Mind-Body-Spirit, Subject to Time and Consequence(s)

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

A wise woman, my mother. She died 25+ years ago, but I probably listen n to her more now than I ever did. I could be a naughty child (who isn’t?) at which times she would teach as well as scold. She once pointed out that almost everything we say has consequences, for better or worse, for ourselves and/or others; the latter, especially, we may never be made aware of... 

All the more reason, I eventually understood, to think before we do something, or don’t do it as the case may be... 

Easier said than done, of course, yours truly no less guilty than anyone else of forgetting to look before we leap and risk feeding this or that cliché its potential for truism. 

MIND-BODY-SPIRIT, SUBJECT TO TIME AND CONSEQUENCE(S) 

Surely, the tide,
as surely life’s sweet dreams saving us
from ourselves and each other for offering
alternatives? 

I see your face
in a brave moon, straining to shine on,
but in vain as needs must it, too, take its cue
from Apollo

 Surely, the tide,
as surely as high hopes of fame, fortune
superseded by life-images of lovers kept busy
building bridge 

They laughed us
off the planet, yet we’d take it on the chin,
find a white horse to help us find our way back,
time and again 

We rode to hell
and back, you and I, joining Earth Mother
in races against the clock, win some, lose some,
no going back 

Yes, we fell prey
to a collective giving, taking, having to settle
for less than we bargained for, our personal space
a saving grace 

Now, a sure tide’s
surfing me still (always will), moving me on
to that one-and-only shore proving longer than life
for being loved

 Copyright R. N. Taber 2021

 

[NB: This poem also appears on my general blog today; it has its origins in an earlier poem, Surfing, that appears in my first collection, Love and Human Remains, Assembly Books, 2000 (see also Gay blog, March, 2011). The original poem had already appeared in several poetry journals and worked well enough at the time, but 20+ years on, subsequent changes in form and content defy my referring to it as simply a revision.] RNT

Coming, Ready or Not OR Now & Then

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

Reader A. H. writes that his family disapprove of his choice of life-partner and says, “My family are everything to me, but so is the woman I love. What can I do?” 

The reader must make a choice, and I would not presume to advise. I would only say that if his family are as close as they would appear to be, the chances are they will come, sooner or later, to his choice of bride.  Sadly, it is a choice many LGBT men and women around the world also have to face. 

As I have often said on the blogs, in preambles and poems alike, love comes in many shapes and forms, but there is a common denominator – survival. Where strong and true, love can endure even the worst life throws at it, in life or death; where unacceptable to some, that is their loss. 

I have seen families split by life choices made by this or that member. Sometimes our choices prove to be at worst misguided, at best flawed, but all of us need to learn by our mistakes, and that works for everyone concerned. Closed doors can be re-opened, but there needs to be a clear will on both sides, not always there...so they remain closed, everyone left asking why, and expecting someone else to make the first move.  

Love never dies, but it is as capable of inflicting hurt and being hurt by human nature as any of us or nature itself. 

COMING, READY OR NOT or NOW & THEN

Once, I’d hide in an old tree
for an ages-old game of hide-and-seek
among peers grown young
with me, Apollo taking a peek
through leaves of spring
taking my side, a brisk south wind
up for playing its part,
while letting rip with a warning shout,
“Coming, ready or not...!” 

Once, I’d lie by that same tree,
feeling blessed for having you at my side
the two of us so happy
just to be together, no words needed
to express expectations
of a future to build, share and enjoy
in such ways as love brings
for letting rip to the world with a shout,
“Coming, ready or not...!” 

Now, returned to that old tree
to share treasured memories of you-me- us,
revisit the dreams we shared,
ask why we were able to fulfil so few,
parted as we were too soon,
yet thankful, indeed, we’d found
in each other such life-forces
as inclined to let rip to the world with a shout,
“Coming, ready or not...!” 

Among leaves of an old tree, hear Apollo shout,
“Coming, ready or not...!" 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2021 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life Force, Second to None

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

It is news to no one that feel-good factors comes in many shapes and forms; romantic or otherwise, for a person, an activity, whatever … a life force second to none, always on hand in the Here-and-Now  to cheer and sustain us through thick and thin.

Yesterday was Remembrance Sunday here in the UK, a time to remember our debt of gratitude to the members of the armed forces who died in the two World Wars and later conflicts; in our minds also, inevitably this year, those across the world who have died fighting a very different kind of war, a very different kind of enemy, the Covid-19 coronavirus.

Someone's death is invariably someone else's tragedy too; remembrance  is one of the many faces of Grief, yes,  ut also a celebration of those who, for many of us, remain a 'living' inspiration.

LIFE FORCE, SECOND TO NONE

World, all but on its knees,
sickness and death paying home visits
just about everywhere …
No change there but for its assuming
the mantle of a coronavirus
striking a greater fear in us for its ability
to catch us unawares
snatch us from family and friends, no time
even for precious goodbyes 

Hospitals overrun with cases,
doctors and nurses working all hours
to save lives, risking theirs,
while reassuring anxious relatives
or having to break
the very news they have been dreading,
yet little time for such tears
as compounding fears confronting humanity
with its own vulnerability 

Battles fought, survivors recalling
loved ones lost with such mixed feelings
as remembrance inspires
love alone able to temper both pain
and grief, lifting hearts
with happy memories, the likes of which may
well never come again
yet enough to sustain a sense of joie de vivre
that, if we let it, lasts forever

Find any human heart’s capacity for endurance
sustained by love’s Spirit of Remembrance

Copyright R. N Taber 2020

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

Feeling is Believing OR Comfort and Joy

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

This poem first appeared on the blog in 2010. [I do not intend to repeat all earlier poems, but readers are welcome to explore the blog archives as indicated in the far right column of any blog page; poems published again here have been removed, and in some cases, revised.]

Now, I always write love poems with my late partner in mind even though he died years ago and we were able to spend little time together before he was killed in a road accident; sadly, it was a 'closet' relationship society was predominantly hostile towards same sex relationships in those day; they were a criminal offence here in the UK until the Sexual Offences Act, England and Wales (1967) legalised homosexual acts between two men  on the condition they were consensual, in private and had attained the age of 21. Age of Consent equality, though, did not come until 2001 in England, Scotland and Wales, and 2009 in Northern Ireland.

Hopefully, readers will always find time and space enough within themselves  to get in touch with their own deeper feelings. In this sense at least, all religious faiths and festivals have something in common. 

Love has the capacity for rising above the worst life and nature may feel inclined to throw at it, including winter, a winter of the heart as well as of the meteorological kind.

Yes, here I go again. The message of all religious faiths and festivals - is one of peace and love; who hears  and acts upon it, is another matter.

Long, long live love … and let's not discriminate against LGBT folks just because it offends some heterosexual 'norm'; in a common humanity, diversity is part of what should be an all-inclusive norm, not an exception to any rules laid down and spread by any religious dogma as a socio-cultural-religious 'norm'. God is love, after all.

Long, long live peace, too, wherever it is given even half a chance.

As for peace of mind, we can but try for it, and once we find, be sure to share it, if only to take  comfort and joy from watching the ripples spread ...

Gay or straight, there is more to anyone than his or her sexuality; certain individuals, organizations, and communities (parents, too) - worldwide - would serve themselves and others by far better for keeping that in mind.

FEELING IS BELIEVING or COMFORT AND JOY

I could hear bells ringing,
choir voices singing,
snow falling like manna 
from heaven for kids 
and snowmen while I gazed 
from a window,
nose against the pane,
never felt so alone

Suddenly, I saw you there,
sunshine in the hair,
so near, and yet so far …
a dear, familiar grin
daring me rejoin the comfort 
of togetherness
and share in festivity
than bare self-pity

Loneliness ebbing away,
I came out to play 
that wonderful winter's day;
you threw snowballs,
missed, and we kissed…
your lips so sweet 
and warm, grey-blue eyes 
forgiving me for living

Where snow piles your grave,
that winter's night,
we made love while bells 
rejoiced us and angels 
chorused all the pleasures 
of togetherness
that is the joy of festivity,
defying self-pity

Not once a year but every day,
love finds a way 
to bring such comfort and joy
as embraces us all,
nurturing the more positive
side of human nature,
heart and soul of a humanity
celebrating its diversity

If God is Love, and love acts thus,
where does bigotry have a place?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002, 2020

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002; it was originally written as a Christmas poem, but feedback suggested this made it come across as less all-inclusive]RNT

Trailblazers

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

A new poem today, a tell-tale sign that I am fighting depression; the latest of many battles against an old enemy; thanks to creative therapy of the kind writing poetry provides that I may well lose some, but am winning the war.

Charles Darwin changed the way we think about the origin of our species; Martin Luther King Jr. had a dream that continues to inspire the Black Lives Matter campaign;  closer to home, here in the UK, footballer Marcus Rashford has successfully called for free school meals for children from poorer families while schools are closed; actor Chadwick Boseman who has tragically died of colon cancer at the age of 43 has left an inspiring legacy for black actors worldwide … all these, and many others, are trailblazers and will remain trailblazers, a ‘live’ posthumous consciousness in hearts and minds worldwide.

“Be yourself, everyone else is already taken.” Oscar Wilde  

“Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced." 

- James Baldwin 

“We may have all come on different ships, but we're in the same boat now.”  

- Martin Luther King Jr.

“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” Eleanor Roosevelt

“When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us.” -  Helen Keller

  

TRAILBLAZERS

Assume nothing of humankind,

the Here-and-Now, part reality, part dream

fronting backroads of the mind

fuelling human nature, potential for nurture

(for better, for worse, gift or curse)

where formative years dare come into play

in the making, shaping of all we are

subject to question, reason and human nature’s

expectation of our futures

Ignore any negative voices

never backward in coming forward to tear

into human choices failing the test

of whatever is best for the rest of us has to be

right, invariably losing sight

of any aspiration, inspiration, presented

as a Human Right, while prevented

from seeing the light of day if failing to conform

to some ‘acceptable’ norm

Acceptable to whom, we may ask

having reached a point where we feel confident

of whatever task ahead may well be

misinterpreted under such various pretensions

designed to present gender identity,

and sexuality as a perverse intellectuality

failing (altogether)to see diversity

as a plus, not a minus, an acknowledged integrity

across a common humanity

Dare let that inner self go free, and pit itself against

any socio-cultural-sexual angst...?

Copyright R/ N. Taber, 2020

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

You-Me-Us, A Posthumous Consciousness OR Remembrance, Mentor Extraordinary

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

Today's poem appeared on the blog some time ago.

Our ghosts are a living part of us whether we care to acknowledge them or not; kind and less kind ghosts, where the former invariably more than compensate for the latter, lifting us when we are low,  restoring a sense of purpose should we lose sight of it from time to time; these are more than memories of better times, they are the people who helped make them better, kinder, happier ... and they are no less real than ever, albeit invisible. As I grow old, especially living alone as I do, my ghosts are as real to me as flesh and blood friends; life forces, encouraging and sustaining me through these tough times of Covid-19.

Whatever our ethnicity, creed, sexuality...  we are all but human; it is in our nature to be wary if not fearful of death. Religion may well offer a safety net of sorts, but it has always struck me as causing more worldwide divisions that it can ever begin to heal; neither, though, do I subscribe to negative thinking.

Whoever, wherever we are, there is a temptation, especially as we grow old, to look back on our lives if only because there seems more to look back on than look forward to. Not so, though, as who knows that tomorrow will bring? We always need to think positively about that however hard life gets sometimes as body fails to keep sync with heart. There is a further temptation to dwell on our mistakes, bad choices, missed opportunities; we all make them. The result of such negative reflection is that we may well lose sight of all the positives… many of which we may not even be aware. Time, then (if not already) to let mind-body-spirit teach us how to look to see, hear to listen.

Some years ago, I visited an old school friend who confided that he was gay, and I was the first person whom he had told. He was ill and had only a few years to live although neither of us had an inkling of this at the time. What bothered him most was that he saw his life as nothing more or less than a string of missed opportunities. “It’s all been such a waste of time,” he groaned, “my whole life,”

My friend had chosen a career in teaching. I visited him on his 65th birthday, and he let me browse his cards, many from ex-pupils whom he had clearly given cause to remember him fondly, One card included the photo of a young man, his wife and three children, and he had written: ‘You were right. Trust your instincts, and you can do anything you put your mind to, however much other people try to tell you it’s in your best interests to do something else.’ It seems he had joined the police, and made his way well up the promotion ladder against the advice of family, friends and several teachers who had seen a promising career for him as, yes, - a teacher. There were similar comments on other cards from ex-pupils whom he had plainly influenced for the better and they were clearly grateful. I suspect he will play an important if unknowing part in their consciousness for years to come.

A waste of a life, indeed…! I think not, and hope I managed to convince him of that as he died a week later so I never saw him again.

Much of what we achieve in this life, we never get to see through to the end. if we are aware of it at all. A word here, a word there, to the right person at the right time can make  the world of difference between their doing well instead of badly… and the chances are, we will never know.

YOU-ME-US, A POSTHUMOUS CONSCIOUSNESS or REMEMBRANCE, A GUIDING LIGHT

I grow old alone,

those who may have grieved me

gone into that unknown

some call Heaven, Paradise, 

Hell or whatever, anything other 

than Death

Death, a cruel word,

metaphor for a ghost, last spotted

peering over the shoulder,

such as observes in my mirror

how desperate I've become to get

some sleep

Sleep, harbinger

of dreams, good, bad or too ugly

to ever contemplate

wherever alphabet lanterns 

over my head insist on spelling out 

my darkness

Darkness, companion

to personal space if sure to keep

a (very) discreet distance,

since it would not do to imply

so much as a tenuous connection

with its devils

Devils, such secrets, 

running rings around me, less able 

let gather dust as once

I would, mind-body-spirit loath

to invoke heated family discussions

with repercussions...

Repercussions, haunts

of bygone days, years of answering

to outward appearances,

inner self all but suffocating

in a closet I let few in, among whom 

no one to love

Love, always so near

yet so far, on the tip of my tongue,

but at the last minute

struck dumb by stereotypes

forcing public opinion down my throat,

all but choking me

Ah, but what’s that I hear?

voices out of nowhere reminding me

of words said, soon forgot,

(and to whom) now thanking me 

for helping them turn corners, find hope

get a life...

Alone, yes, but lonely no more;

invisible hands warmly shaking mine,

re-awakening sensibilities

half-forgotten, repudiating despair 

of a life with little to show for it, nothing

much to tell

Ah, but we all have tales to tell, 

how life marries us, for better or worse,

successes and failures,

loves lost and won, dreams come true

and others left to cry ourselves to sleep over,

come a new dawn

Dawn, spreading its light over me,

feeding me such hopes as I hadn't dared,

reassuring me of 'live' ghosts

always on hand to advise me on making

wiser, kinder choices, urging I but listen out

for You-Me-Us 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

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

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.]

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.]

Mercury, Wandering Star

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

Having been partially deaf since the age of four, I am not as avid a music fan as I might have been otherwise. Even so, a friend persuaded me to accompany him to a Queen concert once and I have to say it was a truly, unforgettably, enjoyable experience, not least for the sheer magnetism of Freddie Mercury; a  gay man, he oozed charisma .... generating adrenaline in audiences around the world  to last a lifetime, and in any subsequent posthumous consciousness.

Now, Mercury, as you may well know, is one of the five planets known to the ancients. They called these planets "wandering stars." Mercury may be seen as an evening "star" near where the sun has set, or as a morning "star" near where the sun will rise. ... The planet is named for Mercury, the Roman messenger of the gods. (ref. Wikipedia.) 

It is so true what they say about music and entertainment breaking down certain social taboos, especially where homophobia happens to be one of them.

The poem is a villanelle.

MERCURY,  WANDERING STAR

On stage, extrovert extraordinaire

masking a shy personality,

singer-songwriter beyond compare

Bringing to Rock, magic in the air.

a star valuing his privacy;

on stage, extrovert, extraordinaire

Fronting Queen with a talent as rare

as any in music’s history,

singer song-writer beyond compare

Winning hearts, minds everywhere,

no matter his sexuality;

on stage, extrovert extraordinaire

High on roll calls sounding anywhere

to rate the likes of Freddie,

singer-songwriter beyond compare

Bold icon of Rock, Supremo of Flair

and making music history …

On stage, extrovert extraordinaire,

singer-songwriter beyond compare

Copyright R N Taber 2019

The Snowman

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

Christmas  is coming! Do we cheer, sigh or groan? Take your pick.

Now, when we celebrate a religious festival, obviously we are celebrating that religion whether it is Christianity, Judaism, Islam or Hinduism...whatever. At the same time let us remember those who are no longer with us, especially those who taught us how to keep its spirit alive with and open mind and heart so that all we celebrate has meaning way beyond its holy books and various rituals.

Regular readers know I am not a religious person but religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality. I, personally, found that in nature after religion let me down. Even so, I bear no grudges and respect other people’s religious beliefs – just as nature does - even though these are often tainted by intolerance and prejudice, including homophobia. Could that be, I ask myself, where human nature far too often goes so badly wrong?

The UK is experiencing its worst early snowfalls for eighteen years. The snowmen at least have never had it so good.

THE SNOWMAN

Snowman in the sun, icy patches
on the ground;
eyes of conkers soaked in vinegar,
reminder of autumn roll-over;
grandpa’s army coat lent a vintage look;
carrot nose, smiling mouth
(like a rhubarb stick);
we called him Jack, grandma’s cane
helping him stand or, rather,
rd keep him steady in reindeer tracks,
ready to lend a hand

Through the night we waited to see
if Jack would take his cue
from the likes of you and me, fairy lights
on the tree...but we dozed off;
we opened our eyes,
Ma flinging the curtains wide,
(no sign of Jack outside);
among gifts around the tree,
for any who care to look and see,
a card attached to a plain white box
reads simply...

'Thanks for the Memory'

Copyright R.N. Taber, 2004

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.]

Christmas, Hall of Mirrors

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

Yes, a new poem today, appearing on both poetry blogs.

We all like to think we have fewer flaws than the next person, but it is invariably true of many if not most of us. Let’s face it, human nature is flawed, not least because we often have reason to believe it has let is down, even failed us with its complex set-up of contradictions, deceptions and preoccupation with appearances. We can but do our best to overcome these, and most give it our best shot; sadly, this often falls short of its target or misses it altogether, not always our own fault, but down to our target being human and we human beings adept at misreading signs in any shape or form. Many a close relationship has failed dur to those concerned failing to see the bigger picture; indeed, often enough, any picture other than they expect to see it, regardless of how the other person’s expectations. Too few people talk things over, but prefer to think that appearances speak for themselves.  Oh, but appearances rarely do…

Now, what has this preamble got to do with Christmas? Well, as much as it has to do with daily life all year round, but more so because it is a religious celebration; religion is meant to be about love, peace, and goodwill as well as (mutual) tolerance and understanding to all, not just the select few that share and practise our own socio-cultural-religious views and/or approach to life and people. While sharing and caring may well bring people closer, it should not follow that ‘outsiders’ are exempt from the caring aspect which, in my experience, especially with regard to my being gay, has so often been the case. Even so, there have been notable exceptions, supporting my view that religion does not have a monopoly on spirituality; the human spirit is far greater than the sum of all its stereotypical misnomers upon which most world religions are inclined to base conversion tactics. I have nothing against religion except where its followers disrespect those who refuse to enter into its dogma, for whatever reason.

Whatever, ENJOY the seasonal festivities whoever and wherever you are, regardless of religion, race or sexuality; like it or not, we are a common humanity, and more commonly flawed that many if not most of us care to admit, yours truly being no exception.

CHRISTMAS, HALL OF MIRRORS

At Christmas past,

wary of all we might see. Memory Lane

not always the pleasure

we would have it be, certain moments

in time best left for dead

than revived, reawakened, reinvented,

turned into pulp fiction by a mind-body-spirit

arguing against redemption

At Christmas past,

revisiting ghosts, letting them stir us up

with wooden spoons,

mixing fairy tales, Santa Claus, and elves

into an indigestible fudge

of broken promises, missed opportunities,

playing blame games as leave mind-body-spirit

to filter the consequences

At Christmas past,

calling on ghosts to move on, leave us free

to travel Memory Lane

as it used to be, enjoy fun snowball fights

among long-ago peers,

gifts and fairy lights on Christmas trees,

messaging home comforts and joy to passers-by,

carollers, and rough sleepers

Christmas Here-and Now,

calling upon all we Children of Earth Mother

to embrace the twin spirits

of Peace and Goodwill, and play our part

(no matter big or small)

in showing the wariest and fragile of hearts

a global consciousness that needs must prioritise

an inclusive human kindness

Copyright R.N. Taber, 2019

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

Autobiography of a Beach

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

[Update - December 25th 2019: Sadly,I am told the Memorial Wall has been neglected and - worse - encroached upon by commercial ventures to the extent that the path which used to exist taking visitors past the wall and giving a fine view over the bay has been blocked. Apparently, even before the memorial was unveiled five years ago, certain townsfolk made it clear they did not want it so now they, at least, will be well pleased. Complaints to the local council have been ignored, in my humble opinion a disgrace. Yes, the memorial was for those who have died of AIDS in Bournemouth, but - metaphorically - it was also for those who have died of AIDS worldwide; people are still dying of AIDS worldwide, it would appear that human nature is such that it doesn't really care...? Whatever happened to the Spirit of Christmas...?]

This poem appears in my general poetry blog archives for World AIDS Day, March 2012. Improve medication means people are living longer with the HIV virus now, but there is no cause for complacence and, sadly, many are still being stigmatised for it. Have fun, folks, but be careful out there, yeah?

December 1st is World AIDS Day. I wrote today’s poem at the request of the Chairman of DAMSET, an HIV-AIDS Educational Trust in Dorset after giving a poetry reading in Bournemouth public library, and subsequently dedicated it to DAMSET in my collection, Accomplices to Illusion. DAMSET was established with a view to creating a memorial mural for all those in Bournemouth who have died of AIDS, and was later extended to cover the whole of Dorset. The mural is now well established near the pier and I feel very privileged that my poem is included.

For more information about this inspiring project go to: http://damset.co.uk/

I read the poem on the 4th plinth in Trafalgar Square on July 14^th 2009 as my contribution to sculptor Sir Antony Gormley’s One and Other ‘live sculpture’ and you can still catch it at the British Library archive. [However, be warned; the video of my plinth experience and (very informal) poetry reading lasts an hour.]: www.oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T [For now, at least, this link needs the latest Adobe Flash Player  and works best in Firefox; the archives website cannot run Flash but changes scheduled for later this year may well mean the link will open without it. Ignore any error message and give it a minute or so to start up. The video lasts an hour. ] RT 3/18

I also read it in Bournemouth, by the DAMSET mural, for my YouTube channel and have posted the (much) shorter video below. While feedback suggests some readers cannot access You Tube for various reasons, those who can may prefer to click on the direct link:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cKzi9VRjuq0

OR go to the channel and search under title: http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A BEACH

Sun and moon, sailing fickle skies

to safe harbours;

Sea, like a cabbage-stained tablecloth

edged with white lace;

Heads peering up, peering down

as they have always done,

listening to waves, voices of the heart

that stay with us, move on with us,

play a part in our lives, no matter all

temporal hosts come and gone,

sun and moon out of reach, cabbage

stains on the world’s tablecloths…

tales told by shells on Bournemouth

beach of those whose faces may

blur with time but we remember them,

who died of AIDS and not to blame

(the fruits of love bitter-sweet, yet better

by far to live by it than hate)

nor sexuality, physicality, morality,

any match for our own mortality

but as small boats on a passionate sea

driven by a feeling for integrity;

Come a time when death may put love

out of reach, then take a walk

on the sand, talk with the waves, listen

to shells on Bournemouth beach

(or any other that stirs a grieving soul

to recover the heart’s grail);

join a passing ship awhile, carrying

family, friends, lovers, even

old neighbours…by day and night,

be they gay or straight…cruise

Loving Memory’s fair shores, share

old jokes, laugh about crises

over cabbage stains on best tablecloths

To inner eye (and ear) time never deleted

nor love, though AIDS, ever defeated

[Bournemouth, Dorset, March 2006)

  

[From: Accomplices To Illusion, by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

Last Post

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

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.]