Private Lives OR A Lesser Known History of Everyman

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

Another revised poem today that I found while rummaging my print files; it has not appeared on the poetry blogs before.

I am still very poorly, but remain Covid-free, am feeling a little better every day, and hope to continue writing new poems and publishing them here before too long.

The poem is a kenning and appears on both general and gay-interest poetry blogs today. 

Sadly, many LGBT folks worldwide still remain fearful of the consequences of their choosing to look the world in the eye wherever bigotry persists in making itself felt. As I've said before - and daresay will again - there is so much more to anyone than their sexuality. I suspect the bigots among us, too, (like many if not most of us) know all about engaging in a tug-of-war between keeping up appearances and bringing certain home truths into the public domain.

PRIVATE LIVES or  A LESSER KNOWN HISTORY OF EVERYMAN

We lurk in personal space
conspire to confuse feelings 
likely to light it up,
expose me for watching them
from shadowy corne
while they dance all cares away,
pretending not to know
I am nearby or why, refusing to cry
over spilt (sour) milk 

We manage the living dead,
calling tunes and pulling strings
who would deny me,
mistake me for such bad dreams
as plague humankind
for infiltrating a mind-body-spirit
that is but weak
where it likes to fool itself otherwise,
and everyone else 

We're no strangers to mortality,
walking daily in such shadowlands
as haunt humanity
throughout its daily sleepwalking,
calling on life forces
least likely to penetrate is defences
see it break cover,
confront and/ or excuse its true identity
for acknowledging me 

We are such secrets as never on the loose
for fear of Truth getting the better of us

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

[Note: Do explore the archives while I am not publishing much on either blog as they contain many of my best gay poems - e.g. Apollo in Winter - ; access the archives on the righthand side of any blog page.]

 

 

 

 

 

Shipmates

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

Very few of my gay-interest poems have been published outside my collections; this is one that appeared in an anthology, True Love, Anchor Books (Forward Press) 2001 and subsequently in my collection the following year.

Ah, the (rare) bliss of a one-night stand turning into something more ...

Some years ago, I met a guy on the Gay Scene who was drop dead gorgeous. It turned out he was a sailor. For all I knew, he had someone in every port. Did I care? Well, no…and, yes, we did have protective sex. [Tip: Never have too much to drink when there is any possibility that you might have sex. It can ruin the sex and a condom is the last thing on anyone’s mind].

We had a fling that lasted as long as his shore leave then he sailed away, I assumed out of my life forever… but I saw him every shore leave for several years. Oh, how I  envied him a life at sea until he confided how he hated the closet but it was impossible to be openly gay in Her Majesty’s Navy without having to endure daily bullying, even violence. He envied me for being free to sail the sea of life without having to live a lie. (Having been forced to live that very lie from school days to early manhood, I understood only too well what he meant.) One day, we hugged and kissed goodbye, and I never saw him again. He disappeared from my life as unexpectedly as he had entered it.

Even now, years later, I answer a knock on the door and half expect to find him standing there, arms open wide, a cheeky grin on his face and a wicked twinkle in each grey-green eye. I do just that sometimes, but only in dreams...

SHIPMATES 

It was just a one-night stand,

I’d tell myself;

mustn’t let a fun time in bed

go to the head;

get a grip. Stiff upper lip

and all that

Read a book. Watch a movie.

Go for a walk, anything...

Must stop hovering, waiting

for the damn phone to ring,

’cause it won’t, yet here I am

in case it does…

We’re but ships in the night!

(Logo for a tee shirt

bought in Old Compton Street);

chin up, chest out,

time to get real again, strut

and fret a Happy Hour

"Away, all boats, away!"

Till I answered a knock on my door,

and there you were…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002, rev. 2014

[Note:  For any readers unfamiliar with London UK, Old Compton Street is in a district called Soho that has hosted some great gay bars and cafes for many years. . An earlier version of this poem first appeared in True Love, Anchor Books, 2001 and subsequently in my second collection, First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]

Portrait of the Artist as a Young (gay) Man

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

Once I had a really awful nightmare. I was fifteen years-old at the time. None of my family knew about my awakening homosexuality. I did not feel I could confide in anyone because gay relationships were illegal at the time. Yes, I had found ways to explore my feelings with other gay youths and men, but it was pretty scary all the same.

My mother’s explanation was basic, but very much to the point. She explained that dreams, even bad ones, are a safety-net for feelings we cannot explain or put into words because, for whatever reason, we have no conscious grasp of their wider implications. We might be in denial or grappling with emotions on the surface without really and/or truthfully understanding or acknowledging their depth. While good dreams can be inspirational, bad dreams are nothing to fear because (she assured me) the Sandman is always on our side and has our best interests at heart.

As an adult, I still take reassurance from the fact  the sandmen are on my side even if it took a good few years for me to be convinced.

PORTRAIT OF AN ARTIST AS A YOUNG (GAY) MAN

A blackbird flew me into dawn’s
early glow, and together we discovered
where the Sandmen go;
gathered under a rainbow
among sunbeams, mixing its colours,
painting our dreams

Mind and body told me I should leave
without delay; in my dreams, he alone
would have the last say;
I couldn’t pick and choose
from the best, no artist dare ignore
the worst

The blackbird would have flown on
into the day, but I was having none of it,
would have my say;
How could a Sandman
always get it right, invade free spirits
each night?

‘Ah,’ said the Sandman, ‘it’s for you
to find your own way through the rainbow
to what lies behind;
the human spirit is a complex affair,
heaven forbid we should either prompt
or interfere.’

‘A human being is a unique creation,
free to fly at will, nor are we its keepers;
we can but try
to offer ways of seeing
the inner eye can observe, inspiring
hope and endeavour.’

‘Yet, humanity is but a fragile thing,
despite hidden strengths that will see it
right as often as not,
and it is down to us Sandmen
to see where it’s broken, pieces fallen,
patch it up

Blackbird dropped me there, left me
but half awake to ponder the implications
of daybreak,
and I thought I heard
it singing out there, where it’s a Sandman
has the last word

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011