Some Doors Never (Quite) Close OR Young Love, Old Love

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

Overheard in a local store recently: 

1^st MAN:  She’s only seventeen, so how can she know her own mind? I tell you, the boy’s trouble. I’ve told her to stay away from him, but... 

2^nd MAN: Kids, eh? So much to learn and so much they just don’t want to know... 

(Both men move away.) 

Now, I have no idea of the actual context of this conversation, having only caught a snippet, but it was enough to remind me that not only LGBT folks are up against traditional ideas, one of these being that young people don’t know their own minds. True, they have a lot to learn, but how to learn if they are not encouraged to do so? 

The vast majority of parents only want that is best for their children. For many parents, though, their children never (quite) grow up and/ or may well follow a different learning curve to the one their parents have in mind for them. Whatever, mulling over this snippet of conversation resulted (for better, for worse) in a poem. 

SOME DOORS NEVER (QUITE) CLOSE or YOUNG LOVE, OLD LOVE

There’s a love song
been running around in my head
all day, today
and most days since last we met,
said our goodbyes,
promised to meet up again soon;
only, it wouldn’t happen;
life would deal us more cruel blows
before we’d meet again 

I hear it in the wind
as I lie in my bed at night, dreaming
of you, wondering
where and how you are, recalling
all the plans we made
for a future with neither sorrow
nor pain to haunt us,
but love alone to see us through all life
may send to taunt us 

They meant us well,
both family and friends who warned
we were not meant
to be together, no birds of a feather,
you and I, but chalk
and cheese who could not hope
to ever realise our dreams
of a world that would gladly see its lovers
rise above its divisions 

Time passed, the same
song in my heart urging me to overcome
society’s resistance
to the you-me-us of years when we
thought of ourselves
as free to be together, no matter
how great the pain
as may well take us to task for going against
its traditional grain 

Give it time, they had said,
and we’d see the wisdom of advice given,
but my love, it lived on
in mind-body-spirit until I resolved
to seek you out,
take a chance on the feelings we had
making such choices
as we’d have made then, but told “too young"
by older, wiser voices 

Decision made, interrupted
by a knock on my door I hesitate to answer
for fear of losing the thread
of mind-body-spirit’s engaging me
with such home truths
as I’d been advised to put aside by those
wanting better for us
than what they could not even begin to consider
for themselves 

It was in something of a daze I opened the door
to find you smiling there...

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

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

 

 

 

Hello again, folks, from London UK

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

Hello again folks, from London UK

No poem today, but I am working on one, not only for you all but for me too. As with most people, the pandemic continues to taken its toll on yours truly. As if growing old and living alone was not enough to contend with, I find myself struggling to rise above the kind of depression that comes with battling various health issues - not least, my prostate cancer - on a daily basis.

At least I understand the nature of what I what I am up against and do so with a hopeful heart. Some battles are beyond understanding, prejudice being one of them. Prejudice against another human being is a sickness I find very hard to understand, and I am not speaking simply as a gay man.

Those who nurture feelings of racism, sexism, any kind of hate form against another human being simply because they don't like colour of their skin, their gender or the  nature of their sexuality... or whatever... is beyond all understanding.

Not for the first time, I received complaints about my last post along the lines that "... a gay-interest poem has no place on a 'supposedly' general poetry blog." That may well be true, but the motivation behind a poem is every bit important as the poem itself.

There are many men and women out there to whom the faith in which they were raided remains important to them even if they discover during puberty that they are of an LGBT+ persuasion, which most religious dogma condemns. Homosexuality and gender identity are no less a part of the human condition than any  mind-body-spirit that identifies with and feels a compelling empathy with the religion in which they have been raised.

Another reader has emailed to complain that "As you say you are not religious yourself, how can you, a godless person, justify a poem that is a religious allegory - of sorts..."

Hopefully I have explained if not justified the reason for the poem in the previous paragraph and other blog posts. As for my being a "godless" person, I have never claimed to be one, except in the way most world religions would have it. Pantheists believe that God is nature, not its creator. 

Anyone who has experienced as intimate an affinity with nature as with a God that not only doesn't discriminate along such prejudicial lines as some human beings, but neither sees any form of  bigotry as a "natural" element of any mind-body-spirit. Over the years, I have meat many people who share much the same experience, albeit I dare say they my well prefer not to see themselves as pantheists... or poets, for that matter.

 How a person feels, how he or she fills their personal space, that is where human choice lies, and it is only human to make  bad choices sometimes; these can never (quite) rectified, but the capacity to recognise  and change is also innate to mind-body-spirit and it should not require religion to state the terms of  a sinner's repentance or forgiveness. If we can repent and forgive ourselves, it is my belief that the greater, natural part of mind-body-spirit will rest easier for that and form the better part likely to engage with an empathic consciousness in life or death. 

      I'm not asking anyone to agree with me, simply trying to answer (to myself as much as anyone) why poetry helps me get through bad times and lets me feel a sense of spirituality as well as sheer pleasure in better, kinder times. Not an answer that will satisfy some if not many readers, I'm sure, but like everyone else, I can but try to get to the root of such thought processes that many philosophers and many a finer poet than I has attempted to reach for centuries.

Take care, keep well and nurture as positive thinking a mindset as you can,

Back soon,

Hugs, 

Roger

[Note: This post also appears on my general blog today since feedback suggests that some LGBT readers only dip into this blog

Engaging with Conjecture

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

I recently met up with a close friend for lunch in a church garden; it was a lovely, sunny afternoon and we were joined by assorted avian friends (mostly pigeons) hoping for such crumbs as we duly obliged. 

While chatting away, we’d sometimes address the birds directly; some would even seem to understand, if only in our imagination. Maybe they did understand, if not the words we spoke, the tone in which we spoken them? Who really knows what goes on in the head of any live creature, including human beings? It can only be pure conjecture, surely? 

I put this to a psychiatrist once. To my surprise, he agreed, adding that it was not his job to know what goes on in patient’s heads, but to help them to know and thereby help themselves. “I’m trained to read signs, not to be a mind-reader,” he pointed out, “Before anyone can begin to deal with problems affecting their behaviour, they have to get to the root cause, rather like having to lift an invisible curtain they don’t even realise is there.  It’s my job to point patients towards it and help them find the wherewithal to lift the damn thing. Even then, it’s only a first step...” 

A naturalist acquaintance once commented along similar lines about conjecture. We were observing a tortoise in his garden. “How does it decide which way to go?” I wanted to know. 

“Natural instinct,” he said with quiet conviction. 

“So how does that work?” I persisted. 

“No one really knows for sure,” he chuckled, “... but we can learn a lot by observation of live creatures and their remains. Even so, all species are different and within any species there will always be individual differences. At the end of the day, even what a specialist learns is only conjecture, but as close to knowing as anyone can get.”  

It was s too complex a conversation for me, though, and I changed the subject... 

ENGAGING WITH CONJECTURE 

In a church garden,
two gay men engaging with nature
and human nature  
in such ways as its hosts would
deny us for our being
beyond both their ken or remit,
according to such dogma
as they would share as a ‘God-given’
insight to Heaven 

Beneath leafy art forms
portraying dream-like cameos
of cloud shapes
and sun nymphs peering down
with watery eyes,
we ate our lunches, two old friends,
tossing breadcrumbs
now and then to birdlife come to share
precious moments there 

Pigeons, various markings
and colouring, engaging with us;
avian and human,
birds of a feather come together,
truce understood,
a spirit of such caring and sharing
as even divided species agree
on nurturing, if the going’s looking good
for credit and reward 

Nearby, a crow has business
of its own with discarded food waste
in open litter bins,
deftly removing sandwich wrappings
and other crumb-potential,
scattering them across public gardens
for passers-by to deplore
such ‘litter-louts’ as never spare a thought
for the environment 

Observing, though, how much
nature and human nature have in common,
for worse as well as better,
who’s to judge any species of creature
great or small for being
as they are, or any within the human race
made to feel outsiders
by any form socio-cultural-religious dogma
now and forever? 

Such are ways to which life forms
are born, better (surely) to trust than see them
forsworn under duress,
reason the need any heart may protest
at being put to a test
it doesn’t even recognise as fit for purpose,
any more than do two gay men
in a church garden, engaging with local nature
and human conjecture? 

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

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

I

Art forms, Life-forms

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

Again, not a gay-specific post-poem today, but I make no apologies for that. 

In my first job (in a public library) after leaving school at 18 years-old, I discovered gay fiction as a positive life-form.  At the time, early 1960's, I was still in the closet, not least because I was still living at home and male members of my family had 0ften expressed homophobic comments. Cowardly of me, I know, but I could not have coped with the inevitable angst and stress; indeed, as regular readers of either or both poetry blogs will know, it would be a good fifteen years yet before I'd feel anywhere near confident enough in my sexuality to look the world in the eye. 

To this day, my remaining family have never broached the subject with me, nor I with them, not least because I would expect them to play the 'politically correct' card while doubting whether any talk of support would be any more genuine now as it would have been forthcoming years ago. In many cases now, families are supportive of gay members, and that is GOOD to see, but many socio-cultural-religious bigots remain, resulting in far too many gay boys and girls, men and women and other LGBT folks being stuck in a lonely closet for many years, even a lifetime. 

Coming out of that damn closet is the best and hardest move I have ever made in life, and I would not wish it on anyone.  Sadly, I was not destined to settle down with a permanent partner and a lonely old age is no fun, but NOTHING compares with those lonely closet years, and my only regret is that it took me far too long to start believing in myself (and others) in so far as our sexuality makes us no less human, contrary to what I had been told.

Indeed, I feel encouraged by emails from readers of my general poetry blog the suggests fewer readers take offence when I mention or discuss certain influences of  my earlier years, including being gay, on my poetry.

Meanwhile...

People have often asked me why I write poetry. Another friend, a painter, is often asked why he paints. Why does anyone get involved in any for of creativity whether it be writing, music, acting, dance or floristry, gardening... whatever, the answer is essentially the same. 

Any creative art form invariably makes the artist feel good, not only about participating by way of communicating, expressing something of the inner self that needs to make itself seen and heard, but also, in turn, being explored by inner eyes and inner ears, among any who care to look and listen. 

We may well disagree with what we see and hear in an art form, but it will invariably give us food for thought. 

Now, I know I have said as much in previous posts and the reader who emailed yesterday to tell me off for repeating myself too often makes a good point. At the same time - and the same applies to the creator and/or participant in any art form - if something is worth saying, it is always worth repeating. 

As for agreeing or disagreeing with whatever point/s are being put across within it, that is part of the art process, drawing us in. Even artists often find themselves at odds with themselves as they pursue whatever it is they are trying to say, struggling perhaps to give it form and meaning; to this end, they may well play devil’s advocate, not to confuse, but lead us to consider our own position and just where we stand in relation to... whatever. 

It may be a painting, a sculpture, a piece of music or a floral display... take any art form lightly, and we risk losing a sense of enlightenment as likely as not to influencer our lives for the better, whether minimally or substantially. 

ART FORMS, LIFE-FORMS 

During formative years,
I’d shed tears for feeling unsafe
in a world teaching me words
to help me guard against the threat
of mutual misunderstandings,
arts of communication as divided
by as many reasons swung
like axes of the proverbial kind
as human remains left behind

 Grown older and wiser
to ways of a world as excited
by the intimacy of playing
word games in any public arena
as lovers testing out dreams
in such open (or closet) scenarios
as may or not work out
for better or worse, blessing or curse.
in a private-cum-public space 

Grown old, the more so
for having had to agree terms
with strangers in my mirror,
shadows haunting dining tables,
or cosy corners for family,
friends, lovers indulging in rites,
acting parts in good faith,
so kinder worlds may yet save a heart
whose faith in one, fallen apart

Find me in all art forms, asking we consider
the good and bad of all we may yet deliver

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2021

[Note: Much of this poet-poem appears on my general blog today.] RNT