A Feeling for Life

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

Where there is life there will one day be death. Can we trust the poetry of love to inspire us with a spirituality transcending both?  I happen to think so. Whatever, we should never underestimate the sum total of our lives or see the creating of even a single love poem as time wasted.

As for love itself, it comes in various shapes and forms...like poetry.

Me, I enjoy reading and writing poems. Most of us, I suspect, simply get on with the business of living them.

  

 A FEELING FOR LIFE

As Death stretches out

a greedy hand to take you,

too well I understand

its craving for a life-saving

beauty

As Death holds up

a forbidding hand  to me,

too well it understands

my craving for a life-saving

passion

Death’s hands spread

in despair at failing to keep

me from you; over life,

its victory assured, but never

over love

Where the world lies

in Death’s grasping palms,

find immortality

in every love poem that

ever lived

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2012

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in 1^st eds. of The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; 2^nd (revised) e-edition in preparation.]]

The Living End

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

It’s so corny, but so true. Love lasts forever. Yes, even when it doesn’t turn out quite as we may have hoped. All that love passes on to us, in drawing on the better side of human nature to make us a better person, we pass on to others in our turn, knowingly or unknowingly, thereby contributing to life's continuum since the beginning of time, and beyond.

Now, I was able to spend far too little time with the love of my life, and it was a long time ago. Yet, but for that time together before he was killed in a road accident abroad, growing old alone would be a very lonely affair. I live alone, but have some good friends and the love of my life is always there for me, too, whenever I need someone to turn to, especially in the early hours when the world is asleep and the darker side of human spirit would taunt us with those aspects of life and relationships best forgotten.

If time flies, the great thing about love is that it, too, has wings and can keep up where we mortals invariably fall behind.

THE LIVING END

World, collapsing all around;
skylark, winging without a sound;
sweeter memories like a kite
tugged free from weepy hands
at nature’s whim

Bright lights in the eye grown dim;
candles of a mind
to flicker like shadows on a blind;
mischievous sunshine joining ghosts
in hide-and-seek

Suddenly, sounds of children
playing in the park invade my dark,
and the laughter of lovers
gathering to watch, share dreams
of a future together

And where are you, but here?
And who am I but a fool in despair
to let you drift like a lost kite
tugged free from weepy hands
at nature’s whim?

Let a light in eyes dimming
flare again, a beacon  guiding us
across time and space,
all we were and are made keepers
of its flame

Heading home ...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2013

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.]

Stormy Weather

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

[Update: 26.9.2019: Only six years have passed since I published this post/poem on the blog, but during that time bullying has raised its ugly head time and again on social media. Boys, especially, are inclined to suffer in silence, probably having been raised to think it isn't macho to tell tales out of school, but no small number of girls as well. Bullies are sick; reporting them is actually helping them to focus on what and who really matters in this life. So never suffer in silence. Tell a parent, teacher, best friend...someone you can trust to help you find the moral courage to do whatever needs to be done to expose the bully for the cowardly scum he or she is, and put a stop to it if only to prevent them putting someone else through the hell they are putting you through.] RNT

The main reason I am on the blog today is to recommend tyDi's great song/ video on You Tube  about some of the worst aspects of modern life that continue to plague many of us, especially young people, homophobic bullying among them. In case you haven’t found it yet, I urge you to go to:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CseffFUSAkg

I am 67 years old, and yet it wasn’t so different when I was young. What does that say about the world we live in, eh?  Even so, change is happening and people are becoming more aware of bullying and how it can drive people over the Edge of Reason into the Abyss. More importantly, come what may, love and the better, kinder, side of human nature continue to assert themselves over bigotry and ignorance.

Now, while I’m here…

I find writing increasingly stressful at the moment as my cataracts are getting worse. This poem is an early piece that appeared in several poetry magazines, 1996-1998, before I included it in my first major collection. Regular readers may be surprised to see that I made more (conventional) use of upper case letters at the start of lines in those days. I wrote it one stormy day while sheltering from the rain in a bus shelter.

I suspect the ‘rush of images had as much to do with seeing Derek Jarman’s amazing film 'The Garden' (1990) a few days earlier as a sense of nature ‘rushing’ me into…what? Writing a poem, maybe…

STORMY WEATHER

Cloud faces grimace;
lifelines leafing
through pouring rain;
fantastic canvas
leaping at the eye;
rooftops dripping
(sweat of heavens);
rhythm of children
braving a temporary
freedom

A rush of images
as ever seen;
Van Gogh, Jarman
each to their own
spirited inspiration;
distant thunder
rumbling our fears
while (reprieved)
we try to pass it off
as living

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2017

[Note: This poem has been slightly but significantly revised from the original version as it appears in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000]

The Enchanted Wood

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

[UPDATE -  14th December 2013 - Video (below) added as also available on my You Tube channel . at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lGCv54LM4yo For anyone interested in other videos and the poems I read,  you are welcome to visit http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber]

This poem last appeared on the blog in July 2009. It is repeated today especially for ‘Candace and Pierre’ who celebrate their first wedding anniversary today, and a have baby due in the summer. Congratulations, and may all three of you enjoy many happy years together.

Candace especially liked this poem as her mother died some years ago yet ‘she is always with me, especially when Pierre and I take walks in the countryside. Perhaps it is because I grew up on a farm and she was a farmer’s wife?’ Whatever, it is a lovely sentiment and one I share in the sense I've always felt that Earth Mother takes care to see to it that those we have loved and died always stay close to us.

Whimsical, you say? Well, yes, maybe, but I do whimsy sometimes; always have and I dare say always will.

This poem is a villanelle.

THE ENCHANTED WOOD

Kind ghosts, smiling at me
wherever I go…
among leaves of memory

‘Keep it safe, the old tree’
they whisper low,
kind ghosts smiling at me

Close friends and family,
all springtime on show
among leaves of memory

On a nature trail to eternity
where love’s seeds grow,
kind ghosts smiling at me

If the self its own enemy,
let its colours show
among leaves of memory

Keeping such company,
the poet I would be;
kind ghosts smiling at me
among leaves of memory

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

[Note: This poem will appear in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber scheduled for (UK) publication in spring 2012.]

Triumph of the Spirit

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

An earlier version of today’s poem first appeared in an anthology, All through My Life, Poetry Today (Forward Press) 2000, and subsequently in my collection.

At the turn of the century, I was having a bad time. One major symptom of my depression was that I had become very self-conscious of my appearance, not least because society seemed obsessed with appearances.

By the time I had finished the poem, I felt considerably more positive about myself and life in general as well as far less about whether or not I looked the part for the kind of world in which I lived.

Time has moved on, carrying me along with it on a tide of growing if sometimes misplaced optimism. Sadly, though (as a general rule to which, thank goodness, there are many exceptions) many people worldwide continues to be obsessed with outward appearances whatever their socio-cultural-religious background.

Creative writing (indeed, any creative activity) is a wonderful therapy for the human spirit, especially when it all but spent, its batteries badly in need of recharging.

TRIUMPH OF THE SPIRIT

Had a visitor yesterday,
hair thin and grey, face lined
with age as if time
had turned a page too many,
drawn almost to a close
by nicotine fingers, cigarette
and wine stains on clothes;
a half-smile, cracked and dry
splitting papyrus skin,
mouldy lips sucking in dust
on a shelf near starved
of good company, deserving
far, far, better than this travesty
of humanity

Could it be that time
has committed this obscenity
or maggots in the soul?
Whatever, it won’t do at all,
I argued straight,
no punches pulled as outrage
lit a fire in me for this sad,
burnt-out page of human history;
if time and tide waste
no ceremony on us…so what?
Are we but slaves
to probability, bound to be all
we’re not, living among strangers
our tragedy?

No! Forget reflections in a mirror,
it’s the inner self will endure…

Copyright R, N. Taber 2001; 2013

[An earlier version of this poem appears in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001; 2nd (revised) e-edition in preparation.]

I-M-A-G-I-N-A-T-I-O-N, Thrills and Spills

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

The original version of today’s poem was written in 1983 and first published in 2001; it has been recently revised. True to say, it was inspired by reflection upon too many bad choices I have made throughout my life. The trick, I (eventually) discovered, is not to let them obscure our better choices.

No one needs to get high on drugs to feel the adrenalin racing through the body like an express train.

All we need to do is pause now and then to reflect upon our innermost responses to what is invariably a roller-coaster ride through life. Now, sometimes these may well be found wanting, inhibited even by home, school, environment, culture, religion…etc. In which case we may well need to find a way of letting go, following up basic instincts independent of whatever programs may have been installed in head and heart by various software programs delivered by home, school, environment, culture, religion…etc.

Oh, yes, and then what?

Ah, but that’s all part of the rollercoaster, recognizing choices and trying at least to make the right ones; the right ones for us, that is, since we are all different, want different things from life, and need to make our own decisions on how best to develop our potential for the greater good as well as our own. Too often, well-meaning people may try to steer us in another direction/ So how to know if they are right and we are wrong? 

We have only to think about what we really want from life to feel the adrenaline coursing through our veins…and catch that express train wherever it takes us .. if we dare.

Our choice…

I-M-A-G-I-N-A-T-I-O-N, THRILLS AND SPILLS

I hear the engine, engine

closing on me, felt its pulse racing

against mine and see it pass,

speeding furiously against the clock

(ticks in the brain);

gone now, yet trailing

a fudge of half-forgotten moments

that rage me still;

engine throbbing, oh, but so madly

against my will…

I see the wheels, wheels

rumbling me, can feel their firings

ghost me as they pass

(like raging clocks) ticking me,

winding me up;

gone now, a maze  

of half-forgiven moments shimmering

and crazing me still…

wheels, wheels, wheels, screaming
against my will

I ride the engine, the engine

pulsing me, share its race against time;

signals blurring, half doubts

stoking up faster, faster, faster…

scattering apes from the track,

tearing pretty rhetoric off a poet’s back;

whatever passes for a soul

all but out of control while feeling

for brakes though not even sure

where it’s at or going

Oh, the thrill of giving imagination

its head...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2013

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Trainspotting' in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2000]

Nightmare on Civvy Street

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

I was against the war in Iraq and have never been any too happy with the presence of our troops in Afghanistan. However, both are down to our politicians. Our servicemen and women are doing a fantastic job and deserve nothing less than our 100% support. (M.O.D. please note).

While I fully support anti-war demonstrations, I have nothing but respect and admiration for those front-line men and women who risk their lives daily in the name of peace. Many pay the ultimate price. Others do not receive the 100% support to which they are (surely?) entitled. The dead invariably make headline news, but what about the injured?

There are, of course, two sides to every war. Both genuinely believe they are in the right. We should not be too quick to condemn an enemy comprising many ordinary men and women who, too, risk their lives in a common cause...however much other may deplore that cause.

Whatever, politics fights a dirty war with precious little thought (if any) for those in the front line other than its own [The Israeli-Palestinian conflict is a prime example.]

There are various charities available to help serving and ex-serving armed services personnel. The w
former wife of one told me that her husband was ashamed to ask for help, but the stress on their marriage contributory factor in their divorce.

No one but no one should ever feel ashamed to ask for help as and when they need it; it takes courage, but that first step is, in fact, a giant leap for common sense, not to mention a slap in the face for local gossips who know f**k all.

NIGHTMARE ON CIVVY STREET

A soldier, an arm and leg in traction
(truck blown up by a mine)
reassuring us he feels fine, just fine…
while half-listening to pulp fiction;
no regrets, he says, well worth
any price he’d known he might pay
for the thrills and kills every soldier
sees but as Hobson’s choice

As the audio story starts to spread
dark mischief in his one good ear,
he leans forward as if trying to peer
into shadow lands of the dead;
war’s is mother’s milk, he explains,
to those with subtle convictions
like its paymasters and those politicians
floating victory on the wind

The audio voice ducking and diving
the whistle of a sniper’s bullet,
the blind young soldier ducks a hit;
beads of sweat, waking nightmare
without end, need help but ashamed
to ask, need to brave it out in case
anyone guesses there's a human being
behind the hero's smiley mask

Honourable discharge, fighting off tears
for all the world's nightmares

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010

[Note: This poem first appeared under the title 'Sweating it Out' in On the Battlefields of Love by R N Taber, Assembly Books, 2010; rev. ed. in e-format in preparation.]]

Rough Sleeper OR A Thousand Cuts a Day and Counting

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

[Update December 22, 1918: Almost 600 homeless people died in England and Wales last year, according to official figures only recently published for the first time. The figure represents a rise of 24% over five years, according to the Office for National Statistics; these are the first official estimates of the number of deaths of homeless people, which show 84% of those who died were men.]

It is snowing here in London today. In winter especially, but all year round, yoo, let us remember the homeless and do what we can for them; a little, really can go a long way.

In the current economic climate, more and more people are faced with the prospect of having their home repossessed so…there but for good fortune go you or I ...

Incidentally, this poem was written in 1990. As I look around at the homeless on the streets of London, it does not seem to me that anywhere near as much has changed as was promised by the politicians in those far-off days ...

There are, of course, 'career' beggars on the streets, but a discerning eye can usually tell who is genuine and who isn't. We all make mistakes, though. Here in London, I well recall a day I gave money to a street beggar only to spot him get into an impressive-looking car (parked several streets away) a few hours later and drive off! A former 'beggar' I met in a pub once confided that begging financed his drinking and drug addictions for years until he eventually got help to turn his life around.

So ... when in any doubt...don't. [There are other ways to support homeless and other deserving charities online.] Yet, there but for ... could be you or me.

ROUGH SLEEPER or A THOUSAND CUTS A DAY, AND COUNTING

‘Hungry – Homeless - No dole’

says a card beside a begging bowl

outside a busy supermarket;

red-rimmed eyes trying to read

the pavement for signs

of homeless-friendly footsteps

worth a pleading glance

for even half a chance of a cuppa

in some cosy café

A few coins here, a few coins there,

the odd note, a few euros,

or cents, whatever; just enough

to keep a scarecrow in bird seed,

and…

Oh, but what the heck…?

Chatty conversation, hacking

at the neck

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Ritual Slaughter' in my first collection, Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001]

Time and Tide

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

The genesis for this poem was written in 1976. I have only recently revised it.

Regular reader will be familiar with the sea – in all its moods, and as they reflect my own - as a theme for many later poems.

Sometimes, the sea inspires me; sometimes it comforts me; sometimes it scares me, especially as I grow old(er) and am inclined to see it as a living metaphor for a splendid vastness that will surely (for good or ill, better or worse) one day claim my spirit.

TIME AND TIDE

The lonely sea
laps at my feet, stars in the sky
small comfort;
on a hushed beach,
a huge white moon winks wryly
at me

Sun, sea, sand,
slipping through weepy fingers
like kinder times;
life, death, love,
hovering low above, still waiting
for Godot

Wind grown cold,
I growing old with all the stoicism
of a sand statue;


night-pools, they swirl
around me, surprise, confound me
with home truths

Though I dare
a sleepy shore’s passions reawaken,
I know…
why the lonely sea
laps at my feet,  stars in the sky
small comfort

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2012

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in  Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]

A Colouring Book

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

Now, when we use colour, we choose carefully because we want to make an impression although what impression we make is likely to vary from observer to observer.

So it is, I suspect, with nature, just as the impression Earth Mother intends to make will vary and quite possibly leave many if not most of us none the wiser.

A COLOURING BOOK 

Blue, blue, the colour
of a morning sky;
golden the sun, risen high;
green, green, the grass
where lovers lie, giving us
reasons to care

Red, blood red, crushed
poppies in the hand
like a fallen soldier’s wounds,
attempting to atone,
and only a solitary skylark
left to mourn

Grey, a silvery grey,
dusk’s sad pall;
tears of Earth Mother, nurture
for sweet dreams
of peace and caring better
for each other

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2012

[Note: An earlier version of this poem was published in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

Joker

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

Telling jokes about people is a cruel pastime in which too many of us are inclined to indulge. Humour is wonderful, and some jokes can be very funny...until they get personal and take on shades of malice; for the butt of the latter, life is no laughing matter.

We all know how cruel some children and young people can be towards peers somehow marked out as ‘different’ from others… whether by a disability or whatever. At least younger children rarely appreciate the gravity of their actions. We adults, on the other hand, have no excuse.

Let's be kind to each other, yeah?

JOKER

You dropped the joke into a humming pool,

let ripples spread

from merry chuckle

to sly whisper

I watched the whisper take its course

from eye to eye

until someone

laughed

Like a freak wave, that laughter came

tumbling upon the whisper,

dashing it to pieces,

scattering me

Everywhere

[From: Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001]

Maelstrom

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

[Update: (April 8th 2017) Our hearts and thoughts go out today to the families and friends of those killed and injured in the horrific attack yesterday in Stockholm on innocent people going about their daily lives; it is being described as an act of terror. It is being widely reported that a man arrested has sympathies/links with so-called Islamic State. Yet again, decent people everywhere, from all socio-cultural-religious backgrounds, stand firm with the people of Sweden against the threat of terrorism from whatever misguided source.]

[Update: (March 24th 2016) This poem was written in 2007. Since then, the world the world has become and increasingly more dangerous place, not least due to the spread of radical Islam which we should never mistake for true Islam.  The horror of recent events in Brussels is nothing new to us. Yet, while our hearts go out to the families and friends of those so cruelly and senselessly killed simply for going about their daily lives, we must stand firm against these psychopaths, and not let fear dictate how we choose to live; our choice, not theirs.]

Some people, not only but especially religious fundamentalists, are inclined to get carried away by the prospect of martyrdom and welcome it; more often than not, this is a direct result of being mentally groomed and/or emotionally blackmailed into a deluded way of thinking by power-hungry leaders who (naturally) prefer to stay alive. 

The true martyr does not seek martyrdom for personal (including spiritual) gain but for the sake of honourable principles on which he or she refuses to compromise; there is no honour in taking and/or destroying the lives of innocent people.

Who deliberately seeks martyrdom to make a point, however important (to them, at least) deserves our contempt, yes, but perhaps also our pity? Pity for their having become mere tools in the hands of those they see as 'betters' but who, in reality, have surrendered their humanity to a distorted sense of and lust for power, both temporal and spiritual.

Fundamentalism is a threat to world peace, the more when it promotes martyrdom as a glorious ideal.

This poem is a villanelle.

MAELSTROM

No crueller wisdom

or faith more blindly placed

than in martyrdom

Life‘s tragic outcome,

love’s sacred trust misplaced;

no crueller wisdom

No prouder kingdom

better served by want and waste

than in martyrdom

By a beating drum,

each sound heartbeat replaced;

no crueller wisdom

No glory closer come

to grief, by holy words defaced,

than in martyrdom

Magnificent maelstrom,

supposedly to God’s door traced;

no crueller wisdom

than in martyrdom

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2016

[Note:  This poem has been revised (slightly but significantly) from the version that appears in Accomplices To Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007; revised version in e-format in preparation.]