Love in all its Rainbow Hues

 

From Roger’s friend, Graham

 

Growing up is challenging enough, even without the burden of stigmatisation for loving someone of the same gender. There’s room for improvement here in Britain, but generally LGBT+ citizens have equal rights enshrined by law. In places of employment (excepting religious organisations) discrimination on the grounds sexuality or gender identity is illegal. Since the Civil Partnership Act in 2004, same sex couples can join in a legally recognised partnership. And after the UK Marriage Act in 2013, LGBT+ couples are able to marry.

Marriage is perhaps the ultimate expression of love for those fortunate enough to find a soulmate. It’s also a declaration of love to family, friends and beyond. For couples with religious faith, it’s a sacred vow of love with God as their witness.

Love is also a scintillating rainbow of sentiments. Greek philosophers Plato and Aristotle wrote of a whole spectrum of emotions such as friendship love; philia, familial love; storge and passionate love; éros. Greek mythology also abounds with inspirational tales of profound and tragic love such as Orpheus and Eurydice. Love can be the light of your life - or the heart of your darkness…

Roger explores these epic themes expansively throughout his writing. Sometimes in sonnet form - popularised in Elizabethan England by William Shakespeare and his contemporaries. (I hope to explore this theme in a later posting). His printed works often devote a section to the theme of love. They are, doubtless, poems interwoven with personal experience.

Roger and I occasionally discussed past relationships and compared notes on our respective missed opportunities, dashed hopes and even disasters. Alas for Rog, he wasn’t lucky enough to find a long-term partner. Although I believe his romantic soul never lost hope in meeting someone special.

In later life, I feel assured that Roger derived fulfilment through the reciprocal love of close friendships. Can this be enough to sustain anyone in the absence of a partner, estrangement from family or societal ostracisation? I imagine we’d all have a differing answer. Throughout my own voyage of self-discovery, friendship has certainly proven to be the most unconditional form of love. An enduring bond with Roger remains testament to that.

 

*  *  *

 

‘Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Without them humanity cannot survive.’ Dalai Lama

‘Love is a canvas furnished by nature and embroidered by imagination.’ Voltaire

‘Keep love in your heart. A life without it is like a sunless garden when the flowers are dead.’ Oscar Wilde

 

*  *  *

 

I’ll leave you with a trio of love poems – all from Accomplices to Illusion, Roger’s 2007 collection. I should explain that I’m staying with family presently - with only one book for source material. Wiltshire offers a welcome change of scenery. Tall oak trees surround the house. Their upper branches sweep back and forth like an artist’s frantic brushstrokes on a grey-marbled canvas. I look out on the small garden; the colours of shrubs diluted under a dull watercolour sky. A crow flies past; its hoarse cry breaking the mesmeric spell of birdsong. It fades to a black smudge on a watery treeline.

Thanks for reading.

 

*  *  *

 

NIGHT WATCH

I have greeted chimes at midnight
lain half dead at the toll for one
as my lifeblood ebbs to a starlight
behind clouds, watch all but done

I have heard the clock ticking over
for the passing of happy hours…
nor shall, when it stops, run for cover
but embrace a time forever ours

I have heard sweet songs at sunrise,
watched the last stars slip away,
seen my life’s light bright in your eyes
promise a beautiful spring day

As nature pauses at stark winter’s cold
so lovers dream, beyond a growing old

 

Copyright R N. Taber 2007 [a sonnet].

 

*  *  *

 

BONDING WITH ETERNITY

It was love opened up my heart
to all life means to me…
nor shall death its bonding part

Sands of time, soulmates at the start,
a song of destiny;
it was love opened up my heart

May the world no finer truths impart
than its natural beauty;
nor shall death its bonding part

Like summer skies, stars, even clouds
charting a fragile humanity…
it was love opened up my heart

If a taste on the tongue sweet or tart,
our togetherness a delicacy;
nor shall death its bonding part

Be nature’s kin struck by poison dart
comprising all humanity…
it was love opened up my heart
nor shall death its bonding part

 

Copyright R N. Taber 2007 [a villanelle].

 

*  *  *

 

WEATHERING LOVE

When I dream of you it is a springtime
of high hopes I’ll not forget

When I think of you it is midsummer,
(that rainy day we first met)

When I speak of you, each word is like
an autumn leaf that’s falling

When I hear your name on another’s lips
it’s but a winter robin calling

At nature’s whims, a beauty, each its own
though we weather it alone…

 

Copyright R N. Taber 2007.

Postscript from Yesterday (and a National Trust Outing)

 

From Roger’s friend, Graham

 

Good morning,

I intended to include an extra poem yesterday for this, Roger’s LGBT+ focused blog. It ties in with the art theme. Sorry, it slipped my mind so herewith, below. (You may be aware that there’s a general interest blog in parallel and I’ve been duplicating postings. Although I hope to include additional, more bespoke content for this blog if time permits.)

This blog address uses the unspaced words ‘aspects-of-a-gay-mans-life-in-verse’. And I know Rog used to share candid thoughts about day-to-day life. On health and mobility difficulties and other various opinions, frustrations, hopes and fears, etc. So I’ll try to continue along that thread. (I’m not a poet but I have an appreciation for poetry, so hopefully that will suffice.)

Looking outside, a pair of wood pigeons sway in a nearby treetop. The wind breathes life into a row of conifers like a puppeteer. Yellow lichen dusts a rooftop like flecks of peeling gold leaf. Beyond, a brackish river of intermingling muddy blues and greys. Along the arc of the riverside, distant warehouses strewn like discarded toys. An armada of clouds sail gracefully east. I wish I could hitch a ride; stow myself away. A sense of incompleteness runs through my quietude like a flaw in the sapphire sky; a striation of cloud stretched out to the horizon by winds of time. I make coffee, gather papers, read notes, go to the bathroom... An automaton almost; performing routines without knowing why. Empty, refill, repeat… It must be time to feed the birds; bring myself to life once more…

For this next gay-interest poem I should explain that in the UK there’s a wonderful charity called The National Trust (https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/). They preserve stately homes, places of historic or cultural significance, and much more. In fact I filmed some of Roger’s videos at one of the country estates which they maintain, see: ‘Stourhead, a Hymn to Nature & Live Art (Two poems)’ (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qQlJAu8Rwuc&t=17s). Or ‘Ode to Apollo’  (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TMIb7ysvJwU&t=65s). There’s other vids too. Apologies for the low picture quality – it was old technology!

Bye for now, Gx

 

*  *  *  *

 

A NATIONAL TRUST OUTING

On my way downstairs, I paused
to look at a portrait on the wall
and it winked at me, opened
its mouth and said (laughingly),
“Yes, I too was gay in my day
although the word not invented
nor times quite ready to receive
the unseemly likes of a common
painter and his patron lover – so we
had to lie, indulge in subterfuge
No one had the faintest idea,
certainly not the family (wife and
children included) or that ogre
Establishment whose inner circle
I was free enough to tread, so long
as I dared not bring it into disrepute
by word or deed. Oh, I loved them
well enough, indeed. But it’s not for
love of those I pose – radiating,
I suspect, an inner happiness?
Ah, yes, you understand. It is my
lover’s brush, exploring mind
and soul, touching what makes life
real (no trappings and trimmings
comprising Society’s notion – of
propriety or political expediency,
nor even an image of home fires
burning) – but Love, in all its
rampant glory, telling my story
here and now, for whomsoever might
care to consider, critically, a glow
in the cheek, lift of the eyebrow,
crook of the knee, hands pointedly
showing off slender fingers, touches
invariably missed in critique, put down
to art’s mystique, few appreciating
the intimacy between lover and lover,
bouncing off each other, long after
the oil runs dry, spoils of eternity”

In my own time I descended,
feeling befriended

 

Copyright R. N Taber 2004, 2006. From the poetry collection ‘The Third Eye’.

Painted Dreams

 

From Roger’s friend, Graham.

 

Greetings from a cloudy Essex riverside, and welcome.

Life can be a bittersweet symphony, as the song by British indie band, Verve, suggests. A shifting interplay of light and shade; smiles, tears, triumph and tragedy. How the individual makes sense of it is, like art, a studied interpretation.

Whether poet, artist, or none of the above, the human sees beyond the innate existence or istigkeit of their subject to reveal deeper truths. Capturing aspects of its meaning, its purpose, or even its cultural symbolism. Though a painting or poem merely occupy a veneer, their expositions delve deep. They’re so much more than just visual facsimiles or mechanical recordings.

Although constrained in his early years by familial and societal expectations, Roger, I think, blossomed in later life. He discovered his métier and befriended his muses. He embraced his passion for poetry, daring to rise above naysayers and the sniffy literati. (Just as any self-respecting Impressionist would disregard the strictures of Académie.) In the period that I knew him, he lived a bold, liberated and authentic life. ‘I’m past caring what people think about me’ he might say. Or sometimes (after a vino or two) he was rather more forthright: ‘Ah boll*cks to ‘em!’ he’d proclaim with a wry bardic grin.

I know Roger loved the paintings of British artist William Turner (or J. M. W. Turner). I sense that influence in his impressionistic wordscapes. His mind’s eye conjuring glittering pools of reflection, rolling pastures of rampant joy, and brooding skies of depression. Edges diffused, flowing and pulsing, in a vivid palette of words. A tree centre stage, feverishly worked into a hazy summer meadow. Figurative renderings; intertwining in storms of passion, making love, coalescing into a single entity. Fleeting beauty, captured in all its fragile and poignant intensity. Grotesque demons of blind hatred and heartless sanctimony exposed in their naked form; their monstrosity and absurdity revealed. Intense outpourings of a soul in ecstasy or agony; becalmed or in the tumult of a raging existential tempest. Unvarnished truths… swirling interplays… bold strokes. Lines of time tracing the vigour of youth to the frailty of old age. A life within and without; captured in all its delicate and gaudy hues.

Though Roger’s passions are now spent, his palette dry and his mind’s eye sleeping, his impressions endure. Open to interpretation and fresh perspectives. But most of all – to be enjoyed in that wondrous communion between artwork and observer.

And like his wordscapes, Rog blazed brightly in life too. Illuminating darkness and filling days with colour. Always there for me when I needed sage counsel, shelter, or reassurance. Likewise, I did my best to help him in his times of need. More than that though, he was great fun to be around. We enjoyed many uproarious days out*; consuming far too much ale and jokingly posturing around town as a pair of swaggering Bohemians. I recall our hilarious drunken antics involving spectacles falling into toilet pans, ales inadvertently slopped over crotch areas, and trousers accidentally slipping to half-mast on tube platforms. (Possibly not the sort of exposure an artist craves?) Plus a whole litany of other indecorous displays. It’s a wonder we weren’t arrested! Ah, dear ‘ole Rogie - feet of clay, but his head in the stars. It was a joy and a privilege…

I feel that Roger left this world slightly more picturesque than he found it. His legacy; a gallery of living, breathing landscapes of the imagination. I’ll leave you with one of my favourite poems. (Please forgive this self-indulgence, but I’m hopeful you’ll enjoy it.) It’s raw creative dynamism still paints my daydreams.

Cheers, Gx

* Reference to the period prior to Roger’s nasty fall and subsequent mobility impairment.

 

*  *  *  *

 

THE POET’S SONG

I am a Painter of Dreams,
my brush, a pen – words
all the paint available, tackling
the unassailable to bring within reach
of unquiet heart, restless soul,
images of life and love,
vision of a goal beyond perimeters
of time, space - humanity’s crude
conception of grace

I am a Painter of Dreams,
bringing you mine, intruding
on yours, winging heaven’s
elusive towers that flicker in a mist
of aspiration, inviting inspiration,
daring us to home in, defy
the rude mentality of a classroom
morality - humanity’s crude
conception of spirituality

See-Hear-Taste-Touch-Smell,
I am a Painter of Dreams, who
means well but often offends
who dare suggest I speak for all
that seek gold where the rainbow ends
for, like Pandora’s Box, our secrets
once let fly - each to their own;
Painter, dreamer, shades of light
or ships in a cruel night

Senses, falling apart at the seams
for a Painter of Dreams

 

Copyright R. N. Taber. From the collection: First Person Plural, 2002.

The Shared Heart

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

A married friend with children and also owns his own house once commented on my living alone and growing old in a council flat: ” A home without love in it isn’t a real home...” I see what he meant, but take issue with it all the same; just because a person may not have a partner, doesn’t mean their home is loveless.

As I have repeated many times on the blog, love comes in many shapes and forms, as do memories. The love people share can never be underestimated nor need the same people necessarily be married or even lovers; close friends may well bond in much the same way as lovers but for the absence of sex.

 Even in the absence of a close friend or relative, a person’s approach to the arts, gardening, politics or simply walking in the countryside, whether alone or in the company of others who share the same passions... the kind of love we have for and take from such life forces should not be underestimated either, especially by observers who only see  a person’s circumstances as they appear to the naked eye, invariably comparing them with their own, for better or worse. It is commonly said and universally true that appearances can be deceptive... in all manner of ways.

Yes, I am single, gay, live alone and have been estranged from my family for many years, but never let it be said that my home has no love in it or is any less of a home for my not having a lover to share it.

Love is more than a feeling; more, even, than those who feel it. Love is a ‘live passion, accessible to us al in whatever shapes and forms we choose - or which, perhaps, may well  have chosen us...?

THE SHARED HEART

The cares of our world,
they pass us by
whenever we make love,
you and I, on wings
of personal space left free
to soar higher, higher, even higher still
as any shared heart will

Assuming all the colours}
of a rainbow...
No harm done by taking them
for our own
in the heat of a passion
that makes poets of the mind-body-spirit
embracing a shared heart

Finally, having to surrender
to such thrills and spills
of reality to which, needs must,
humanity has been
called upon to answer, one way
or another, in the name of peace and quiet
as won by a shared heart

Despite the world’s inflicting
bruises and hurt,
ignoring even true lovers crying
“Enough, enough...!”
there is something about its capacity
for opening up, taking on and  reaching out
that inspires a shared heart

No finer, more enduring gift
can this life impart
than love enough to succour
the human heart,
whether it be people, places, pets...
memories to cherish, no matter whatever else
engages in the making of us

Let cynics consider immortality a pack of lies,
any shared heart will always argue otherwise 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021 

[This post-poem also appears on my general poetry blog today.] RT

 

 

 

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.]

Forever, Blowing Bubbles (On Cue)

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

Who doesn't love blowing bubbles? Whoever, wherever we are in the world, whatever our socio-cultural-religious or, yes, sexual persuasion it is an opportunity tomindulge ourselves in being ourselves; nor is it ever too late to learn certain dance steps or re-learn them, as the case may be ...

“Dancing in all its forms cannot be excluded from the curriculum of all noble education; dancing with the feet, with ideas, with words, and, need I add that one must also be able to dance with the pen?” - Friedrich Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols

"Two bubbles found they had rainbows on their curves. They flickered out saying: "It was worth being a bubble, just to have held that rainbow thirty seconds." - Carl Sandburg, Bubbles, in  'The Complete Poems of Carl Sandberg' 

"Miracles happen every day. They bubble up from their hidden source, surround us with opportunities and disappear." - Deepak Chopra 

This poem is a kenning. 

FOREVER, BLOWING BUBBLES (ON CUE)

I creep up on cold feet

(love to blow bubbles in a cynic’s face)

lead them a lively dance

away from querulous urban sprawl,

where open spaces beckon,

prose fields beside satire’s streams

where songbirds give the lie

to dashed hopes, impossible dreams,

cruel whispers in the ear

Oh, how I love to play games

(preferring pretty bubbles to drab tears)

especially hide-and-seek

among trees looking on with a grin

where open spaces beckon;

though telegraph poles might trespass,

along with mobile phone masts

and utility pipelines crowding our space,

we’ll not let them get to us

I play tricks on cold feet

(bubbles like eyes winking mischievously)

lead them a lively dance

away from heads-you-win-tails-I-lose

looking glass wars

in dusty rooms, opening up windows

to let back in the heady smells

of honeysuckle and freshly mown grass,

Earth Mother in on the game

Call me Passion, whose cue the lyre of Eros

arousing its life forces for better, for worse

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

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

Engaging with Life Forces OR A Universal Passion

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

Although This post /poem appeared on my general poetry blog two years ago, it has taken until now for a reader to complain that it is 'unbelievable' that I can dare suggest being gay is a life force; rather (he says) "it is an abomination". Well, we must agree to differ, a point of view few trolls are able to enter into. I did not leave social media because I was badly affected by trolls, but because I find them so boring and literally a waste of space. He is not the first, either, to suggest that my poems, too, are an abomination because I rarely use full stops at the end of stanzas. Now, as regular readers will know, I see a poem as a living organism that takes its life from any engagement with its readers; rightly or wrongly, I find that full stops - more often than not - act as an impediment to the continuity of consciousness it attempts to encourage.

Love, peace of mind, inspiration, positive thinking, dialogue, taking people as we find them and rejecting prejudice and stereotypes …these are but some of the many life forces some of us are inclined to forget, even dismiss, and fail to call upon to sustain us during hard times. First among equals, of course, is love - in all its shapes and forms; a close second, though, is dialogue, something in which too few people, communities and, yes, families too are inclined to engage, preferring to rush to judgements fired by such speculation as incited by personal ego.

Now, if we really want to achieve something in which we passionately believe, we need to be prepared to stick at it every step of the way though the going be rough or smooth. Maybe if the British Government believed more passionately in Brexit, they may well have achieved it sooner instead of alienating all sides and homing in on a compromise; as it is, our relations

with the E U are looking shaky if not irreparably damaged.

Certainly, if the LGBT campaign for equality that began with Stonewall had weakened, even given up under pressure from the eternal Naysayers in society, we would not have come as far as we have, here in the West at least; less so in other parts of the world so while where there is cause for celebration, there remains no room for complacency, and never is. Every cause worth fighting for will always have its nemeses with which to contend and find ways of either defeating or winning over.

In an LGBT context, it is good to see how the latter continues to prevail where once it would have been unthinkable. Hopefully, we can sustain the momentum and fling open doors previously slammed shut in our faces. Hopefully, too, a time will come when those societies and communities (including religious groups) bent on persecuting us may yet concede that our differences do not make us different, only human, and embrace an all-inclusive agenda of love and peace.

We are a common humanity, deserving better than certain separatist forces driving us apart; politics, dogma and prejudice to name but a few. At least the Covid-19 coronavirus has encouraged some people to put these aside and pull together, see the light in so far as there is really nothing wrong in agreeing to differ, it is but another life force in which we may freely engage without being divisive or judgemental

This poem is a kenning (or a Who-Am-I? poem as a kenning is sometimes called.)

ENGAGING WITH LIFE FORCES

A worthy ally, and necessary

to keep faith

with body-mind-spirit where

its causes just,

and likely outcome much the better

for everyone

engaged in the greater purpose

of making a positive contribution

to raison d’être

Whomsoever engages with me

needs must

feel committed to all ends

in view, no matter

any distractions conspiring to deflect

(even defeat)

such perseverance as treading

a tightrope of conflicting alliances,

no safety-net

Too often, fickle contemporaneity

makes such demands

of those who take me to heart,

expecting compromise,

would all but see me in free fall;

yet, keep the faith,

and count every battle won,

a triumph over the world’s Naysayers

in self-denial

Not for the fainthearted, I, Motivation,

feed momentum to inspiration

Copyright R. N. Taber 2018

Tongues of Fire

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

A friend once commented that it's no good expecting to just fan the flames of love; we have to be prepared to jump right into them. True enough. (Gay or straight.) Firstly, though, we need to find someone to help get them started.

As Jean-Paul Sartre once said, 'We must act out our passion before we can feel it.'

TONGUES OF FIRE

Whenever we make love,

the heat of its passion brands

our names on the heart,

lips parting to kiss, receive

tongues of fire, conspire

with nature’s finer beauty

to reignite its spirit in the poetry

of our lovemaking

We burn, mindful of witches

once burned at stakes  

for daring to repudiate status quo,

be true to the inner self,

no matter how the outside world

may (more often than not)

bury heads in sand rather than
let its naysayers stand up

and be counted, content to deny

countless centuries of lying

to children about graffiti sprayed

wherever bigotry lifts

its ugly head, and loves to claim

the moral high ground

Let us be joined together

in ecstasy, make peace

with a world too busy turning

on its own pretty rhetoric

to see that love means (far) more

that being or appearing)
oh, so socially, culturally, religiously
 'politically correct’

Meanwhile, gay lovers the world over

(still) made to run for cover…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2015

[Note: an earlier version of this poem appears as ‘Pyromania’ in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; revised edition in e-format in preparation.]

G-A-Y, Baptism of Fire

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

Today’s poem has appeared twice on the blog before; the last time in September 2010. I am posting it today by way of my reply to the reader who contacted me to ask how I could ever expect to square spiritual with sexual identity. How can I talk about having a strong sense of spirituality, he demands, when I am committing a sin against God simply by being gay? Well, as I have said before, and almost certainly will again, religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality.

Sex can be a very spiritual experience. Gay or straight, I have always believed that those for whom it is only ever a purely physical act and prefer to skip the deeper intimacy of foreplay and romance are missing out.  

There are gay men and women, boys and girls from all walks of life. Various religions and cultures need to e keep that in mind when they preach their bigoted views. I am not a religious person, but remain convinced that no humanitarian God would be a homophobe. I was raised a Christian but
had disassociated myself from (any) religion by the time I was 10 years-old, long before I realised I am gay. It continues to appal me that so many Christians revert to the Old Testament when railing against gay people, when Jesus came along to change all that. Jesus was a historical figure; whatever one believes about him, he was a GOOD man.

Fortunately there are many religious people who take their cue from principles of peace and love rather than those of bigotry and hate; the latter are, of course, careful to maintain a politically correct public profile while fooling no one. Sadly, in my experience, the former appear to be a in relative minority.

 Now, no one ever forgets their first lovemaking, but for gay people, especially gay men, it marks a dash for freedom from the damn closet, that prison of conscience which various offensive stereotypes have imposed on us for years.

Oh, the stereotypes won’t suddenly disappear, but after that first baptism of fire, we can fight them (if only inwardly where going public can mean persecution or worse) with confidence and reassurance, no longer either scared or ashamed of our sexual identity.  

G-A-Y, BAPTISM OF FIRE

Eyes closed, wishing my fear away,

warmth of your skin, taste 

of your mouth, touch of your hands, 

oh, so eagerly exploring my sex, 

making me wonder if it is me 

you really see, desire, or could it be 

just anyone lying here, available 

to quench the flames of a passion burning 

us at its stake as we embrace...

Could it be our desperation is but a lie, 

mere cover for the need to satisfy 

an anxious physicality? It is you I want

crave, long to enter me, join me

to you as with a ring I would thee wed 

but cannot so, instead, needs must

welcome this expression of a passion

unblessed for society’s wanton obsession 

with religious dogma, tradition ...

Suddenly, we are done yet still together

drawing on each other’s breath, smell,

an intimacy as of children in the womb

listening to parents laughing, crying, 

just for being together, their love-making

answer to a prayer that we’re wanted

and loved, for who we are, nor am I afraid

any more for knowing for sure you care for me

as I for you, though love take its time

Let the world take or leave us as it will,

our love will see as through good times and bad,

thus whispers your tongue at the lobe 

of my ear, filling mind-body-spirit, heart

and soul far, far more than sexuality’s 

response to even as glorious a a physicality 

as this, acknowledging the spirituality 

of love, a truism, this wetness of your tongue,

promising the moon, a baptism of fire

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005]

The Kiss

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

Readers often ask for the link to my poetry reading on the 4th plinth in London's Trafalgar Square in 2009 by way of being my contribution to sculptur Anrony Gormley's One and Other 'live sculpture' project during which ordinary people from all walks of life and parts of the UK did their 'own thing' for one hour 24/7 over 100 days:

http://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223121732/oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T  [NB: Sept 19, 2019 - The British Library confirmed today that he video is no longer available as it was incompatible with a new IT system, However, it still exists and BL hope to reinstate it and make it available to the public again at some future date.] RNT

Now, I have always enjoyed kissing. When readers contact me to ask why I have written several poems about kissing...well, that’s why. When I am kissing another man, I spread wings and the entire subsequent sexual experience develops not only as a sensual but also a spiritual one. Mind you, it needs the right man and he needs to feel the same about me. It doesn’t even have to be love. Love is a bonus. Mutual attraction can be spark enough to ignite the fires of passion. [Not that I get much of that these days except when I am writing a gay-interest poem!]

Oh, yes, I love all sexual foreplay, including kissing, and have never been interested in the sex act for its own sake. It may work for some people, but not for me. Ah, but don’t get me wrong. I’m not being judgemental. Whatever works for you, go for it, that’s what I say.

THE KISS

One kiss, I place above all others,
conveying the passion of a midsummer night,
bringing to the heart of my darkness
all the comfort and joy of an armchair firelight,
letting my natural sexuality go free,
drop all pretence of pandering to conventions
bent on persecuting me

One kiss, I place above all others,
urging me not to feel ashamed but come out
fighting (win or lose) if I must ...
not for my sake, but a centuries-old birthright
to wear Earth Mother’s colours
with pride instead of pandering to conventions
nailing bars at my windows

One kiss, I place above all others,
treading, oh, so gently on the sweetest dreams,
flooding my body with the heat
of an insatiable spirituality tearing at its seams,
anxious to wear its colours
with pride instead of pandering to conventions
mapping out the world’s scars

One kiss I place above all others
brought me to my knees as you lay me down
in the cradle of history
that has cherished the same christening gown
handed down across centuries
by those choosing not to pander to conventions,
be taken for freaks, put in cages

It’s a gay kiss I place above all others, my first,
that I’ve since nurtured, seen grow, and let last

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

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

Body Beautiful

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

Today’s poem first appeared on the blog in March 2009 and several readers have asked for it to be repeated.

Now, I am often criticised for expressing the spirituality of sex as well as love. Well, sex for me has always been a very spiritual experience. I’ve never been a wham-bam-thank-you-Sam sort of guy.

Yes, of course sex is fun and physically satisfying…but why should it be any the less a spiritual experience for that? Me, I find sex for its own sake so boring. Foreplay is not only an art worth the learning, but it can also transcend the sexual experience into another dimension altogether….if you let it.

It is always worth remembering too, of course, that beauty is very much in the eyes of the beholder, and we all see people differently.

BODY BEAUTIFUL

Beads of sweat
on a fine chest, pearly nipples
demanding to be explored,
diving instincts exposing them
to a mind intent on…
an explosion of sexual activity
between legs like jelly,
all-quivering desire making ripples
through this body, so near
yet so far from such perfection
that no erection could last
for long, but needs burst like some
joyous song, hymn to love,
lust, desire - call it what you will
but nothing quite like it,
pounding like gospel on the ears,
filling our eyes with tears
for such beauty in a world much
maligned for an absence
of sensitivity towards whatever
icons we may choose
to invest a body of feeling within,
yearning for free expression
and more, much more but even now,
dripping into oblivion - unless
we open our mouths to say exactly
what we mean, try pricking
the heart of any adversary who
will, for sure, never best
the sheer thrill of licking sweat
on your fine chest…

Copyright R N Taber 2009

[Note: This poem was centred on the page in 1st eds. of A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005 but otherwise remains unchanged.]