Ghosts, No Random Memory

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Who has never returned to the scene of a once-love, if only in their mind, and wondered how things might have been if only…?

GHOSTS, NO RANDOM MEMORY

Much rougher the sea

than last we ran here, laughing

on the cliffs,

a spring breeze in our hair;

less kind the sky

than last we kissed there,

bluebells surrounding

a passion brought to bear;

sweet memory, wings

of a friendly gull soaring our dreams,

love’s rhythm to fulfill;

such heat to embrace your body,

and bold! In the vaults

of eternity, our lives grown cold;

salty now, the hair blowing

across my face, thinned

like the heather at our special place

Though huddled in a raincoat,

I, oh, so easily recall the glad heart

that made me thrall…

Gulls squeal! No melody,

but a sure grace

whirling against storm clouds

like a pattern of lace

on an altar cloth, would have

smothered us both

Copyright R. N. Taber 1991; 2010

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from an earlier version as it appeared in several poetry magazines and an anthology 1996-2004, and subsequently  in 1^st eds. of Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001; 2nd (revised) e-edition in preparation.]

Twilight on a Lake OR Nature, an Everyman's Guide to Infinity

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

As I grow old, some memories dim while others take on a whole new perspective, probably because we don''t always realize at the time just how much certain occasions mean to us or those with whom we get to share them. 

I have made some changes to this villanelle that I wrote during a wonderful weekend in the Lake District some years ago.

 Twilight at Ashness Bridge (Lake District)

TWILIGHT ON A LAKE or NATURE, AN EVERYMAN'S GUIDE TO INFINITY

Though pain a part
in our lives surely take,
play on, glad heart

There is a beauty art
strives its copies to make
though pain a part

When life falls apart,
and fragile promises break,
play on, glad heart

Cherish from the start
each dip in passion’s lake
though pain a part

Where the stars chart
our every move, mistake,
play on, glad heart

May love’s winged dart
find its mark for our sake;
though pain a part,
play on, glad heart

Copyright R. N. Taber 2003; 2016

[Note An earlier version of this poem was first published in an anthology, 'Chasing Shadows', Poetry Now [Forward Press] 2003 and subsequently in 1st eds. of The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; revised ed. in e-format in preparation. The poem was slightly revised in 2013, and an alternative title, added 2016.]

Variations On A Theme

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

Hello from London UK.

I am fine, folks, (thanks to many of you for asking) but feeling very tired again after another restless night. [For the benefit on first time readers, I am being treated for prostate cancer and doing okay.] .

Now, my late mother was always singing around the house and there was a time I thought it was because she was happy. In later years, I realized that she sang to think herself into happy mode; singing, for her, was a kind of escapism just as reading was for us both. My mother always wanted us to be a happy family unit, which we never truly were. I mostly blamed my late father, but I dare say he and my brother would put the blame on me.

I stopped playing the blame game years ago and can see now that I was not an easy child to live with. I suffered from depression (no one acknowledged depression in children then) that brought on awful migraines. In addition, I had significant hearing loss that no one ever appreciated, including me, until I was much older. As a teenager, being removed from my childhood friends at 14 years-old and forced to live in a god-awful backwater called Hoo (in Kent) did not help, especially as it coincided with my realizing I am gay; gay relationships would not be decriminalized for a few years yet.

Yes, I was a ‘difficult’ child and youth although no one knew just how troubled I was. [My perception is that family members sit down and talk to each other even less than we did then so heaven help future generations!] The only surprise about my having a severe nervous breakdown in my early 30’s was that it hadn’t occurred years earlier. It was a messy business. By then my mother was dead and neither my father nor brother ever asked me for my side of events that took place during that terrible time. They made assumptions and I was expected to live with them. I recovered sufficiently to find another job nearly three years later, but it took me a good ten years or so to recover fully and get my life back on track. [Even so, my breakdown still haunts me just as those closet years of awakening sexuality always will.]

There was something very wistful about my mother’s singing, yet positive too; it helped her rise above the trials and tribulations of everyday family life just as writing helps me. How many of us, I wonder, find similar outlets for their frustrations? For my own part, as regular readers will know, writing as an art form comes a poor second to its means to a very effective form of self-help therapy.

VARIATIONS ON A THEME

One long-ago spring,

I heard an old flower seller

hum a song my mother

would always sing to me

whenever I felt sad

and lonely, evoking a line

from a poem about

a pretty robin left sobbing

(for all innocence?) as autumn
starts to turn

I was so innocent then,

listening to Mother singing

a song to lift my heart

though I’d often wonder

why it sounded so sad

and lonely, like the flower

in a poem, rejected

for pretty rose tree blooms
begging a poet’s eye find excuses 

for its thorns

One long-ago winter,

I heard another flower seller

hum the song my mother

still sings to me whenever

I miss her, feel so sad

and lonely for no one even

trying to see how it is;

song, mother, child, robin,

rose, poet, poem…but variations

on a common theme

Life forms, art forms, companions

to wishful thinking

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

[Note: References to ‘a poem’ in stanzas 1 and 2 relate to The Blossom and My Petty Rose Tree  found among William Blake’s Songs of Innocence and Experience, but whether or not readers are familiar with these should (hopefully) make little or no difference to any appreciation of the poem.]

The Guardian

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

Today's poem last appeared on the blog in 2009 and is repeated today especially for 'Rose-Marie and Paul' whose first child, Damien, celebrates his first birthday today.

Regular readers will know that where religious-minded people like to think God is watching over us, I prefer to put my trust in Earth Mother.

Both points of view deserve respect, surely, since none of us can know for sure?

If only more people would agree to differ instead of fighting over who is right and who is wrong, the world would be a far happier and peaceful place!

Give peace a chance, yeah?

Image taken from the Internet

THE GUARDIAN

Where snow is falling snow on snow,
and the world is a lonely place,
a woman in white shall softly go,
and were we to see her face,
we would know she comes for us

Where acid rain defies flowers to grow,
and the world is a lonely place,
a woman in tears shall softly go,
and were we to see her face,
we would know she comes for us

Where summer breezes gently blow.
and the world is a lonely place,
a woman in green shall softly go,
and were we to see her face,
we would know she comes for us

Where autumn makes a splendid show,
and the world is a lonely place,
a woman in gold shall softly go,
and were we to see her face,
we would know she comes for us

Once loved ones gone, we ask to know
why the world is a lonely place?
It’s a woman called Hope tells us so,
and were we to see her face,
we would know she comes for us

Look where she comes and see her face;
let this world be a less lonely place

Copyright R. N. Taber 1973; 2009

Note: This poem first appeared in Life's Simple Pleasures, Forward Press, 2011 and subsequently in my collection, Tracking the Torchbearer, Assembly Books, 2012.]