Hi, folks, from London UK

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

Hi folks,

A reader writes that he cannot get into the blog: "When I click on to a title, I just get HTML. 

I had the same problem when I first logged on to the blog this morning. It appears that Google have made changes. To access the blog on a pc or laptop, clicking on 'view blog' in the left hand corner, should bring up the post-poem in the usual way. Hopefully, this will solve the reader's problem. (At the bottom of the page, you will see ways of accessing the blog on a tablet or smartphone.)

Whatever, readers have to remember that I am in my mid-70's now and have difficulty using Internet technology these days. not least after years of hormone therapy for my prostate cancer; it plays merry hell with thought processes and memory to such an extent that I often feel as if my whole identity is gradually being eroded. 

Other readers with prostate cancer - and other health issues that they find increasingly difficult to rise above and get on with their lives - get in touch from time to time, mostly asking how I manage. Well, with difficulty, I have to say, especially as I also have to cope with several other health issues at the same time, as many of us do. I try to take it all in my stride, make the most of each day as it comes along, and hope for a good day. 

How do I cope with bad days? Again with difficulty, but finding ways of distracting myself from whatever part of me is playing up the worst... always helps. In the absence of a garden, writing up the blog, dusting off and watching a favourite DVD or tuning into a the next episode of  favourite TV series... all these things help, but only temporarily.  Seeing friends is the best therapy for lifting flagging spirits, which is, of course, one reason why the pandemic has been so hard to bear; being unable to see family and friends as often as we'd like, sometimes not at all.. 

Tragically, some of those closest to us have died during the  pandemic, so how do we cope? Yes, with great difficulty. It is hard enough on families who have lost loved-ones without being able to say goodbye, but no less tough, either, on those who live alone as I do. Fortunately, I remain in touch with my best friend and 'bubble partner' by phone and email, and we get to meet up from time to time. Some people, though, feel very isolated and lonely, especially some old people who are not Internet savvy and perhaps cannot hear well on the phone. Sadly, not all neighbours are good neighbours and some people find it increasingly hard to cope.

So let's all try and be good neighbours, yeah? And keep an eye on - better still befriend - any neighbours we suspect of struggling to get by on a daily basis, at any age, for whatever reason, especially in the big cities and certain suburbs, well-known to be less friendly or neighbourly than more rural areas.  (So we risk getting  the brush-off, so what?  That's their problem. At least we tried...)

My stomach is now telling me it's high time I got myself something to eat, and I never give my stomach the brush-off... 😉

Take care everyone and be sure to keep looking on the bright(er) side of life.

Back with a poem soon,

(Digital) Hugs,

Roger

Making Good Time

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

A neighbour in the road where I lived as a child was always helping others. Once, I fell over, and cut my knee badly. Immediately, she took me inside, wiped it clean, and applied a plaster because she knew my mother would not be at home, having met her while out shopping. I thanked her for making the time to be my Good Samaritan, which parable from the New Testament I had heard only days before at Sunday School. (It would be a few years later before I gave up on religion.) She simply shrugged and commented, “Better to make time and have something to show for it than not.” I have never forgotten those words even though some 60+ years have passed since that day.

“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.” 

 - Omar Khayyám

“Time is a created thing. To say 'I don't have time,' is like saying, 'I don't want to.” 

- Lao Tzu

MAKING GOOD TIME

Were life a clock face and we its hands,

measuring out time as in the footsteps of ghosts,

at any second in any hour, find someone

standing up to be counted, a principle at stake

that warrants neither any compromise

or convenient slip of memory into some pit

of consciousness whose only purpose

to stir pangs of guilt now and then, though nothing

to write home about, better archived

Were life a clock face and we its hands,

measuring out time as a grocer might well weigh

out a shopper’s vegetables for payment

over a crowded counter, queue growing longer,

find someone standing up to be counted

making their voice heard over the general hubbub

protesting about an aggressive queue jumper

whom no one cares to remark upon aloud for fear

of any thought police listening in

Were life a clock face and we its hands.

measuring out time as a student of human nature

might well mark how many times in a day

bear witness to common courtesy, an awareness

of another person’s disability, and the need

to lend a helping hand or surrender a seat on a bus

or train, go out of their way in no time at all

for making a difference, transforming a mountain

into a molehill for someone, anyone

Were life a clock face, and we its hands, see us fly

past-present-future in the blink of an all-seeing eye

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

Helping Hands at Cliff Edges

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

Regular readers will know that I am having a hard time dealing with various health issues at the moment. No matter how aware and /or reminded we may be that there are many people out there a lot worse off than ourselves, it is small comfort in the circumstances and does little or nothing to ease our own distress. Selfish? Probably, yes, but I suspect it is human nature to see little further than our own problems from time to time.

I have often said that various forms of creative therapy can save us from going into free fall; the arts have a central role here, but so, too, do crafts, gardening etc. For me, of course, it has to be poetry, and – for better or worse (for the reader, that is) – I practise what a preach. 

We all know, and it goes without saying (doesn't it?) that, in the absence of Apollo, and as someone’s family member, friend or neighbour we all have a supporting role to play from time to time in their lives … well, don’t we?

HELPING HANDS AT CLIFF EDGES

Hanging on,

wanting, needing to let go

but for old habits

kicking in where life instinct

ever made itself heard

even to deaf ears, mind-body-spirit

older than its years,

risen above its tears for fears

of living nightmares,

fingertips clinging to cliff edges

above an indifferent sea

Hanging on,

wanting, needing to let go

but for happy times

in the company of loved ones

haunting me;

cinema of mind-body-spirit providing

private viewing

intended to kill tears for fears

of living nightmares,

lend fingertips at this cliff edge

a helping hand

Hanging on,

wanting, needing to let go

though an old stand-by

making its presence felt yet again,

climbing up my spine;

no nasty creepy crawly thing, this,

but bent on killing off

tears for fears of living nightmares

with positive thoughts,

lend fingertips at any cliff edge

a helping hand 

Hanging on,

wind turning southerly now,

as if anxious to prove

a kindness exists beyond any stormy gusts

as buffeted me here,

reminding me that hope springs eternal

and love never dies

in a mind-body-spirit up for more

than alien sentiments

bent on sending it to The Edge

ever bargain for

Safe, if shaken,

but still on dry land for taking

Apollo’s helping hand,

up for a marriage of mind-body-spirit

with a past-present-future

acknowledging errors, working on any flaws

of (human) nature,

taking heart in playing its part

(however small)

in keeping a kinder perspective,

resist free fall

Copyright R.N. Taber, 2020

Getting Under the Skin

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

We all need something or someone at some time in our lives, but asking for help is not always easy; sometimes, pride gets in the way or we may well be at such a low ebb that we cannot get the words out.

There is no shame in asking for help; the first step is acknowledging to ourselves that we need it while the next (sometimes the hardest) is finding someone we know well and can trust to listen without judging us or simply telling us what they would do in our situation. I, for on, always avoid giving advice but will always offer various options and alternatives tailored to my knowledge of the person. Where the listener can offer practical help that is always, of course, as good a place to start as any.

Failing at the second step is invariably down to the inability of many if not most people to use their knowledge of a person to be able to offer constructive advice. We are individuals, all different; telling someone what we would do in their situation is rarely much help.

The listener is the greater source of inspiration because any advice forthcoming will be based on what he or she has heard; heard us out, encouraging us now and then by all means, but not interrupting or prompting along lines we think the other person is trying to say,

Need is not always obvious; too often, it is left to fester simply because there are none so deaf as will not hear. Where the listeners of this world are a rare breed, the friend who listens is a friend indeed.

This poem is a kenning.

GETTING UNDER THE SKIN 

I haunt the human spirit

as an alley cat might its territory,

fight off every challenge

until grown weary with battles,

ready to admit defeat,

yet without (quite) conceding

surrender of the kind

that sheds dignity like a second skin

for caving in to despair

I worry the human mind

as a dog might a flock of sheep

that knows no better,

simply goes with basic instinct,

chancing life and limb

to the farmer that will shoot

on sight, worth the risk,

beats gnawing away at an old bone

just because it’s there

I taunt the human heart

where expectation often misled

by parental satisfaction,

peer-led competition, egged on

by target-centred education…

chalices passed from generation

to generation, mistakes

coursing its veins like a slow poison

too often left untreated

Call me poor, inarticulate Need;

on life’s leftovers, I feed …

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016

Whatever Happened to (Good) Neighbours?

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

This poem has not appeared on the blog since 2008. I feel the sentiment if not the poem deserves an airing. I am so lucky, living alone as I do, to have a small, but reliable network of friends who would soon realise if anything was seriously wrong.

Now, we may like to think we are looking out for family, friends and neighbours, but it is so easy to be caught up in other events, issues, whatever...and forget to look. New technology and modern medicines mean that many areas of the world have an elderly population that is growing all the time. We need to look out for our older neighbours, and never assume someone else will. Yes, there is a risk we'll be sent away with a flea in the ear although most people would welcome  anyone taking the time to care. Besides, what's a flea in the ear compared to a guilty conscience...?

I have to say, I don't expect a 'good turnout' at my own funeral when the time comes, but the poem is not about me... 😀

WHATEVER HAPPENED TO (GOOD) NEIGHBOURS?

There are muddy hand prints on a gate

that groans as it swings in the wind;

footprints on a path lead to broken steps

rising to a weepy front door pleading

to be opened, local kids making mischief
by hitting its push button bell, run away
down back a maze of back alleyways sure
to ring with their hoots of laughter for years, 

and bring tears to old eyes

The old house is haunted, neighbours say

since the gruesome discovery made

of an old woman who lay dead in her bed

for more than a year, no one to shed

a tear or so much as notice her gone from

the daily round of laundry, shopping, 

weeding the garden, trimming the hedge

minding her own business like a ghost,
less inclined to socialise than most perhaps 

nor exactly ostracised for this, though hardly

a neighbourly thing to do

Oh, but the neighbours having a field day,

gossiping about the grimy windows,
not to mention the net curtains, and a garden
that's a disgrace to the whole community,
weeds grown tall and spreading, everybody
asking whatever's got into the old girl?
High time (surely?) somebody looked into
what's what there, but no one (heaven forbid)

wanting to appear a busybody

Problem solved when a relative chanced to call,

and a good turnout at the funeral

Copyright R N Taber 2007, rev.2019 

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'A Crying Shame' in Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

Suburban Hero OR The Good Neighbour

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

Today's poem has not appeared on this blog before. I have nothing to add, but will let it speak for itself.

However, I would say to the reader who kindly says he enjoys many of my poems but thinks my collections would sell better and that I'd probably acquire a higher media profile within the arts media if I 'scrapped the gay poetry altogether...' Well, yes, you may well have a point. [Do I care?]

The reason I insist on publishing both general and gay-interest poems is because there is far more to anyone than how their gender or sexuality meets the eye, especially the judgemental eye. Yours truly,  for one, gets fed up with the level of such short sightedness in societies worldwide.

It is not only gay people who are victims of HIV-AIDS, of course; another reason for posting this poem on both poetry blogs. 

SUBURBAN HERO or THE GOOD NEIGHBOUR

He was just an ordinary man, living
an ordinary life on an ordinary street,
and whenever we chanced to meet
he would always make time for a chat,
ask me (for example) did I know that
Mrs T at number ten had been ill again
with lumbago, old J at number five
caught a bug in hospital and was damn
lucky to be alive?

He was such an ordinary man, living
such an ordinary life on such a street
as you might expect to find anywhere
if you care to look beyond dull fronts
of ordinary houses, could be forgiven
for thinking no worse fate (surely?)
than this spending one’s days in such
predictable ways, the stuff of suburban
myth for centuries

He was such an ordinary man, died
only a few years ago in a road accident;
no complicated will, only a pre-paid
funeral insurance, a few items to friends
and the house to an HIV-AIDS charity
that found everyone confiding how they
had suspected he was ‘one of those’
but …immaterial, and the whole street
turned out for the funeral

Such an ordinary man, nothing special,
simply a nice, neighbourly homosexual

[From: Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Bks., 2012]

Care In the Community (Where Actions Speak Louder than Words)

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

Here in the UK, it is no exaggeration to suggest the social care system is in crisis. At the same time, the coalition government is pressing ahead with its Health and Social Care Bill that threatens the very fabric of a National Health Service that is the envy of the world.  [Many Americans, especially Republicans, may despise its principle of Health Care for All, but many more come here every year for some of the best medical treatment in the world because they can’t afford the same in their own country.]

Despite the obvious fact that people are living longer with illness and disability, our care system here is  chronically underfunded according to informed reports. Social Care budgets in England, for example, fell by an estimated £1 billion according to the Association of Directors of Adult Services.

It looks like it’s up to all of us to keep an eye on the vulnerable in our neighbourhood. The awful tragedy is, and always has been, that in large towns and cities, that is less likely to be the reality than wishful thinking.

Not everyone can rely on family support. (I certainly can’t.) I am only 66 and have a relatively small but close network of friends to keep an eye on me. Many people who live alone don’t have that, and living alone can get very scary for anyone as they grow older and increasingly vulnerable.

This poem was written ten years ago.  As I look around me, I don’t get the feeling much has changed.

CARE IN THE COMMUNITY (WHERE ACTIONS SPEAK LOUDER THAN WORDS)

Knocked at an old house
in the Square

"Is anybody there?"

At its grubby letterbox, 

bending to peer

"Is anybody there?"

Catching a nauseous whiff
of mouldy air

"Is anybody there?"

A squeaking, (sobs, mice
on the stair?)

"Is anybody there?"

No one replying, but prying
curtains everywhere

"Is anybody there?"

Moving on, plenty more

with time to spare ...

"Is anybody there?"

Asking the very question
no one wants to hear

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]