Second Chances

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

There are night moves and more night moves, but there are no moves quite like lovers homing in on each other to make up following a lonely, soul-destroying separation, especially after a quarrel …

Even some gay-friendly readers have asked why I write gay love poems. There is no such thing, of course; there are only love poems. Besides, I am a gay man and the love of my life, too, was gay; tragically, for both of us, he died in a road accident many years ago.

Writing about love galvanises its flickering flame in me to flare yet again, and makes me feel good (as he always did) especially when I am feeling low. 

The poem is partly wishful thinking in so far as the love of my life and I will never be reunited other than in a posthumous consciousness, and partly in response to a reader, Rob, writing in to say he has just been reconciled with the love of his life and both are 'deliriously happy'. Congratulations, both of you, and enjoy ...

SECOND CHANCES

Fast asleep, foetal position,

I did not hear the seventh stair

that would always creak

even when sly tiptoes trying

to sneak, unheard ...

In a dream, as always, I stirred,

reaching out for you,

making believe we hadn’t parted

the way we did, lashing out

with cruel words, each wanting

to hurt the other more

(it was like committing suicide);

Now, your body pressing

against mine, this dream-self

responding, oh, so eagerly

with passion, hot lips relishing

your tongue, entering caves

of loneliness, teasing me

with the happiness I cast aside

that night we died

What’s this?  A kiss, surely

meant to restore a lifeless heart,

let the blood course anew

through a body all but ready

for a coffin, for all willpower’s

attempting to find its way

pretences at of everyday living,

taking where it can,

giving precious little in return,

unable to feel anything

for longing to taste your lips

again, again, our sexuality

awakening to the rising heat

of a true reality, nor any words

(ever) necessary

Day and night, you haunt me

taunting me with images

of your naked body, loving arms

holding me closely, tightly,

as once they had before I happened

to hear gossip among those

I took for friends, workmates too,

and openly denied you-me-us

because I was weak, needed to be

one of the lads, though it meant

we’d part, no matter mind-body-spirit

likely to be sent into free fall,

by loneliness, emptiness, despair

for its not defending and clinging on  

to all it holds dear

My eyes fly open

and you are here, no mere vision,

but a whole new love affair,

You-Me-Us, redefined, ‘live’ metaphor  

for second chances 

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2013

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears (under the title Seeing is Believing) in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.] 

Love, Custom Made

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As life makes us run the gamut of this world’s (and our) various shortcomings, don’t all its lovers - gay and straight alike - dare to dream of being able to say, ‘We did it out way…’?

Gay or straight, male or female, where love is concerned it...for real, pretend or make-believe... it is -as it has always been, and always will be - a (private) matter of each to his or her own.  As for those who so love to gossip and/or criticise...they need to mind their own damn business and look to what's is so unfulfilling about their own lives that needs must they get their kicks out of being bitchy abut someone else's.

LOVE, CUSTOM MADE 

We dream of being together,

looking after each other,

seizing each day,

and it really doesn’t matter

we’re gay

We dream of living together,

looking after each other,

leading the way

for those to whom it matters

they’re gay

We dream of staying together,

looking after each other,

come what may

and it really doesn’t matter

what folks say

Dreams that bring us together,

looking after each other,

realised every day,

custom made for all lovers,

straight or gay

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012; 2014

[Note: This poem  appears in 1st eds. of Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books. 2012 under the title 'Custom Made'; new (revised) ed. in e-format in preparation.]]

Willing Captive

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Of all the accusations levelled at gay people, the idea that we are ‘unnatural’ is perhaps the most hurtful. Certainly, it is the most ignorant. As I have said many times, sexuality has to be in the genes or how come there are so many gay people from all socio-cultural-religious backgrounds across the word.  Many gay man and women grow up in a very gay-unfriendly environment yet still find themselves attracted to the same sex.

Never let anyone get away with suggesting we are unnatural, my friends. What is unnatural is betraying the most fundamental of humanitarian principles by inflicting hurt on those who mean no harm. Yes, I know politicians do it all the time, but that doesn’t mean we have to follow their example. The old rhyme isn’t true that says, ‘sticks and stones can break my bones, but names can never hurt me.’ Names can and do hurt, terribly.

Those who call us names because they are too ignorant and/or lazy to look beyond the stereotype and see the person are beneath contempt.

This poem is a villanelle, and was originally requested by ‘Charlotte’ for her nephew Guy who is too scared to tell his devoutly religious parents that he is gay.

Good luck to Guy. But we should all remember that parents may well need time to get used to the idea. It may well be as hard for them to accept that we are gay as it can be for us to ask it of them. Sadly, it is sometimes the case when people are asked to go against what they have been taught to believe.

But gut instincts are strong, and love is the strongest of them all. Love, especially parental love, does not cave in easily, even to devout socio-cultural-religious bigotry.

WILLING CAPTIVE

Living in nature’s skin,
exploring sexuality;
willing captive within

Trying, anxiously, within,
for a new reality;
living in nature’s skin

Seeking inspiration,
a kinder morality;
willing captive within

Surpassing expectation,
risen to ecstasy;
living in nature’s skin

A sense of valediction
on our mortality;
willing captive within

A lasting benediction
on love’s complicity;
living in nature’s skin,
willing captive within

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2014

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from an earlier version that appears under the title ‘The Captive Heart’) in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time (by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

An Incredible Journey

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My class of 1959 was once challenged by a teacher to sum up the meaning of life in one word.

People gave various answers; ambition, achievement/s, sport, family, friendship, music, survival... 

For me, it had to be love although I was only 14 years-old at the time and still coming to terms with my emerging sexuality, so the best was yet to come.

Whatever, life is too short to live it according to any code of socio-cultural-religious convention to which the heart does not fully subscribe; the mind may work in mysterious ways, but the human spirit is a match for anything and anyone if we but believe in ourselves.

AN INCREDIBLE JOURNEY

A gay love blessed can hurt,

its wounds fester, let in snake venom;

jealousy, bitterness, hate even

in a dark, lonely, wretched, heaven,

a great sadness creeping in,

killing off its angels one by one;

in a weepy twilight all of love’s own,

embracing its bitter-sweet pain

Yet, listen! Birds, flowers,

friendly ghosts in the clouds, singing

of life and hope, fair sunsets,

sunrises, faery mists, summer kisses

autumn leaves, shades of red

and gold, stories at winter fires told

of love eternal, no self-pity, but thanks

for making its incredible journey

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2019

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

No Token Trophy for Glass Houses

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A former work colleague, unaware at the time that I am gay, once boasted that he had gay friends, so no one could accuse him of being homophobic.

Okay, so far, so good…

He went on to tell me that, 'To be honest, gay sex disgusts me, but ‘you have to cover your back these days, don’t you, what with all this equality and diversity rubbish?’  It was as if his gay ‘friends’ were notches on his belt meant to show everyone he was no homophobe. His obvious distaste for and discomfort with the whole gay ethos made me see red. When I mentioned that I am gay, he beamed, seemed to think I was making his point (which was what, I am still not sure) and said, ‘See, I am talking to you as an equal aren’t I?’

This conversation took place in 2008, the year I retired. Maybe I am being over-sensitive, but it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth whenever I think about it.

In the minds of bigots worldwide, gay people remain fuel for nasty gossip, but as my mother used to say, all the while those who have nothing better to do but gossip (or worse) about us, they are at least leaving other vulnerable people alone. 

NO TOKEN TROPHY FOR GLASS HOUSES 

It seems like only yesterday we’d play

at hide-and-seek as butterflies looked on;

happy days, gay lovers feeling our way

into red-and-golden hours of autumn

By Christmas, gossips had left us for dead

(memory’s embrace enough to surf the swell)

nor winter’s cold, but lies covertly spread

conspired against us while wishing us well

Old prejudices, they (still) threaten us,

cast their nets as at moths and butterflies;

collectors, like minds, and the curious,

sure to excuse the means, relish the prize

Though the world’s hypocrites, they abuse us,

we’ll fly free, no token trophy for glass houses

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2014

Prelude to a Coming of Age

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This poem takes me back to when I was about 13 or 14 years-old, and it struck me for the first time that I was (far) more attracted to boys than girls.

Those adults, especially parents, inclined to assume that children and young people don’t know their own minds regarding sexuality (and much else besides) need to think again, and think through what it means for a young person to acknowledge he or she is gay.  

As for parent-child relationships, gay or straight, is it not, after all, no more or less than a question of love?

PRELUDE TO A COMING OF AGE

Saw a boy and girl kissing

under a blossoming cherry tree,

and wished it were me

I longed for such an embrace,

to hear words of love in my ear,

and wiped away a tear

Oh, for those lips on mine,

fuelling this frantic desire in me

to be yours, to be free…

They made a fine couple,

pink confetti blowing in a breeze

driving them to their knees

I could only turn away,

but imagine a lovemaking divine

and wish it were mine

Saw a boy and girl kissing

under the blossoming cherry tree

and wished she were me

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: This poem first appeared under the title 'Acknowledging Sexuality' in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]

I and I, a Feeling for Sexuality

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

For the benefit of any new readers, I should perhaps explain that I also some upload historic as well as current blog posts to Google Plus. I regularly add and remove these so readers can access up to about 30 poems without having to trawl 1,000+ poems on my blogs. It seems to work well, and feedback has been very encouraging so I will continue:

https://plus.google.com/118347623673930289606/posts

Regarding my You Tube channel, it appears that some viewers have not realized they should keep the sound on to hear the poems I read over the later videos nor that the poem is also included in the description that accompanies each video. Hopefully, this information will add to your enjoyment as Graham and I have a lot of fun shooting the videos and writing the poems. We don’t have a state of the arts video camera, though, so don’t expect a BBC level production:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Today’s poem was written in 1976, the year my mother died, and a time when I was  in and out of the closet like a jack-in-the-box, and only ever open about my sexuality to certain people in certain places at certain times in my life.  

My mother was OK about my being gay, but felt it was best kept under wraps and my brother and father should be kept in ignorance, although I would be very surprised if they had not already guessed. Since I’d had an appalling relationship with my father since childhood and my brother (at the time, anyway) was openly homophobic, I sensed she was probably right. It would take a severe nervous breakdown three years later before I finally came ‘out’ to everyone in the early 1980s, and to stay.

Re-reading this poem, I think it gives a sense of my confused torment at the time. It is a harsh indictment on the twenty-first century that there are countries and pockets of democratic societies, too, where gay boys and girls, men and women, are experiencing much the same torment. We can but hope common sense and humanity will prevail and the whole world will, in time, become a more gay-friendly place.

I AND I, A FEELING FOR SEXUALITY

Don’t wax lyrical about loneliness
                                                says the Man
tell’em just what it can do,
                                       how it will
kill the eye, give the lie
to that so-smooth brow
                                 you’re
scrubbing at;

Don’t make out
                       it doesn’t pain you
to prepare for another day
                                      no different
from yesterday, unless
that face you’re
                        making
cracks!

Okay, run a comb through your hair
                                                    says the Man
and straighten your tie
                          just so...
Here’s your jacket,
maybe we’ll
                    make it?
Come, come...

No, no, don’t throw it
                          at the cat
or rip your throat
                         like that,
you’ll tear my shirt.
Now we’ll be
                          late
for work

Don’t swear at me
                           says the Man,
it’s not my fault
                       you can’t
stand the closet
any more. Now, get off
                           that floor.
Yes, now!

Oh, and blow your nose, you’re getting
on my nerves…

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2000

[From: Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]