L-I-F-E, Poems for every Occasion

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

For many years, I tried to think of myself as an agnostic because I could not get my head around the idea of a personified God. At the same time, I found myself developing a very close relationship with the natural world that was of a very spiritual nature. 

In (much) later years, I would discover and identify with Pantheism. In my early 60’s by now, I was finally able to relate to the sheer poetry of a spirituality in me that I never found in either the Christianity in which I was raised of any other of the world’s religions. 

At long last, I feel comfortable with a sense of spirituality, less of an outsider for subscribing to no religion, while continuing to nurture a sense of purpose in life that, for many years, had eluded me except in so far as to put it down to poetic whim. 

As to whether or not I am a good poet is less relevant than how poetry brings me closer and closer to nature even though I rarely even get to its glorious landscapes now due to mobility problems. On my wall, I have a painting of woodlands I used to explore as a child growing up in Kent.  I often take imaginary strolls in that painting, recapture a spirit of halcyon days that has never (quite) left me even during the worst moments in my life. 

Pantheists believe that God is nature rather than its creator, which may well explain a Poetry of Spirituality that has always seen me through good and bad times, taken me to the proverbial Edge and back time and again. 

I reason not the need; that a spiritual need in me is answered in this way is enough to keep me looking on the bright(er) side of life, its pitfalls notwithstanding.. 

The words of a vicar's wife, a work colleague who told me she enjoyed working with me and was sorry I would go to hell (for being gay, I presume?) lost the power to hurt me long ago.

If God is nature, could that be why nature does not discriminate in the way many humans (still) do?

L-I-F-E, POEMS FOR EVERY OCCASION 

There are trees whose leaves
speak with the voices of poets, reciting summers,
autumns, even lonely winters
when only robins likely to linger long enough
to promise such regeneration as may yet get to see
its poets live and let live 

There are birds come to nest
and teach their young such poetry of their home-tree
as will see them through its seasons,
encourage them to explore both heavens above,
and earth below, get to know what it takes for kith, kin
and poetry to survive 

There are poets whose hearts
are given freely to an Earth Mother, anxious to be
put through the very motions 
of each season as it comes, share the joys
we take in life, and such sorrow as sure to follow death
as birdsong on human ears 

There has always been poetry
as close to nature as human nature, anxious to see
them working in such harmony
as gives conservation and preservation of species
due priority, whatever it takes to be sure Earth’s poetry
is more than a rehearsal 

Rehearsal for what, who knows? A good start may well be
to listen and learn more from (all) life-poetry...?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

[Note: This post-poem also appears on my general poetry blog today.] RNT

 

 

No Comment OR Silent Witness

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

Someone once asked me why people hold grudges. From personal experience, I would say it is because many would rather suffer in silence than risk … what? Being made to look, foolish or small-minded for one thing, proven wrong for another; the possibilities are endless and invariably negative. 

So, what of the positives like clearing the air, preventing estrangement, staying friends … - a shorter list, perhaps, but far more important, surely, to achieve the better result? 

I have said before and will almost certainly say again, in the course of a post-poem, how fortunate, indeed, are those with families and friends willing to talk any differences through and agree to differ rather than burn good bridges. (Let’s face it, none of us are perfect, most of us far from it.)

Whoever emerges winner of the U.S. presidential election, it is clear that America is a very divided country' we can but hope that Democrats and Republicans will start talking to rather than at each other and find common ground in healing rather than deepening its divisions. (Not, as a rule, the nature of world politics perhaps, but in everyone's interests,surely, not least its own?)

NO COMMENT or SILENT WITNESS

I love festive occasions,
am invariably at the centre of things,
places all but brimming over
with joy, enthusiasm, peace, love,
and no reason to suspect
such goodwill cannot last for years
(or hours, at least);
everyone made welcome who’s at mine
for the feast 

Made only too often aware
of flaws in human nature by tête-à-tête
leaving nothing to imagination,
I can’t help but overhear, left wondering
what on earth is going on
between mother and daughter, father
and son, brother and sister,
as best friend to another, and how on earth
will it all end? 

Although I rarely chance to see
beyond my surrounds, I’m of two minds
whether or not I really care;
all human life is here, and I no judge, juror
nor executioner, if tempted
(frequently) to bang heads together, make
people see the hurt they cause
by taking in third party rumour as and when
they choose

Me, I’m but a table, no say in, just looking on
at what passes for civilisation

Copyright R. N. Taber 
(Nov. 5th, 2020) 

[Note: his post-poem appears on both poetry blogs today as requested by reader A. J.] 

 

All our Tomorrows OR A Coat of many Colours

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

As the world waits with bated breath to see who will win the US presidential election, it continues turn - for better, for worse - on the ups and downs of everyday life.

Me, I just try to keep looking on the bright-(er) side of life and make the most of any ups while I still can.  The downs? Well, most of those involve age-related health issues. Along with the rest of the world’s ageing population, I can only do my best to rise above them, kid myself I am in control, and try to imagine as many good things waiting for me as far forward as I find myself regularly looking back.

"Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, · Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, · To the last syllable of recorded time; · And all our yesterdays have lighted fools." - Macbeth

ALL OUR TOMORROWS or A COAT OF MANY COLOURS

Shadows,
so gracing some gently flowing river,
like iconic dancers
treating us all to the music and poetry
of life

Sunlight,
now peeping through autumn leaves
like a child at a letterbox
watching grandma struggling to reach
to the door

Rainbows,
reminding the human race of its own
promises to communities
worldwide to engage with and be proud
of its diversity

Sunsets,
dressing clouds in patches of yellow
and red over misty greys, 
reminding us it’s a coat of many colours
civilisation wears 

Darkness,
striving to take possession of dreams
called upon by those among us
left trusting that mind-body-sprit may yet
keep its promises

Shrill cries 
of a cockerel echoing our frustrations
with all humanity’s wrestling 
with a hurt for its finer, greater part's missing
the boat?

Copyright R N Taber 2020

(Note: This post-poem also appears on my general blog today. Although feedback suggests more readers are dipping into both blogs than when I started them up ten years ago, it also confirms that many gay readers still don't.  A poem of course, is for everyone.)

 

A poem of course, is for everyone.)

Engaging with Epic Poetry

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

Today’s poem first appeared on the blog in 2017.

In July 2009 I was privileged to participate in "One and Other", sculptor Sir Antony Gormley's 'live sculpture' project on the 4th plinth in London's Trafalgar Square; I gave a poetry reading. At the time, I thought reference to its being a 'live' sculpture simply referred to those participants invited to do whatever for an hour, July- October. I became aware that I was part of an epic poem of sorts, which subsequently inspired the poem.

Now, text-speak may well be as relatively a new phenomenon as the mobile phone itself, but conversations with the inner self are as old as humankind.

Invariably, we think of mind, body and spirit at separate entities, and I am often criticised for suggesting they are. Yet, each engage with each other in such a way that maybe it is high time we started thinking of the whole rather than the parts? After all, it is they that would see us (as a whole) engage with time and space... for better, for worse; it is they, also, to, whom we invariably turn when we are stressed out for whatever reason.

Exercising mind and body is a form of creative therapy that can encourage the human spirit to wake up to whatever reality we are avoiding and help us reach a constructive decision as to how best to proceed - or not, as the case may be.

Poets make much of Poetry of the Heart, but there is a  sense in which we are all, each and every one of us, living poems; the whole of us, as individuals, not just this part or that. 

There are many who profess to hate poetry, find it glib, trite, weak; those same people, simply by engaging with life itself, who are creating the Poetry of History, an epic poem about the human race as beautiful - not least for its very diversity - as any prose.

ENGAGING WITH EPIC POETRY

Life,

spiralling me downwards

from cradle to grave…

often when I least expect it,

leaves me clinging

for dear life at straws in an ill wind

raised by a helter-skelter

of events conspiring to drag me

beyond imagination,

test ego (and salvation) to limits

rarely conceived

even by those daily enduring

a world of nightmares

Love,

spelling out such promises

as sweet dreams

are made of, offering (for free)

a magical-mystery-tour

of mind-body-spirit asking only

that I stay true

to the end of a line drawn

not (whimsically) 

in sand or clay, but in good faith

that 1 + 1 is equal,

to the sum of all its frictions,

and I can add up

Hope,

bringing me the best of things

at the worst of time

reshaping even the obstinate clay

of human nature

as a potter’s wheel might

its tasks in hand,

demanding the poetry of art

speak up for Beauty,

fair chameleon exposing masks

of the Beast

for human waste washed up

by the tides of life

Centuries of anticipating eternity 

for engaging with its epic poetry

Copyright R. N. Taber 2017

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

You-Me-Us, Love and let Love

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blogs in 2014.

Oh, but roll on spring, a renewed zest for life, love, nature...always so much a part of us even as winter would have its wicked way with us. Winter, though, even as a season of the human heart such as Covid-19 has imposed on the world, cannot win; if spring simply hibernates, who says the spirit of spring ever hibernates...?

Now, love comes in all shapes and sizes and is just about everywhere you look from childhood through adulthood into our older years; we just need to keep our minds and hearts open, and have no stereotypical ideas about love’s 'ideal'.

Nothing and no one can live up to an ideal. But if growing up is all about getting real, it doesn't have to take anything away from the everlasting beauty of love...unless we let it.

As for gay love…Well, love doesn’t discriminate against us so by what right does anyone? Sadly, there have always been bigots - in one form or another - and no new, better, kinder world was ever built in a day ... we can but do our best to keep tackling chips on shoulders and hidden agendas in tablets of stone.

We may well happen to think a couple in love are not suited to one another for one reason or another, but it is not up to us to impose our feelings on them. However well-meaning any uninvited interference or intrusion concerning the affairs of others, even loved ones, we need to be there for them, not cold shouldering because they choose not to take our 'advice'.

Various socio-cultural-religious issues need to translate into love just as they were invariably intended before certain individuals and groups chose to impose their own interpretations. Similarly, personal integrity needs to embrace the wider implications of human love or what worth social, cultural, religious or political identity? (Yes, and sexual identity too.)

As I have said before on the blogs, our differences do not make us different, only human. We may nurse misgivings, even downright disapproval about the love two people plainly have for one another, but it is neither our business nor right to judge or reject them because they conflict with socio-cultural-religious values, traditions or stereotypes imposed upon us since birth.

The world changes and we need to change with it, clearly discriminating between human values and human vanity as we do so.

Dis I say it was easy?

This poem is a kenning.

YOU-ME-US, LOVE AND LET LOVE

Sworn to ride a dragon

across the world,

home course preferred,

winging our way across skies

a cloudy grey for the sun,

as joyfully (if often fearfully)

we, our seasons run,

whatever the damage done

by Man or nature

Let winds blow, rain gnash

its teeth at us, cyclones

crash into our poor defences,

smash every window, door,

sending cars flying, leaving us

but recourse to initiative,

mind over matter where hearts

dare disprove the universal cynic,

the wavering doubter

Sweet song of a nightingale

lights up our darkness,

heaping comfort on loneliness…

Come dawn, voice of a lark

homing in on us at the very edge

of history, encouraging us

to focus once more on a kinder

landscape than left worn and torn

by nature and Man

To myth, legend, and fairy tale,

I, Love bring certainty ...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2003; 2013

[Note: An earlier version of this poem first appeared in an anthology, My Love, Poetry Now [Forward Press] 2003 and subsequently in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.]

Human Spirit, Life Forces

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

Today’s poem is, yes, another kenning; it first appeared on the blog in November 2009, again in 2011 and today (for a second time) by 'Hannah and Jonathan’ for no special reason other than "it always lifts our spirits." Well, thank you, folks, happy to oblige.

Several people have commented to me recently that they feel "like death warmed up" and /or "totally drained" by the pandemic and its everyday implications for and limitations on everyday life; and so say all of us, I suspect. We can but stay positive and trust the human spirit to help us run the gamut and survive the stronger, not than weaker for it. Never easy, of course, even at the best of times.

A friend I knew as a student once confided that he 'envied' poets and others engaging in the arts because ' they can experience at first hand the everlasting quality of a vibrant Poetry of Life that passes so many of us by. At best..." he conceded, "...we can enjoy it while it lasts, provided we even recognise it for what it is at the time, of course. But, let's face it who want to be reminded once it moves on? I mean to say, no one wants to be reminded of any what-might-have-been, do they?"

While these were rhetorical questions, of course, I practised my right to agree to differ anyway, pointing out that no human experience either passes us by or even moves on completely, but remains a part of us, and whether we like/acknowledge it or not, it helps shape who we are and how we learn from whatever might-have-been may have affected us as it clearly had my friend. He shrugged, commented that "you arty types are all the same, always looking on the brighter side of life, and expecting the rest of us to take a leaf out of your poetry books." We both laughed. and he changed the subject.

Strange, isn't it, how some conversations stay with you like the lyric of a song you can't forget, as much for the singer as the song, if not more so...? Arts and artists, they help shape our lives along with their own; as for who gets the better deal, active participant or audience, that's anyone's guess, although I suspect it is in some timely inspiration that lies the key to any answers. Nor should it ever be assumed that anyone outside the arts field has ever been excluded from enjoying the Poetry of Life; it is a global consciousness, open to and welcoming anyone whose natural spirit engages with the poetry (and prose) of life in all its human diversity of expression and experience.

As regular readers of either or both poetry blogs will know only too well, I subscribe to no religion as such; an empathy with nature since childhood, though, leads me confess an intimate relationship with Pantheism in the sense that I see any 'God' as nature, rather than its creator, having never felt comfortable with the idea of a personified God.

Sadly, while I respect world religion/s, few who enter into them respect my point of view; neither atheist nor agnostic am I, though, so can we not simply agree to differ and get on with our lives without invoking words on historical tablets of stone that would keep us apart ...?

So ...what happens to the human spirit once its host body dies?  Regular readers will know by now that my sense of a posthumous consciousness is another of the life forces my poem suggests drives  a human spirit that ia not only eternal, but also, in its own unique way, continues to not only make a 'live' contribution to history .... be it in a personal and/or wider sense.

HUMAN SPIRIT, LIFE FORCES

I am that life force feeling its way

into dreams, making sure moon and stars

shine love’s light through layers

of darkness if only to reveal what’s real

in a world so easily misled by word

or gesture, generally making a poor show

of communicating such feelings

as all our kinder senses often banging

at the doors of closed minds

I am that life force lending a shoulder

to cry on, an ear to confide in, sees caution

thrown to the wind and returns it

as a kindness, suggesting we reconsider

persistently pitting human nature

against its other selves, risk losing face

in the eyes of old (and new) gods

looking down on our crude obsession

with mortality, and wondering why

I am that life force to whom they turn

whom flames of any passion would devour

for better, for worse, but only ashes

where we'd have left a blaze of memory

to comfort, leave us feeling secure,

whatever some Grim Reaper may yet

demand of us; no life force, he,

intending to override the Poetry of Life,

foiled by the resilience of its humanity

Come day or night, find me, Earth Mother,

archiving centuries of nurture

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010, 2020

[Note: This post/ poem also appears on mygeneral poetry blog today given that the poem (no less than all poetry) is all-inclusive, and feedback suggests many readers only drop in to one or the other blog; an earlier version of the poem appears in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]

Yesterday-Today-Tomorrow, a Unique Species of Rose

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

[Update: 11/7/2020: I am often criticised for rarely using full stops at the end of stanzas; fair enough, but I see a poem (like life and time) as a continuum; it is meant to give the reader food for thought; for much the same reason, I often hyphenate words to bring them together, such as yesterday-today-tomorrow in the poem below. Hopefully, the reader will continue to consider the implications and relation to the poem’s theme/s long after they have forgotten the poem itself.] RT

In the closing scenes of a classic movie Gone with the Wind - based on a novel of the same name by Margaret Mitchell - its heroine, Scarlett O’Hara, magnificently portrayed by Vivien Leigh, briefly considers confronting some uncomfortable home truths before backing out with the immortal words, “I’ll think about that tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day.”

How many of us, I wonder, have told ourselves much the same thing, and for how many of us has that changed much, if anything …?

Me? As guilty as sin … as are most if not all of us.

Meanwhile, while time passes and, for the most part, poor, misunderstood humanity persists in pausing at the brink of self-awareness … if only to excuse this or that course of action (or inaction) should it ever be called to account.  

Time, marking the days that come and go in our lives, may well be much the same for everyone; it is how we choose to nurture those days (or not, as the case may be) that makes them unique for each and every one of us, whoever and wherever. Raison d'être, too, is unique, to every individual even in shared circumstances like relationships; I dare say the world would be a better, kinder, place if only we were (all) to remember that, more often, especially those among us - in all walks of life - inclined to rush to judgement.

“It’s the time that you spent on your rose that makes your rose so important…" 

- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

YESTERDAY-TODAY-TOMORROW, A UNIQUE SPECIES OF ROSE

Yesterday, I’d traverse deserts,

goaded by false images to kneel and drink

from oases of illusion

Yesterday, I’d climb leafy trees

browse the words of ancient philosophers

in passing clouds

Yesterday, I’d swim in the oceans,

bear witness to creatures choking to death

on human waste

Today, I’ll try to pass on something

of lessons learned by the mind-body-spirit

in poetry and prose

Today, I’ll try stirring cloth ears

all but glued to mobile phones into hearing

global warnings

Today, I’d do an Internet search

for answers to questions ever plaguing me,

but, alas, no wi-fi

Tomorrow, I’ll join other nomads

(still) misled by fake news, kneeling to drink

from oases of delusion

Tomorrow, I’ll ask the few trees left

how Earth Mother might have had us comply

had we but listened …?

Tomorrow, I’ll start thinking of ways

to prevent stereotypes slamming down the lid

of the box they put me in

Yesterday-today-tomorrow, live streams

of consciousness calling on Earth to reconcile

nature and human nature

Yesterday-today-tomorrow, last spotted

sailing under false colours where imagination

having settle for cast-offs

Yesterday-today-tomorrow, making hay

in the sunshine, world clocks winding us up

and down, up and down ...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

Wilde at Heart

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2017. 

Someone who introduces himself as a "religious person" has emailed to berate me for "ignoring" the Covid-19 coronavirus pandemic and even publishing a gay-interest poetry blog at all." What can I say? I can only refer this reader to my general poetry blog where I have been making reference to the pandemic all the time. Regarding the creation of this blog, our sexuality is an important part of who we are, and we are all, in turn, part of a common humanity. Not everyone likes poetry, of course, but if he cannot bring himself to read either blog, I confess to being puzzled as to how and why he feels it is his "duty" to attack me for them. wry bardic chuckle

Over the years, I have made a number of significant revisions to my (published and unpublished) poems and novels. Eventually all my print books will hopefully have been converted to revised editions in e-format but this will take some time. As I am in my 70's now, I may need to depend on someone else. Publishers - other than anthology publishers and poetry magazine editors - have never shown any interest in my poetry because I have always insisted on insist on including a gay-interest section so I have mostly self-published. Consequently, my collections have only been on sale in the UK. While costly, I have always more than broken even with sales, and more importantly been very encouraged by feedback from gay and straight readers alike.

Find below, my dedication poem to Oscar Wilde from my  collection Tracking the Torchbearer. I read it on You Tube (NB under its original title, 'De Profundis') beside a wonderful sculpture - 'A Conversation with Oscar Wilde' by Maggie Hambling - that can be found in central London.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VxcbIozftcE

OR Access my You Tube channel and search there:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

The poem was written in 1981; that I was able to write it at all played a significant part in the long haul of recovery from a nervous breakdown in 1979 that was perhaps inevitable after spending many years afraid - for various reasons - to be openly gay.

WILDE AT HEART

I lay floating in an ocean of misery,

willing myself to drown

while dolphins kept me company

and Apollo lingered on

Sharks, they kept a hungry distance,

an albatross winged by,

while waves lent a gentle cadence

to twilight’s lullaby

Went into free fall to the ocean floor

and would have stayed,

but Apollo demanded of me more

while the dolphins cried

I let them have their way if reluctantly,

screaming for their motivation,

peering into a misty-eyed mortality,

without rhyme or reason

No one answered my question though

I strained to hear,

then twilight let a cloud pass through

and I found a poem there

Body of straw in that ocean of misery,

willing myself to drown,

I read an ode to life, love and a history

of peace after wars hard won

It told how little in life ever comes easy

including death …

such is the fickle nature of humanity

in the sight of Earth Mother

I felt a poet’s passion take hold of me,

heard its voice in a seagull’s cry,

swimming me across an ocean of misery

to walk kinder shores, head high

I woke in tears still drenching my pillow,

began (slowly) to recover;

at chinks in the blinds, winks from Apollo

assuring me the worst was over

Copyright R. N. Taber 1982; 2007

[From: Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, March 2012]

[Note: Tragically of course, for Wilde, the worst was far from over during his lifetime.

An Autobiography of the Human Race

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

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; 2020

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

Love, Testament to Life OR Au Revoir Mon Amour

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

There will be no blog entries for a week or so after today while I make time to start preparing a new collection; it is now ten years since Tracking the Torchbearer appeared under my own imprint. (Oh, and, yes, they did sell well and I even made a profit albeit a small one.) I also need to start work on new editions of earlier collections as a number of poems have since been revised, often only slightly, but always significantly. Only one (U.S.) publisher has expressed any interest so far, but messed me about so much that I withdrew my submission; others did not want to include gay-interest as well as general poems, and I will not compromise on this. Being gay is an integral part of who I am, but it is only a part, and we are all the sum of our parts. I may not publish  print editions again, though, but upload as e-books, but time enough to cross that bridge as and when I come to it. Hopefully, some of you will enjoy exploring the blog archives in my absence.

I will try and post a new (or revised) poem from time to time, although, like so many people around the world - not least those of us who live alone - I have to confess to lockdown fatigue at the moment. As I suspect I had the milder version of Covid-19 back in early January, and count myself fortunate, everything I do still seems to be taking much longer.

Take care, folks, and many thanks - as always - for the pleasure of your company.

Meanwhile ...

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2016. At the time, a reader who had been browsing blog entries and emailed to ask why on earth I should think anyone reading a general poetry blog would be interested in a gay relationship. Fair enough, except that poetry is about human nature as well as the natural world; most of my gay-interest poems only appear on my gay-interest blog, but I happen to think the occasional entry here is not as inappropriate as ttis reader plainly thinks. Like it or not, there are many LGBT men and women in the world, and we are no less human (or naturally so) for that. Why must so many people rush to judgement on others, a judgement often based on shallow stereotypes? Being gay is an important part of a gay persons' whole identity, but it is only a part; what about those other parts that make us who we are?As for why I publish the poem here, I guess I live in hope that stereotypical and bigoted attitudes will eventually bee seen as fake news; there are many gay-friendly straight people out there who don't have a problem with a person's sexuality because it is the whole person they are happy to call a friend. Besides, there is nothing wrong or unusual (or immoral) about the ages-old principle of agreeing to differ ... is there?

Regular readers will know that my partner was killed in a road accident many years ago. He was not my only love, but the only person with whom I wanted to spend the rest of my life, no reservations whatsoever. Sadly, we did not have long together, but his love has inspired me (and my poetry) ever since.

Now, there is nothing romantic about death, but neither is death any match for love.

I will be 75 years old this year. For me, it has never been so much the case that that time heals as that any brush with mortality makes life all the more precious while the pain of loss serves to remind us that we are, indeed, very much alive. It is a philosophy that has also served me well since I was diagnosed with prostate cancer in February, 2011. 

"Why should I fear death? If I am, death is not. If death is, I am not. Why should I fear that which cannot exist when I do?" - Epicurus 

LOVE, TESTAMENT TO LIFE or  AU REVOIR, MON AMOUR

I have kissed Death on the cheek as it slept,
let a flow of memories course my veins
while Hope, past a grieving heart, it crept,
ghost rider tugging gently at the reins

I have kissed Death on the lips as it rested
where nature's tides may flow no more
but neither its finer spirit’s growth arrested;
songs of love and peace, no talk of war

Life called out my name as I would leave,
its firm, kind, touch wiping away a tear,
prising my fingers but gently from its sleeve,
for conceiving its eternal watchtower ...

Fear not as Death calls, or where it takes us; 
be sure of waking among Memory's flowers

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2007; 2020 

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in my collection, Accomplices to Illusion, Assembly Books, 2007; this post also appears on my general blog today.]

Society, Judge-and-Jury

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

For many of us, one of the worst aspects of the current pandemic is that bars and restaurants are closed and there is nowhere to meet up with friends, catch up and enjoy socialising; it has left a lot of people feeling lonely and isolated, especially those of us who live on our own. 

Me, I use my imagination and let phone chats take me back to places I love to visit with friends.  I missed out on my teenage years because we moved when I was 13 years old, I lost touch with old friends and found it hard to make new ones. In those days, I was an avid reader so I used to make friends with characters in my favourite novels, and it helped ease my loneliness. During the pandemic, I might watch a favourite TV program and transport myself into it, even interact with some of the characters. Such are the lengths to which loneliness can drive a person, but who cares if it works and we feel better for it? Mind you, we have to keep an eye on our marbles at the same time and make sure we are not losing any.  <>

A popular local gay bar has been closed here now for about 5 years and is much missed, not least by yours truly. When I commented as much to a gay-friendly associate a year or so ago, he pointed out that there was less need for gay bars now because "Being gay is acceptable these days and there are laws to protect LGBT people. Political correctness means anyone can feel safe anywhere so why have bars specifically for a gay clientele?"  

Well, for a start, political correctness is a non-starter for many people; they may not risk saying so in a public place, but many are as homophobic as they have ever been. Besides, no one understands the whole LGBT ethic as we do ourselves. We feel comfortable in each other's company and if you want to relax and enjoy yourself, being able to relax ia every bit as important as being able to feel safe.

A Chinese friend once commented that he loves going to Chinatown in central London, not just for the food and the people but for the pleasure of being able to make himself understood in his own language. LGBT people speak the same language. However sympathetic a straight person might bt towards LGBT folk they don't speak our language in a sense that they will never relate to us inquie the same way one of our own can.  Yes, LGBT folks fall out with each other, some even actively dislike each other, but that's human nature, it has little if anything to do with sexuality.

Another thing about gay bars is that people are more willing and happy to talk to each other. (No, not necessarily chatting people up although some of that too ...) Before the coronavirus pandemic, I used to enjoy going into a local pub on my own and just chatting to people over a few drinks. In later years, though, I stopped going there because everyone would inevitably be  too engaged with playing games or chatting on their mobile phones to even look up and engage in the kind of eye contact that would so often lead to a friendly chat even between complete strangers. 

So, yes, I think there is as great a need now for gay bars as ever.

This poem is a kenning.

SOCIETY, JUDGE-AND-JURY

I take pleasure in torture.

oh, but slowly, relish the torment

of closet regret, trap of his

or her making, rarely deserving
of finding me here,
bent on making sure any dash
for freedom premature
or (worse) a botched job ending
in floods of tears

If I show mercy sometimes,

it is but part of a darker strategy

intended only to deceive,

paint a prettier picture, convey

a false sense of security,

draw them in who think to know

the inner self better than I,

preferring to gloss over any truths
that fail to flatter

Simply get what I mean,
not what I say, together we'll see
LGBT on its way,
no matter political correctness
finding me wanting,
as no few public figures fronting
the world's religions
and its political persuasions relate
to my way of thinking

Call me Society, self-styled judge-jury
(still) finding LGBT "Guilty!"

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2020

[Note: If you enjoy the poem, you might want to dip into my general poetry blog sometime at https://rogertab.blogspot.com/ ]