly or indirectly) who have no wish to see this or that particular gravy train come to a premature halt.

KEEPING COMPANY WITH GHOSTS 

They fought so we may live

(to fight another day?)

among them, men, women 

who were gay

World wars over, although

the world still at war,

for such is humankind’s way,

(the politics of power)

Middle East a battleground,

Africa tearing itself apart;

Iraq, Afghanistan, ripping out

poor humanity’s heart

Gay men (and, yes, women)

risk their lives daily, yet

we hear their praises sung

but, oh, so rarely

Oh, and just what has sexuality 
to do with a fierce courage

writing up history and daring

to sign each page...?

What, too, of Earth Mother

and peace with one another?


Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2017

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in On The Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.] 

For (Another) Lost Soldier

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Too often, I hear people discussing the whole idea of gay men and women in the armed forces with utter contempt. As regular readers of my books and/or blogs will know, I express my frustration and anger in poems from my earliest to latest collections. 

In some countries, it is no longer illegal to be gay in the armed forces, but gay men and women serving at home and overseas have told me they still need to keep quiet about their sexuality or colleagues (and commanders) would make their lives unbearable. One soldier told me he married a lesbian so they could keep up appearances and carry on with jobs they love doing, and do well, while secretly assuming the lifestyle nature intended for them. It is an appalling indictment on a so-called 'civilised' society.

So what has courage, skill and taking life-threatening risks on a daily basis got to do with sexuality, eh?

FOR (ANOTHER) LOST SOLDIER

Once, summer tapped

me on the shoulder,

murmured in my ear,

and when I turned

I saw a soldier - in full

uniform

Asked the way to heaven

knows where - but

I hardly caught a word

as the full curve

of his mouth cut me

like a sword

Voice teasing, haunting

eyes like an owl’s

ripping at my clothes,

baring the soul...

I gladly surrendered

my all

A woman took his arm,

smiled with the charm

of Eve at Adam’s side;

the soldier winked

as they moved on - and

I sighed

He hadn’t lied

Copyright R, N. Taber 2002; 2012

[Note: This poem has been (very) slightly revised from the original as it appeared in an anthology, Where Your Thoughts Take You, Poetry Now (Forward Press) 2003 following publication of First Person Plural by R. N. Taber. 2002.]

Buddy, Joe

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This poem was inspired by a conversation with a veteran of World War 2 whose partner has been killed in action. In those days, of course, same-sex relationships were illegal. During the 4+ years since I wrote it,  I have had similar conversations with young men (usually in gay bars) who have lost partners on the battlefields of Iraq or Afghanistan. [No, I wasn't necessarily cruising. I guess I have the sort of face people feel they can open up to.] Two of these guys were serving soldiers.  Same-sex relationships may be legal now, even in the armed services, but as one guy put it, 'Let on you're gay in the army and you're fu**ed up good and proper.'

I was only glad to be in the right place at the right time so they could pour their hearts out as only one can to a complete stranger.

BUDDY. JOE

The day buddy Joe left town,
my heart missed a beat, I nearly died;
I prayed for his safe return
at our secret place - and cried

No one knew how buddy Joe
and I shared a love the law forbade;
my grief I dared not show
for the dreams that once we made

Buddy Joe went to fight a war
in a land of which he’d scarcely heard;
of many others gone before,
the powers-that-be gave little word

The day of buddy Joe’s return
my heart missed a beat, I surely died;
as they lowered his coffin down,
for once my tears no cause to hide

No one knows how buddy Joe
and I indulged a passion the law forbade;
the world has another hero…
I can but grieve the dreams we made

To life restored, piece by piece,
and if sometimes taking a wrong turn,
I'm the richer for love and peace
that to Joe I’ll always look and learn

Copyright R. N. Taber 2006

The War Widow

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I am posting this poem after ‘Edith’ (a lady in her 90s) kindly contacted me to say that she and another war widow friend were moved by it. It appears that the friend's great-grandson has taught them to use a computer and access the Internet. I have to say it is wonderful to be contacted by someone from an age group that often has reservations about using the Internet if only because they feel intimidated by new technology. I will be a mere 65 next month but it just goes to show that we are never too old to learn new tricks.

To my surprise, Edith also told me that she enjoys dipping into my gay-interest blog as well my general blog. It appears she has always felt and thought of herself as a war widow since the death of a female partner who joined the Wrens (WRNS) during World War 2. No one knew of their relationship at the time of course. As far as anyone else was concerned they were simply two friends sharing a home. Apparently, they met at school and were secret lovers for some years. She never married or found anyone else to share her life that way but says she feels blessed for having loved and been loved.

Edith, it seems, has led an active life and continues to ‘feel blessed by wonderful friends and neighbours.'

A sad story, yet, beautiful too. Many thanks for sharing it with us Edith.

THE WAR WIDOW

A soldier’s widow knelt at his grave,
their children by her side;
comrades-in-arms gathered nearby
wondering (never aloud)
whose turn next to shed tears
at whose grave

A soldier’s widow swore on his grave
to love him till the end of time,
raise their children to take great pride
in a father whose presence
felt with lasting passion nor less
for his absence

The soldier’s widow took the left hand
of a thirty something veteran
who had lost his right hand in Iraq
the first time around
before the Mandarins of Power
had second thoughts

The soldier’s widow rose, took comfort
from the young man’s smile
that shone like a beacon of hope
from his wheelchair
among the wreckage of a life
once thought inviolate

A war widow wipes her children’s tears,
the Last Post ringing hollow in the ears


Copyright R. N. Taber 2010