Give a Dream a Go

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2016.

Once, I read something along the lines that the ‘dreams’ we most vividly recall are but leftover, half-formed thoughts inclined to either embrace us or knock us for six as we necessarily negotiate an emotional landscape that finds us close to waking up but unable (quite) to let go of whatever it is about sleep that insists we stay; cave in to the latter, and we risk making of our lives an open prison.

We are used to being told that certain political and legal moves are in all our best interests, but there is often a hidden agenda that benefits some people most if not all the time and the rest of us ... well, some of the time at least, we hope. We only have to look at what is happening in super-power countries like China and Russia, but political strategies worldwide have much to answer for as far as the principles of personal freedom are concerned. Oh, and yes, I include the UK. Whatever, though, the human heart is still a free country, and mind-body-spirit is not without certain strategies of its own to keep it that way.

Now, more than once, contemplating the day ahead over my breakfast has felt like being pulled one way or the other by complacency and positive thinking, each in the form of a viable escape plan from the other. Usually, but not always, a few slices of toast and several cups of coffee will summon a strength of mind-body-spirit resolved to let the more constructive alternative run its course.

Sleepwalking through life (with eyes wide open if eyelids drooping) is sadly, all too common; going through the motions of life instead of living it the way we want not as other people, convention... whatever...suggest we should. At the same time, we need to bear in mind that not everyone's idea of 'living' is the same, and it is unfair to compare, even more so to set ourselves up as judge and jury as so many people I know SO love to do...

Life, of course, doesn’t always give even the best of motives their head, but our options are often limited through no fault of our own. Even so, where an opportunity to improve not only our own lot but others, too, does present itself, we owe it to ourselves (and them) to GO for it, no matter what some might say or think. Some readers may argue that's just selfish, but in my experience, letting someone prevent you from doing something you really want to do can but end in tears; more often than not, any who appear to  begrudge us the opportunity are simply employing a get-out clause for not pursuing a dream of their own.

Life is rarely easy and sometimes makes demands of us we might well prefer to put on the proverbial back burner, but where there's a will, there's usually a way ... and that's where mind-body-spirit comes into its own. Yes, win some, lose some, but better surely to find ways of putting a dream to the test if only because it's how history and personal history come together and make history ...

'What is not started today is never finished tomorrow.' - Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (German Playwright, Poet, Novelist and Dramatist. 1749-1832)

GIVE A DREAM A GO

Sometimes, the human body

will not (quite) emerge from shadows

(courtesy of sleep) conveniently

induced by selective half-memories

of fonder (kinder) times

when body and spirit took a stoic stand

against the more aggressive

(egocentric) interpretations of what it is

to be a practising human being

Sometimes, the human mind

can't (quite) escape a darker, weaker side

(courtesy of conscience)

invaded by selective half-memories

conveniently (almost) buried

under layers of regret, pain, wishful

thinking for turning back

the ever-spilling clock measuring out

human life in grains of sand

Sometime, the human spirit

refuses (quite) to justify being slow

to do the right thing

by all that’s integral to the integrity

even of those children

of a lesser god than it chooses to put

above reproach, especially

when available to call upon to excuse

the plainly inexcusable

Eventually (with luck) we wake

to choral music promising us heaven

of a kind not (quite)

as interpreted by various Holy Books

if only to keep us quiet

in the face of pain and regret stoically

managed but self-inflicted

all the same, especially upon others

who mean us no harm

Day dawns, and life goes on

so we need to pull ourselves together,

put the world to rights

and put any irksome misgivings down

to common misdemeanours

attributed to quirks of sleep expressing

(only human) anxieties

of a far less forgiving ego than likely

to meet the eye over breakfast

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016

An Autobiography of the Human Race

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

We are all past-present-future in the flesh. We inherit certain genes and much of our approach to life is taken from historical figures who have made a deep impression on just as we, in how we live our lives, make an impression on others for better or worse; family, friends, casual acquaintances, even complete strangers. It only takes one moment in time when something we say or do strikes a chord in someone’s life that will play out forever.

We won’t all make the national archives, of course, but there is another, more extensive to the point of being inexhaustible archive that is the human mind-body-spirit, that key player in human nature that should never be underestimated; whoever and wherever we are, whatever our socio-cultural-religious background, gender or sexual persuasions, it is the backbone of a common humanity that has seen the human race also rise above all history has thrown at it, just as it will continue to do, even as the C-19 coronavirus continues to impact on us all.

This poem is a kenning.

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE HUMAN RACE

I walk with ghosts, night and day,

a presence as real to me as my own reflection

greeted in mirrors, shop windows,

still waters in dream-places keeping memories

and sometime companions alive,

urging mind-body-spirit like voices in the ear

egging urging me on, regardless

of any obstruction fallen or placed in my way

whether by accident or design

I talk with ghosts, night and day,

and they listen without interruption, just a nod

or shake of the head occasionally,

sufficient to persuade or dissuade any thoughts

to action or inaction gathering pace

demanding I look again or press on, regardless

where inspiration has landed a hit,

missed its mark altogether, deserves discussion

or better left to gather dust

I bare all to ghosts, night and day,

far more even than to those who know me best

if only because I dare not share

any part of me that takes its cue from the dead

for fear of being misunderstood

or (worse) denied a voice, left with less of a life

to speak of than even a ghost,

reduced to a skeleton in someone’s cupboard,

exhibit for some eager archivist

I am that past-present-future making of humanity

what it will, and am called History

Copyright R. N. Taber 2018; 2020

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

Ghost Riders in the Sky

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

As a child, I would love creating stories in my head from cloud ‘figures’. People would laugh and tell me I’d grow out of this fantasising. Well, some people still laugh, but I’m glad I still feel inspired by clouds years on. (I will be 75 later this year.)

They taught me a lot, those clouds; for a start, how to create and enjoy fictions without confusing them with facts although ... well, there was a time in my life when it was a close call.

It is thanks to my childhood fascination with cloud shapes that I became interested in reading, writing and... yes, people. I have written many poems and a few novels, but cannot be described as a 'successful' writer in the sense that it has neither made me rich or famous. Yet, who cares? Nor me, that's for sure. Writing (even more than observing cloud shapes) has taught me much about myself and human nature; more importantly, I have enjoyed every moment, and - as is often the way with any form of creative therapy - it has also helped to keep my old enemy Depression at bay for years.

Clouds have played no small part in making me the person I am today, and hopefully i may even pass some of this on by way of a posthumous consciousness in time and space, to be touched upon by any who may care to remember words I have spoken or written long after this life has had its way with me. For sure, there have been people in my life, long dead, who have remained a 'live' influence on and within my own consciousness, in a very positive way, and always will.  

GHOST RIDERS IN THE SKY

I’ve seen ghost riders

chasing sandmen into storm clouds,

and leaves fly

I’ve seen ghost riders

throw a sandman into a dark place,

and trees cry

I’ve seen ghost riders

pluck such as I from fragile shelters,

and no one care

I've seen ghost riders

playing cat and mouse with humanity

(winner takes all)

Ghost riders, goading 

others like me into this sorry world’s

worst nightmares

I’ve let ghost riders

drag me from my armchair, re-awaken

my consciousness

I’ve let ghost riders

rescue me from assault by prime time

TV advertising

I’ve let ghost riders

force me to face my more fragile selves

head-on

I've let ghost riders

leave me trailing behind, and found a way

back to real time

One by one, ghost riders

but a dust cloud, no trace even of a history

(except in me)

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012]

Sea and Sand OR Rediscovering the Art of Positive Thinking

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

Todays poem first appeared on the blog in 2015. Now seemed as good a time as any to repeat it as there can rarely have been a time in the lives of many of us when positive thinking was harder or more essential as in seeing us through the Covid-19 coronavirus pandemic.

Sometimes, we do our best, and yet it never seems to be enough for some people while others simply take our efforts for granted.

Yes, it hurts when all we seek is a little encouragement, and all we seem to have to show for it is grains of sand.

It is so often the case that people do not mean to cause hurt, yet fail to see their comments as a parody of their finer feelings towards us.

We all need to think before we speak sometimes, learn to acknowledge and trust our better instincts, formulate our ideas with care instead of (all too often) falling prey to so-called 'public opinion'.

Easier said than done, though, this refusing to either rush to judgement on others or let ourselves fall victim to those rushing to judgement on us.

Whatever, praise is no endgame in itself but a by-product of succeeding - as far as anyone can - in finding and being true to ourselves as opposed to more or less repeating what others may have said and done, however much we may admire them for it; being inspired by someone enough to follow  in their footsteps, on the other hand, is something else altogether. 

I suspect Nietzsche makes a valid point when he says: “So long as men praise you, you can only be sure that you are not yet on your own true path but on someone else's.”  ― Friedrich Nietzsche

SEA AND SAND, INSPIRATION or REDISCOVERING THE ART OF POSITIVE THINKING

Alone on a beach

among restless white ponies

panting heavily,

rearing at me for they know

a storm is coming,

although not yet a while;

time yet to let me see

the Old Man smile as I drop stars

through tearful fingers

relentlessly measuring out

the rest of my life

Air hot and stale

like the stillness of a coffin,

funeral prayers

long since dead and gone,

tossed to playful waves

as we’d throw a much-loved dog

a bone and watch it run,

tail wagging, anxiously homing in

on its reward

for whatever, only ever needing

to deserve praise

No bones here,

only flailing limbs of ghosts

in dark water

striving for landfall, but sure

of nothing,

like flotsam and jetsam taking turns

to see which will

fall into loving hands anxious

to shape an art form

if for no other reason than leaving

its mark... 

What to do?

Needs must…choose well

or wait for a stampede

to render me less than hoof prints

in the sand,

all human potential left

to natural erosion

unknowingly hastened by fishers

of men rushing to judgement

if for no other reason than needing

to deserve attention

Nothing for me here,

but rage and pain in a pool of stars

at my feet,

urging me to leap a feisty pony,

let it take me where it will,

escape not only storm but wreckage

as sure to follow as day

follows night and tides of humanity,

the course its nature sets us

if for no other reason than failing

to find peace...

Yet, treasures to be had,

sparkling views of sea, sky and sand

filing the inner eye

with memories of (far) kinder times

filled with faith in dreams

nurturing mind, body and spirit

no matter where the spotlight

on everyday lives may choose to fall,

urging that we follow the course

nature sets us if for no other reason

than deserving each other

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2020

contemporaneity, gender, human, identity, imagination, life, love, mind-body-spirit, nature, personal, poetry, positive, relationships, self-awareness, self-confidence, society, space, spirit, thinking

Last Orders OR A Fond Farewell

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

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2015.

Now, coronavirus restrictions are driving me up the proverbial wall and, yes, look likely to do so for some time; even as restrictions are relaxed, nothing will (ever?) be quite the same again. At least I have had time to get used to that proverbial wall in the sense that hormone therapy (for my prostate cancer)  has been driving me up it since 2012.  I have arthritis to deal with as well, in my left foot where I fractured the ankle after a bad fall in 2011 and also in my neck. I manage both okay(ish) but it ain't easy in your 70's (I will be 75 later this year) or at any age.

The hormone therapy not only makes me want to pee a lot day (and night) but also affects my memory and, latterly, my whole personality in the sense that I make mountains out of molehills where I used to things in my stride. The blogs help. As well as enjoying the company of readers from 70+ different countries, writing them acts as a form of creative therapy that encourages my old self to stay alive and kicking. I did get upset when a reader contacted me to say he had seen my gay-interest blog called 'sick' on social media, but not for long; it takes all sorts to make a world, warts 'n' all. Being gay is as much a part of me as being human while being human makes me as free a spirit as anyone; in my case, it  also makes me a poet with a responsibility, as I see it, to draw on nature and human nature in all its shapes and forms.. I rest my case...

Time is precious; past, present and future. One day, (hopefully not for a good while yet) the Grim Reaper will pay a visit, and my blogs will eventually disappear from the Internet.  Now, the blogs are the only record of my revised poems as well as many others that have not been published and are not included in my collections. I therefore intend, over a period of time, to publish revised editions of all my print novels and poetry collections in e-format so ...watch this space.

Meanwhile...

During my short time in Australia some years ago I met an elderly aborigine who attempted to explain the aboriginal concept of 'Dreaming'. In short, the Dreaming expresses a timeless concept of moving from ‘dream’ to reality which in itself is an act of creation and the basis of many Aboriginal creation myths. (It is significant that none of the hundreds of Aboriginal languages contain a word for time.) I cannot begin to express much of that myself, and would not presume to try. Even so, it is a concept I suspect any poet can easily relate to, especially one who firmly believes in a posthumous consciousness in the sense of spiritual 'presence (or ghosts) as I do.

Of all the love poems I have written, this has to be one of my favourites. A sudden need to revise the original as it appears in my collection was like a cry from the heart, reminiscent of Cathy's ghost calling to Heathcliff in Emily Bronte's classic novel, 'Wuthering Heights'. [Oh, yes, in case you hadn't guessed, I am, among other things, an incurable romantic, always have been, and make no apologies for it.]

LAST ORDERS or A FOND FAREWELL

May the last ‘live’ art I see,

be a lark dropping from the sky,

my last breath but endorsing

its love song, life force of nature

and human nature

May the last my senses inhale

be a heady fragrance of flowers,

my last dream, awake-asleep,  

recreating a collage that’s our life

in picture poems

May the last thing I ever feel

be the sensual touch of your skin,

the last of Earth we ever share

our toasting love in its finest wine,

sealed with a kiss

As the good earth calls ‘Time’

on all its children sooner or later,

so shall its ghosts call its bluff,

addressing the human spirit’s remit

for immortality

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002, 2019

[Note: An earlier version of this poem this poem was first published under the title 'Last Orders' in an anthology, A Ray of Light, Poetry Now, (Forward Press)1999 and subsequently in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002.]

I-N-T-E-G-R-I-T-Y, Love Poems

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

As I continue putting together a new collection of poems, this one caught my eye; it first appeared on the blog in 2011.

People often ask me why I write poetry. I try to answer this in many of my love poems. Although the love of my life died many years ago and we had only a few years together, our love for each other continues to sustain me. Yet, as I often say to people living alone as I do, love comes in many shapes and forms; family, friends, pets, places...all these can be loved and become an integral part of not only our lives but also our whole being.

In my case, my relationship with friends and nature are the focus of my love,  and subsequently my love for poetry; the latter, by the way, is a gift from my dear mother who would often recite poems to me at bedtime as well as reading me stories. She died in June 1976 when I was 30 years-old, but I feel her presence whenever I write a poem just as I feel my late partner’s and others I have loved. Yes, there is sadness in me because I will never see them again, but that is more than compensated for and transcended by love...every day of every year.

Years ago, I wrote a gay love poem which, sadly, I have since mislaid as it predated the age of computers and am unable to rewrite as I have a poor memory after years of hormone therapy for my prostate cancer. At the time, a colleague urged me to submit it to a poetry magazine whose editor subsequently commended me for my efforts while rejecting it on the grounds that gay love poems lack integrity and might well offend regular readers.

Love comes in all shapes and forms and is as changeable as the seasons, in nature and human nature alike; like every season, it gives new life in one breath and takes with another while encouraging us to be be glad for what we have, and make the best of it, rather then dwell on what we have not, and make the worst.

True love is more than eternal, it is eternity, that you-me-us that has characterised human life since its earliest beginnings, and always will. Nor does any culture or religion have a monopoly on its spirituality; the human spirit in us all will see to that, if we will but let it, whoever and wherever we may be.

This poem is a villanelle.

I-N-T-E-G-R-I-T-Y, LOVE POEMS

In love poems, discern integrity

touching on all life's finer themes;

the ultimate collector's anthology

Any prose on contemporaneity

may well rip us apart at the seams;

in love poems, discern integrity

Where some see cruel ambiguity,

love lends out its promising dreams;

the ultimate collector's anthology

There's a cruelty rooted in bigotry,

humanity but a patch on all it seems;

in love poems, discern integrity

Natural world allowed its dignity,

till Earth Mother's face surely beams;

the ultimate collector's anthology

Come age, gender, race, sexuality, 

prejudices (still) haunting our dreams;

in love poems, discern integrity,

the ultimate collector's anthology

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012, rev. 2020

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title' Love, an Epic Poem' in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012; this post/ poem also appears on my gay-interest poetry blog today.]

Seeing Red

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

Preparing a new collection of poems, as I am, is proving more stressful than ever before, probably because - like most if not all of us - I am already stressed out by the Covid-19 pandemic. I keep coming across poems that are fine as far as they go … but strike me as not going quite far enough in saying what they mean to convey. Today’s (considerably revised) poem is such a case. I hope you will enjoy it as a poem offering food for thought, while bearing in mind that the poet’s own thought processes are as if feeling their way through an early morning mist right now.

I confess I’ve always had a great affinity with mist, a curiosity with and certain expectations for whatever it may reveal, especially as it lifts like the stage curtain on a play. Invariably, we human beings will need prompting, by mind-body-spirit no less, in whatever drama places us there in the first place, whether it be romance, tragedy, comedy, tragi-comedy, wicked satire … or a combination of all three. Most likely, the latter, bearing in mind the various parts we needs must play, each and every one of us comprising an all-star cast in a common humanity, called upon to play our part by a variety of life forces - love, hate, jealousy, regret, joy, grief, pain … to name but a few. That’s life. We can but address its various ways and means in an even greater variety of circumstances if only to have alter-ego whispering in our ear that we did well, but could have done better.

SEEING RED

Shades of red, colouring global reasoning

with a world of differences;

shades of red, colouring needs to weather

climate change;

shades of red, confronting world religions,

denying political agendas;

As I opened my eyes, I’d see but red, colour

of lives left bleeding;

as I opened my heart, I’d see that same red,

the agony of missing you;

though I open my mind, more shades of red,

chasing lost opportunities

Red, too, shades of last sunsets waiting upon

all human choices;

red also, on the flag that covered your coffin,

bugler, playing you home;

red, these lips that will never kiss yours again,

yet reassure generations

Shades of red, nurturing a growing disillusion

concerning ‘society’

Shades of red, humanity’s blatant stereotyping

its natural diversity;

Shades of red, confronting a history of shaping

 a much-divided humanity

Now, as I open my eyes, I still see red, a colour

of lost horizons, yes,

but opening up my heart to a splendid rainbow,

the sum of its colours

declaring an affinity with an only too human rage

to live, and win through it all

  

Copyright R.N. Taber 2007, 2020, 

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title ‘Red’ in Accomplices to

Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]

D-O-G-M-A, Templates for a Divided World

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

Today, the recently revised version of a poem that last appeared on the blog in 2014. To those readers who have kindly asked when the new collection will be ready, I had forgotten how much hard work is involved and have several health issues to contend with at the moment (no Covid-19 though) so am aiming for publication around mid-late September.

Now, integration is the key to a successful society so why are there so many ghettos and pockets of people from around the world determined to follow a policy of separatism wherever they settle? Here in the UK, I have expressed the view for many years that Faith Schools, for example, have a lot to answer for in this respect. Dogma of any kind is fine, just so long as it allows for  - rather than discriminates against - anyone's human right to agree to differ; if others can be persuaded, fair enough, but forms of indoctrination by way of suggesting that any alternative is sacrilegious (or worse) are tantamount to threats, and beneath contempt.

Children and young people are the citizens of tomorrow. How can they, as adults, be expected to properly integrate when so many have been encouraged to feel they have the moral high ground over those of other faiths (or none at all)?

2014 marked the 100^th anniversary of the start of World War 1, the war that was supposed to end all wars…

How much more fighting and suffering will it take, I wonder, for more of our so-called ‘betters’ across the world to understand that various socio-cultural-religious differences do not make us different, only human?

United, the human race may have a chance of surviving its Armageddon; divided, it stands little if any at all.  Common sense, you say? So whatever happened to common sense?

May more  socio-cultural-religious (and political) leader)s take note, be seen to emerge from their various boxes and rise above their rhetoric...while  the rest of us follow a basic instinct for common sense in doing our best to heal divisions within our communities... as (surely?) only to be expected of and deserving a common humanity.

World religions have as much if not more to answer for than the vagaries of world politics; both profess to promote peace and a common humanity ... while the divisions they create in the process across that same humanity are  as unsubtle any suggestions that we apply a sledgehammer to crack a nut.

Everyone is entitled to their own personal space and human nature is a diverse entity as a result. Why, oh, why can't more people  accept that, and agree to differ instead of letting loose poison various slings and arrows of antagonism and discontent...? We are all, each and every one of us, part of a common humanity, after all.

This poem is a villanelle.  

D-O-G-M-A, TEMPLATES FOR A DIVIDED WORLD

Unsubtle divisions,

tablets of stone;

our world religions

Dark contradictions

(sure conviction)

unsubtle divisions

Unholy conditions

(dogs at a bone);

our world religions

Fine godly lessons

few clerics learn;

unsubtle divisions

Posturing politicians

(daughter, son);

our world religions

Holy constitutions,

bloodily written;

unsubtle divisions,

our world religions

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2020

[Note: An earlier version of this poem first appeared under the title 'Divided We Fall' in an anthology, Have Your Say, Poetry Now (Forward Press) 2004 and subsequently in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.]

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 gay-interest blog today..]

Nature v Human Nature (Winner takes All?)

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

‘It’s a life for a crust!’ my mother would often exclaim with mixed amusement and stoicism to us kids.

More than half a century on, and growing old, I understand only too well what she meant.

An earlier version of this poem has appeared on the blog before; in 2000, at the turn of the century, it was published in an anthology the same year and has resulted in a number of emails from readers (of all ages) to say how much they can relate to it. Some years on, I have to say I don’t find much changed for the better ... 

Oh, well, c’est la vie.

My maternal grandfather would often say "Better a plodder than a plonker be." Oh, and why not? We plodders are (on the whole) a happy breed if struggling sometimes to rise above the chaos of battles between nature v human nature. We try to make the best of things, refuse to be cowed (for long) by the worst, and trust common sense will (eventually) impose a benign order (of sorts) on our surroundings ... whoever and wherever we may be in a century that has come far, but still has as much to learn about as from nature and human nature, not least regarding the (all-inclusive) art of nurture.

NATURE V HUMAN NATURE (WINNER TAKES ALL?)

Can’t get on a bus, schoolkids

won’t walk half a mile;

stuck on a train, points failure,

(blame the weather);

arrive at work later than usual,

half the staff phoned in sick;

Start to get things done - and

the IT system goes down;

mad rush to meet Management’s

deadline, only to discover

it's been extended yet again;

no relief (or lunch break);

long afternoon, more than ready

to make the Home Run, left

fuming how quirks of modern life

always ganging up on me

Soon, feet up, relaxing (I wish!)

but family strife, no easy life;

a stressful stroll through streets

paved with fool’s gold,

feeling old, and youths sneering

at wrinklies in designer gear;

cyclist hurtling along the pavement

sends shoppers running for cover;

resentment boils over. I stand firm;

cyclist takes a nasty tumble;

a cop across the street rushes over,

takes my details, warns me

I’ll get a letter, says folks my age

really should know better ...

Oh. and when did mind-body-spirit

ever let age get the better of it?

Peace at last on a quiet hill as dusk

settles on this, my cruel city;

world without pity, but so beautiful;

kite flier, taking on a rough wind

with laughter, joy and pride, proof

(as if any needed) of humanity's

predilection for turning a blind eye

and/or deaf ear as and whenever,

the better to give mind-body-spirit

every chance of making good

and breaking free of what 'society'

would have us take for gospel,

since that’s the way it is, we can take

or leave it ... except we can't, won’t,

because humanity has a conscience,

that would have the last word

Much as a swallow will fly warmer climes,

shall the human heart wing kinder times  

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2020

[Note: An earlier version under of this poem first appeared under the title ‘Citizen 2000’ in an anthology, Through Life’s Window, Poetry Today [Forward Press] 2000 and subsequently in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001.]

Humanity, "Come on Down!" OR L-I-F-E, Make-or-Break Connections

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

More than once, readers have written in to ask why I don’t post more ‘nature’ poems instead of (often, it’s true) composing what has been called ‘so-called’ poetry that - in the words of one reader only recently - “…is just social comment.” I confess I take exception to the word ‘just’; besides, the arts are littered with social comment so why should I not join the fray?

Literature, music, art, ballet, sculpture … whatever … if anyone thinks it’s all entertainment, and nothing else, they are missing out on the whole of what any art form is about; there are parts to many if not most things - including human nature – and it is standing back to see-hear it as a whole that really counts.

Demonstrations here in the UK and the U.S protesting about the needless death of George Floyd, an unarmed African-American while being forcefully restrained by a police officer in Minnesota, have caused pain and anger beyond description; nor has either been appeased by precious little attempt at government level to pour oil on troubled waters. As for building bridges, well, hope springs eternal …

HUMANITY, “COME ON DOWN” or L-I-F-E-, MAKE-OR-BREAK CONNECTIONS

No matter the colour

of a person’s skin, their gender

or sexuality,

we all deserve no more (or less)

than to be treated

fairly if not equally at (and by) all levels

of human society

All mind-body-spirit

asks of the world is that it play fair,

be kind,

not impose such grim rites of passage

as racism, sexism,

hate crime against same sex relationships,

all stereotypes

Humanity is diverse

and that is how it needs to be or we

would want to know

how to make it (far) more interesting;

a common humanity

needs to respect such differences as it asks

to make us human

Take away respect

and we but give the worst of human nature

both nod and wink

to kill as well as give birth, ley anarchy loose

on streets that understand

any protesters would rather march in peace,

and be heard

The arts call on us

to pull together, be kind, give understanding

a chance to pave

the way for good intentions instead

of leaving them blocked

by socio-cultural-religious taboos, made to fear

recriminations

Human history

tells many a sorry tale of its wars and injustices,

but love, too,

reconciliation, grounds for hoping

that certain leading “Betters”

may yet touch base with those expected to settle

for the status quo

Any Here-and-Now

needs to be, open to change, and all its peoples

will never always agree,

but that’s where human nature comes

into its own, the jewel

in its crown, its capacity to hear and listen, look

and see

Human nature, get off your throne, earn your crown,

“Come on Down”

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

[Note: For any readers who may not be aware, "Come on down!" is a catchphrase from the television game show The Price Is Right; this poem also appears on my gay-interest poetry blog today..]