Ella Sings The Blues

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

Someone very special to me once bought me an album of the late, great Ella Fitzgerald called Ella Sings the Blues. She was, of course, a great jazz singer. But, my, couldn't she sing Blues!  Mind you, Ella could sing anything and it would leave a lasting impression on the listener.

My late mother also loved Ella and I remember playing it some years after she died and thinking maybe she was listening to it, too, in that Great Unknown we call death. I didn't feel in the least bit sad. On the contrary, the experience transcended my sadness to an indescribable feeling approaching enlightenment, and my tears confirmed rather than contradicted it. Moreover, I was in the early stages of recovery from a nervous breakdown at the time and like to think Mum was looking out for me as she always did.

Whimsical, yes, of course, but...don’t we all do whimsy sometimes?

Photo: Ella Fitzgerald (taken from the Internet)

ELLA SINGS THE BLUES

How will it be when I’m dead?

Will I hear music playing in my head,

see doves fly by in a clear blue sky,

hear a newborn baby’s very first cry,

and Ella singing?

How will it be when I die?

Will I wing with doves, oh, so high

that I can look down and see

those I’ve loved crying rivers for me,

or rivers run dry?

How will it be when I’m gone?

World keeps turning and life goes on.

so where does that leave me,

courtesy (hopefully) of a spirituality

come clean?

How will it be when I’m dead?

will I still compose poems in my head,

grieve a sorry world lost its way

for listening to what its ‘betters’ say

who haven’t a clue?

I’ll never know until I’m dying

but when I am, be sure I’ll be flying high

among doves with you, listening

out for every newborn baby’s crying,

and Ella singing

Copyright R. N. Taber 1982; 2010

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

Harvesting Imagination

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

Today’s poem is especially for ‘Hanna’ who asked if I have another poem about dementia as she looks after her brother who is in the early stages of Alzheimer’s; they both liked Misty Memories that I posted recently.

About 750,000 people here in the UK have dementia, and this number is expected to double in the next thirty years. I have seen the unbearably sad consequences for both sufferers and their carers. The British Government says it is committed to improving the care and experience of people with dementia and their carers by transforming dementia services to achieve better awareness, early diagnosis and high quality treatment at every stage and in every setting, with a greater focus on local delivery of quality outcomes and local accountability for achieving them. Let us hope so.

Some young people may say it does not affect them, but I know of at least two school children helping to look after a parent who has Alzheimer’s. Besides, we all have to grow old, and who knows…?

I once knew someone with Alzheimer’s who had been an English teacher and always loved poetry. Now and then in the later stages of the disease, she would come out with a very apt line or even a whole verse from a poem she’d once been able to recite by heart. So great an impression had some poems and events made on her that even the darker mists of memory failed to engulf them completely.

This poem is a villanelle, was inspired by people like my late friend and also the author Sir Terry Pratchett; indeed, all families/carers, some whom I have known personally, that have experienced or are experiencing the truly heartbreaking task of watching their loved ones' mental faculties slowly winding down. 

HARVESTING IMAGINATION

Wheels of the mind winding down;
though time play fast and loose with us,
we’ll reap a harvest of imagination

A smile but lost its way in a frown
seeks sanctuary in Cinderella memories,
wheels of the mind winding down

Though dignity wear a faded gown
as it stumbles through a Hall of Mirrors,
we’ll reap a harvest of imagination

A heart that wears love’s crown
keeps beauty in the folds of its favours,
wheels of the mind winding down

Love’s spirit unbowed, unbeaten,
turning the pages of life’s kinder stories,
we’ll reap a harvest of imagination

Among spoils of battles lost and won,
pathways to peace for all benign ghosts;
wheels of the mind winding down,
we’ll reap a harvest of imagination


Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: This poem first appeared in Ygdrasil, an online poetry journal, June 2010, and subsequently in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2010]

Autobiography of a Beach

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

[Update - December 25th 2019: Sadly, the Memorial Wall I am told the wall has now been neglected and 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; since 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...?]

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 [NB: Sept 19, 2019 - The British Library confirmed today that he video is no longer available as it was incompatible with a new IT system, However, it still exists and BL hope to reinstate it and make it available to the public again at some future date.] RNT

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.]

 

Master Baiter

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

This wryly emotive poem was written as a protest against political correctness creeping into and even censoring humour and satire. As I have said before on the blogs, if we cannot laugh at ourselves, we might as well be dead.

I speak from personal experience. As a partially deaf person, I had a speech defect for many years and peers were always making fun of me for it. I’d simply exaggerate the defect and make them laugh; the teasing invariably stopped. For the same reason, I’d often mishear what people said and give a totally inappropriate answer to a question. Again, I learned to laugh it off although my teachers at school despaired of me.

It was years before hearing aids were available here in the UK for my kind of (perceptive) deafness and life is much easier and richer for that.  Even so, I like to think my sense of humour - if quirky at times - prevails and helps me carry on the Monty Python tradition of looking on the bright side of life.  It saw me through a traumatic youth and early manhood at a time when being gay was a criminal offence .(It still is in some parts of the world!)

Never underestimate the power of humour. As regular readers will know only too well, it helped me through a severe nervous breakdown some 30+ years ago when I almost lost it to the extent that I attempted suicide and very nearly succeeded. Thankfully, instinct eventually kicked in. I survived to tell the tale and bore the pants off everyone.

Incidentally the dictionary definition of peristalsis reads, ‘The wavelike muscular contractions of the alimentary canal or other tubular structures by which contents are forced onward toward the opening …’

This poem is a kenning.

MASTER BAITER

I take centre-stage,
audience in the palm of my hand,
or wait in the wings for a cue
along the lines of something borrowed
that was blue but turned green
in the wash so let’s air the laundry,
on the Internet (of course)
so socially screwed-up networks
can web-stream the divorce

I make politicians smart
till he or she is wriggling like a maggot
on my line at election time,
drive religious folks to drink (or worse)
for exposing a putting of cart
before horse and making sure it’s loaded
so a congregation’s conscience
all the lighter (and its pockets) saved
by heaven-sent Muppets

I make misanthropists believe
that what their keeping up their sleeve
is the sunshine of a smile,
ready to spread like butter on my bread
(though some say that’s not healthy)
to help keep hearty a world on the blink
that, damn it, needs the likes of me
to get it thinking about mud it’s throwing
and where it’s sticking

Take your cue from me, catch a whopper;
I am called Humour... (Gotcha!)

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

The Time Keeper

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

I spent most of yesterday in my beloved Brighton. It only takes an hour on the train from London, Victoria and I can get to Victoria in about 30 mins from where I live. As I am not really up to much travelling at the moment, it is an easy journey to a delightful place and a guaranteed lovely day (whatever the weather).

Yesterday was like summer and I really enjoyed my usual stroll on the beach until meeting up with old friends to catch up over a few beers later.

THE TIME KEEPER

Keeper of my time since the day

I first saw you, a beauty to the eye

more splendid than royalty, riding

on a white unicorn in pastures green

mountains or gently rolling hills,

Child of Avalon, Queen of Hearts,

carried on wings and a prayer

like wildly flowing hair in chariots

of fire

Keeper of my time since the day

I first heard you sing songs making

heaven ring out with such hopes

of spring, joys only summer days

can bring, dreams that autumn

cannot fulfill or winter kill, whatever

any God may have in mind for us,

left free to choose, for good or ill,

always

Keeper of my time since a day

I first followed you in a storm,

shared the violence of a passion

equal to death's own, nor less

a rage to live than ever stirs in me,

envious of rider-unicorn a place

in eternity, riding, rearing or simply

left to graze, my fickle mistress,

Lady of the Hours

Keeper of our tides in history,

the sea, the sea ...

  

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004

Alma Mater OR Matriarch Extraordinaire

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

June 9th is Her Majesty The Queen's official birthday.

(see also : https://rogertab.blogspot.com/2016/04/majesty-evergreen.html

[Update Feb 6th 2019: it is 67 years to the day when her Majesty became Queen upon the death of her father, George V1 on Feb 6th 1952; she was crowned the following year.]

[Update January 14th 2018]: 2018 (June 2nd ) will see the 65th anniversary of Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth 11's coronation when thousands lined the streets to watch her travel to Westminster Abbey in the gold coach (Yes, real gold!) She had, of course, ascended to the throne in 1957 following the death of her father King George V1 in February the previous year.

(Photo taken from the Internet)

[Update November 20th 2017]:Today marks the 70th wedding anniversary of Her Majesty, the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh. I feel sure that hearts across the world will join mine in reaching out to them with love, respect and many congratulations.]

[Update, June 17th 2017]: Today marks Her Majesty's official birthday albeit a low key affair this year in the wake of the terrible tower block fire in North Kensington only days ago. It was very encouraging to see our Queen and Prince William visit the scene of the fire that consumed an entire block with horrific speed and has left many people dead and scores homeless. They spoke with and offered heartfelt words of comfort to survivors, emergency services, and those still seeking news of loved ones feared dead. I spoke to someone who was there and she told me that everyone appreciated Her Majesty making the effort to show she cared, demonstrating a willingness to share something of their trauma. Actions, after all, speak louder than rhetoric...of which there is plenty flying around in various socio-cultural-political arenas these days.] RT

King George VI died in February 1952; and as is the custom, his firstborn child succeeded to the throne. Princess Elizabeth was just 26 years old and married to Prince Philip. They had been blessed with two children by then, Prince Charles and Princess Anne.  So her long reign began. The date of her coronation was June 2, 1953 (it took that long to prepare.)


Update (June 11th 2016): Today marks Her Majesty the Queen’s official 90th birthday; for other (British) royalty related posts/poems, see:

http://rogertab.blogspot.co.uk/2016/04/majesty-evergreen.html

http://rogertab.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/a-poem-for-baby-hrh-prince-george-of.html

http://rogertab.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/death-of-princess.html 

Portrait of the Queen and Prince Philip taken by celebrity photographer Annie Leibovitz to mark the Queen’s 90th birthday. Copied from the Internet)

Diamond Jubilee, 2012 (original post):

Yesterday, Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II addressed both Houses of Parliament here in London to mark her Diamond Jubilee just as she did during her Silver and Golden Jubilee years. She has already begun touring the UK; no mean feat at the age of 85 years nor for Prince Philip who is 90.

Now, as anyone who knows me is aware, I am no die-hard royalist, but one by default as I hate the idea of the UK becoming a a republic. However, I have always been a great admirer of Her Majesty The Queen. In this, her Diamond Jubilee year, it seems appropriate to repeat this poem that first appeared on the blog in 2010 and subsequently in my collection that same year.

Photo: from the Internet

ALMA MATER or MATRIARCH EXTRAORDINAIRE

Epitome of majesty,

walk-about among us she goes,

smiling thoughtfully

She sees what she will see

though just what, no one knows;

epitome of majesty

Watching over a family,

keeping politicians on their toes,

smiling thoughtfully

Mindful of a public duty,

regardless of any stones it throws;

epitome of majesty

Heard said, admiringly,

of private selves to some she shows,

smiling thoughtfully

Alma Mater to set us free

if but briefly from the world’s woes;

epitome of majesty,

smiling thoughtfully

[From: On The Battlefields Of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

T

Extracts From A Prison Diary

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

Listening to a group of youths chatting amongst themselves on a bus, I was appalled to hear how they all but revered one of their friends who had recently been jailed for a knife attack on someone. 

I bet they wouldn’t think prison was so good for street cred if they were there, locked up for much if not most of the time and deprived of their freedom all the time...

The majority of young people are decent, hard working, good people. The tragic irony is that the relatively few bad apples in the proverbial barrel have the same potential if only they would acknowledge the common sense in getting their priorities right, the courage to resist peer pressure from the wrong parties and make the most of that potential instead of whining about how the better opportunities never come their way.

Prevention is better than cure. True, luck can play a part in whether or not opportunity knocks at our door, but mostly we have to take a good look around, see what there is to be had that we want and is worth wanting, and ... 

GO FOR IT.

Did I say it was easy ...?

EXTRACTS FROM A PRISON DIARY

A neighbour slipped out to buy bread

and…was shot dead;

Hoodies cheered, one waving a gun;

(Who’s next? Could be anyone...)

I thought I knew that hood inside-out

till I heard a devil yell, “Shoot!”

A face in shadow, but I knew the voice;

what happened next, my choice

Mates say guns are a must (gang culture),

a necessary feel-good factor;

suddenly, blood on my designer shoes;

heads cops win, tails I lose

Emergency sirens blasting at my head,

(Like it was me shot someone dead?)

I knelt by the body and called out a name;

the only answer, howls of shame

I was told to wear a white shirt, black tie

for the funeral, but it was a lie;

what difference if I’m dressed up smart?

Better jeans, hood, a caring heart

Later (crying in cuffs) taken back to prison,

old mates, some hoodies, looking on;

Drugs, booze, skipping school, what matter?

It was my finger on the trigger

The idea of prison hadn’t bothered me

(I’d seen cool shows on TV);

the reality? I am as meat in a lion’s den

only…torn to pieces by men

Oh, to be a schoolkid again, a wiser one,

who would never carry a gun…

nor would I mistake everyday life for dull,

but get an education, enjoy to the full

Like bile on the tongue, every word written

for tears and fears I keep well hidden

or drown in each lonely day’s angry swell

crashing down on this, my life, my cell

[From: Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]

Mother Love

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

[Update March 11 2018]: Today is Mother's Day here in the UK so I am posting this poem for sons and daughters everywhere.]

When I was in Brighton the other day, I kept thinking (gladly and fondly, not in the least sadly) of the times my mother used to take me there for day trips when I was a child. Someone contacted me to ask what I am  thinking about for much of the time as I stroll along the beach in the video. Now you know:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eZLV23r6NdQ&t=12s
(For anyone interested, find more videos at: http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber )

Now, today's poem has appeared in several poetry publications since 2001 and, for obvious reasons, is a favourite of mine. I wrote it for Mother’s Day here in the UK as a tribute to mothers worldwide, not least my own mother who died at the age of just 59 during that long, hot summer of 1976. I was 30 years-old then, and still miss her. She was OK with my being gay while confirming my gut instinct that I should not broach the subject with other family members.

Now, mother love isn’t just about mothers of course; there are many women (and men) who, for various reasons, may be called upon to take on the maternal role to children other than their own; like birth mothers across the world, they, too, rise to the challenge and well deserve our love, admiration, respect and gratitude.

Ah, but we should never forget (as I fear we often do) that mothers are only human; we should give them some space sometimes, and never take them for granted.

MOTHER LOVE

I hear an angel crying
for the joy of a child newly born;
a lovely, gentle human being
to live and love, laugh and mourn
through tears of its own;
I hear an angel singing for the joy
of a child newly grown;
a lovely, gentle human being
risen above worldly troubles down
to human foibles

I see an angel winging
for the joy of someone’s passing;
a lovely, gentle human being
taken at last, well deserving of rest
among the best - lark risen
like an angel, a measure of joy
at a new dawning, on wings
of song, a lovely, gentle motion
at Earth Mother’s bidding, glorious
to behold

Mother love, through grief
as well as joy, a gentle tale told us
at each bedtime like a quilt
to keep us warm, we children
of Earth, much as orphans
in a storm ever seeking sanctuary
from acid rain as the worst
of human nature pours divisions
on a world ever challenging its faith
in Everyman

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2012

[Note: An earlier version if this poem appears in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002]

Annual Report

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

World religions have caused strife and division in the world for centuries. Is  it not time they made more real effort and less cosmetic posturing to work together if only to keep their promises of love and peace?

Less one-upmanship and more mutual respect among the followers of this religion or that would be a good start. As for people like me who subscribe to no religion, don’t we deserve some respect too?

A I often say on the blogs, our differences do not make us different, only human.

Doesn’t humanity deserve a better chance to realise its greater potential than than various socio-cultural-religious tensions across the world are prepared to permit?

Well, doesn’t it...?

ANNUAL REPORT

Born to lead, fulfil, unite;

invariably, though, dividing,

losing sight of how many

choosing to fight on one side

rather than risk losing face,

faith in interpretations of rights

and wrongs plainly pointing

to a war strategy - for victory

over mortality

Come to bring peace, hope;

Invariably, though, screws up

at practically every turn

for each well-meant move taken,

every word preached ringing

with sincerity - truth’s old enemy

better placed than any

to take a dove’s eye view

of our morality

Pigeon-holed by history,

shaped by the eternal mystery

of Creation, each to our own

interpretation and verification

according to our temporal

needs, desires, lighting the fires

of spirituality - a common

humanity or personal gain,

as the case may be

Christianity, Islam, whatever,

can do better, must try harder

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2010

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from the original that appears in   A Feeling for the Quickness of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2005.]

Jottings from a Poet's Notebook

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

Of all the seasons of mind-body-spirit, spring has to be the best even if its summer should prove to be the most enjoyable; brimming with hope and anticipation, renewal and potential, it conspires with the human heart to bring out the best of us provided we let it, and self awareness is alert to how personal space both perceives, interprets and subsequently receives the world around us.

Oh, but it is so good to be alive on a beautiful day when we dare tell ourselves, if only briefly, how all that's dark and horrible in the world cannot touch us...

Spring itself may be near or far, but there is such a phenomenon as springtime of the heart and just how near or far that is remains up to us.

We need to feel the adrenalin, go with the flow...if only so we know the next BAD day/s won't last forever and life really IS worth the living whatever it may throw at us along the way.

JOTTINGS FROM A POET'S NOTEBOOK

Clouds, like soft soap bubbles giving

shape to wet dreams;

birds, but pretty spots on tired eyes,

a cacophony on the ear;

trees, like the bony legs of old men

arms flung wide, welcoming

Leaves, like prayer beads in the hands

of a dying nun;

grass, a doormat enduring the heavy

tread of world competition;

Earth, but a lump of clay, potential

for centuries of ambition

Ah, but a fair butterfly, fair phoenix

flying in the face of despair;

grasshoppers, joining in a hymn

to Earth Mother,

she, with the enigmatic smile,

all senses alive to spring

Daffodils, cheering us all on, no matter

if we win or lose

in ways of life, love, war and peace

few of us get to choose;
redeeming the world's false starts,

open windows, open hearts

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

After Dark

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

Sometimes we despair of any beauty in the world for being reminded day after day by the media of its ugliness. Fair enough, since we should not turn a blind eye or we risk becoming complacent within the confines of our own personal space; the world is bigger than that. Oh, but then we have only to look out of a window after a storm to witness all the splendour of nature reasserting itself; a kaleidoscope of colour that reminds us it’s wonderful to be alive even though life may sometimes assume the aspect of a bad dream.

Similarly, just as we start to despair of this sorry world, an act of kindness invariably restores our flagging faith in human nature.

Many people, like me, suffer regular bouts depression; mine have struck at random since early childhood although childhood depression wasn’t recognised in those days. (I am 66 now.) For me, it is always the same sensation. I am being relentlessly, mercilessly sucked into murky depths we invariably refuse to acknowledge as denial or some other form of negativity. Yet, even as a child, a passer-by has always come across me just as I am about to drown, and thrown me a lifeline. By the time I’ve been hauled to safety (and it can be a long haul) I’ve arrived at a whole new, positive perspective on life and self...until the next time.

My rescuer is always there for us all, and is called Hope.  At the same time, I,  am a pragmatist; it is quality of life that counts and that will be different for everyone if only because everyone's endurance threshold is different. If I were to be diagnosed with a degenerative illness, for example, I would visit Dignitas in Switzerland all the while assisted suicide remains a criminal offence here in the UK. Others may well be stronger than me or hold religious beliefs that say suicide a sin, but I know my limitations.

Even if the worst were to come to the worst, though, I would never abandon hope. As regular readers will know, I find and take a strong sense of spirituality from nature, and...spring always follows winter. While I cannot accept there is life (as we know it) after death, neither do I believe the human spirit is so easily defeated; something of ours will live on in the hearts and memories of those closest to us, influencing - if indirectly, even unknowingly - their lives.  They, in turn, will pass on something of themselves - of which we are a part - to others; thereby, a sense of immortality.

I decided years ago that if I am ever diagnosed with an illness likely to gorge not only on my body but on my sense of who I am, I will take a one-way trip to Switzerland; rather that than let pro-life campaigners subject me to a  living hell, take a chance on a some unworldly darkness pushing this mind-body-spirit beyond its powers of endurance into a quality of light worthy of a poem.

'The lotus flower blooms most beautifully from the deepest and thickest mud.' - Buddhist proverb

AFTER DARK

Treading lightly among lotus flowers

risen from mud to show this world of ours

there is beauty to be had, even where

it may seem lies precious little more than

the stuff of a slum child’s dream

Opening my heart to those who dare

allow the same, so they may yet discover

there is treasure to be had, even where

it may seem, at first sight, there’s nothing

to inspire even a poor poet

Offering sustenance to those who seek

to strengthen a mind and body grown weak

from treading heavily among weeds

where nature meant to tell a different tale

were nurture called to account

Bringing vision to those who would see

into the murky waters of pain and misery

where the dark is rising, Earth Mother

but waiting (like us) to flower and produce

fruit that is a poem called Lotus

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2018

[Note: I agonised for a long time over the title of this poem, first published as 'Where There's Life' in On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

How long Before the Next Bus? OR Fear on the Streets

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

Although this poem was not written until 2003, Stephen Lawrence loomed largely in my thoughts as the death toll among young people subjected to violent, sometimes fatal attacks in London continued to rise; it is still rising. The awful irony is that all the while knife crime remains prevalent, the more young people feel it is necessary for their own protection to carry a knife. 

Stephen Lawrence was an 18-year-old sixth form student. The black British teenager from Eltham, South-East London was stabbed to death while waiting for a bus on the evening of 22 April 1993. It is only recently that two people have finally been convicted of a murder believed to have been racially motivated.

Racism, like homophobia and all hate crime is invariably fuelled by a prevailing gang culture and/or those less discerning socio-cultural-religious bigots among us without whom societies worldwide would far better served. Education is the key; in  schools, colleges and universities, but first and foremost in the home. Tragically, it is far too often the case that education is found wanting in all of these.

As a gay man, I cannot help but get the feeling that homophobic crime is rarely afforded the same high profile as racism among the press, police, politicians or parents. Oh, and why is that?  Does a person’s sexuality make him or her less of a human being than the colour of their skin? Whatever, discrimination in any shape or form is unacceptable in a civilised society.

HOW LONG BEFORE THE NEXT BUS? or FEAR ON THE STREETS

Blood on the pavement where a body lay

and later someone knelt to pray for the soul

of another youth struck down violently
long before his time; utterly senseless crime,
harsh indictment of a society as inclined
to pass by on the other side as rush to the aid

of anyone being attacked, since it could be
for the sake of not being able to buy some acid,
coke, crack, weed, designer gear, the colour
of their skin, a suspect sexuality or even simply
getting kicks out of attacking, maybe killing
someone, given the chances are some in-crowd
says it's 'cool' to look good, act big enough
give old ladies a heart attack, snatch a blind man's
stick for a (sick) joke. Why tempt fate. risk
pitting ourselves against wolves in sheep's clothing
for any of that?

Years on, the pain still tearing at modernity's 

flimsy fabric, as hate ripped a young man's jacket

whose blood at a bus stop tells its own story,

plaque meant as a memorial but also recalling
the vainglory of a fraternity never properly brought
to book, justice gone to ground so we'll never,
walk down any street without a fear shadowing us
that’s persistently perverting its course; no peace
in a sad world likely to stab us in the back any time,
no matter our ethnicity, creed, sex or sexuality,
(easy targets for the perversity of cowardly thugs)
on a street that could easily be mine or yours,
leaving yet another mother, father, sister, best mate
left grieving us, missing us, forever questioning
the ethos of contemporaneity, feeling abandoned
by a society, left watching anxiously for the next bus

that never comes

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.]

Gay People Go To Heaven Too

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

Now, as regular readers will know only too well, I am not a religious person and subscribe to no religion. Moreover, I turned my back on religion and put my faith in nature long before I acknowledged, even to myself, that I am gay. Even so, I cannot believe that any God would condemn a person for his or her sexuality or deny them entry to any heaven; it goes against the very spirit of religion and its humanity.

Take the humanity out of religion and what you have left is not worth having.  

Oh, I know many religious minded people will disagree, especially those Christians who choose to take their so-called humanity from the New Testament and their justification of bigotry, intolerance and even hate from the Old Testament. I do know my Bible and the God of the Old Testament bears little resemblance to the God of whom Jesus Christ speaks. How some evangelical Christians can use a few lines from Leviticus to justify their persecution of gay people is beyond me; they are a disgrace to their religion.

Yes, I have said all this before, and dare say will say it again. So why do I keep repeating myself?  It is because I see red every time a gay person gets in touch to tell me how they feel tormented not by their sexuality as such but by feeling must make choice between it and their religion. Bollocks to that! The two are not incompatible as many, many religious minded people have shown me over the years.

It is sickening how many so-called ‘religious’ people, especially certain clerics, among all the world religions, use religion as a weapon with which to threaten people and scare them into denying their sexual identity.

I am so glad I chose nature that gives me everything I was told as a child that religion offers but which I never found.  I was raised a Christian, but at school Religious Education looked at all the world religions. Religion offered me no peace of mind, no sanctuary from the various psychological (never physical) torments I had to endure at home and school. It was nature that sustained me during long, dark years as a troubled teenager coming to terms with his sexuality. Imagine how much greater that torment would have been had I been faced with being ostracised not only by the less enlightened among the heterosexual majority, but also by my religion for being gay. In that, though, I realise now I would have been mistaken.

It is not religion that hounds gay people, only certain, ignorant people. Even so, I have never been tempted back into any religious fold nor ever will be.  Yet, I say again, thank goodness for those more enlightened human beings not only among the heterosexual majority, but also among those people who take their humanity from their religion; where the latter is in no way compromised by acts of humanity that do not discriminate between people for their colour, creed, sex or sexuality.

This poem has not appeared on the blog since 2010 and is here today especially for a young man who wrote anonymously to share his pain at being unable to decide whether to be openly gay ‘for the sake of my sanity’ or  to ‘keep quiet for the sake of my family, friends, and religion.’ 

Are we really living in the 21^st century?

GAY PEOPLE GO TO HEAVEN TOO

A mischievous spirit once asked to see

the golden rule said to be set in stone

that gay men and women should not be

admitted to the ranks of heaven’s own

A religious leader, just passed away,

retorted it was plain commonsense;

others agreed, faith must win the day

(besides, gay people cause offence)

They all began arguing at Heaven’s door,

gay protest drowned out by the noise;

Whose religion means to God the more?

True, no easy choice…

No one noticed for all the brave conjecture

that an angel had opened the door,

but only the gay crowd hastened to enter,

the rest were too busy disputing the score

The mischievous spirit, too, slipped back in,

though not one pious soul saw it had gone;

that no room for bigotry in heaven, a lesson

in Holy Books some readers never learn

[From: On The Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010]

Mind-Body-Spirit, Mentor to the Arts

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

[ Update: Oct 4th 2017]: We fail to do the arts justice if we persist in seeing each genre as a separate entity. Yes, they are, but they also overlap. A poet, for example, writes with a musician’s ear for rhythm and an artists’ eye for imagery as well as, not infrequently, an actor’s feel for role-playing and a comedian’s penchant for wry humour.

Readers should not be surprised, therefore, that I also write fiction:

https://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.com/2016/05/news-updates-fiction.html

Now, this poem is a kenning; it last appeared on the blog in 2010 and was included in Forward Press Regionals 2010: South and S.W. of England; it  does not appear in any of my collections. and I am unlikely to produce a hoped-for 8th volume owing to various health concerns. (No worries there folks, am still looking on the bright side of life!)

MIND-BODY-SPIRIT, MENTOR TO THE ARTS

I haunt live theatre,

prefer to leave as soon as the show is over,

curtain barely down,

rather than play the showman for critics

anxious to praise or bury me

as the case maybe in this glossy mag

or that local rag, anything

to be seen earning a living, even

by feeding a gossip column

I haunt live farce

and, no, I’m not that feisty voice on radio

spilling the beans…

about this politician’s gaff or some cleric

caught out in an act of hypocrisy

sure to rock the hierarchy on its haunches,

its spin doctors in a flap for sure,

doing rounds of the rich calling in favours

on grounds it’s for the poor

I haunt music venues,

willing every tenor, alto, bass, and dancer

to make good its integrity

rather than play lapdog to the impresario

who set it all up;

you’ll find me between the notes of a song,

stanzas of a poem, dialogue in a play,

lines of sculpture in marble, bronze or clay,

ground of any painting on display

I am Inspiration, inciting mind-body-spirit

to make an art form of creative therapy

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

Logging On To Life

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

Readers ‘Soraya and Magnus’ have asked me to repeat today’s poem as it is their wedding anniversary today and because 'among all the poems in your collection, this is the one we love most.'  It first appeared in a Forward Press (now Forward Poetry) anthology, My Words Are My Voice in 2009 and subsequently on the blog as well as in my collection the following year.

Here’s wishing Soraya and Magnus a very Happy Anniversary, and many thanks for getting in touch. Apart from the fact that I love hearing from readers, this ageing poet is always grateful for any encouragement that comes his way.  [Well, aren’t we all?]

Now, some cruel twist of fate may cause us to lose some of our senses, even most, but never all. For there is one, not mentioned in the poem by name, but will be inferred by the discerning reader, that will always see us through; it is the human spirit whose resilience, sensibility and passion should never be underestimated.  Oh, and yes, it can and often does make a difference.

LOGGING ON TO LIFE

We look, yes, but how to make sense

of a world turning, no matter what or who,

and how to make a difference?

We hear, yes, but how to make sense

of gobbledegook, no matter what or who,

and how to make a difference?

We smell, yes, but how to make sense

of much doctored scents turning the air blue,

and how to make a difference?

We taste, yes, but how to make sense

of the additives and preservatives hullabaloo,

and how to make a difference?

We touch, yes, but how to make sense

of sticky stuff on a knife bent on killing you,

and how to make a difference?

We can but do our best to make sense

of a world turning, no matter what or who,

and try to make a difference

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[From: On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]