A lament of privilege

The world is out of kilter.

Where now the compliant maids who,
gently and with grace,
tended our many needs,
wisely, and knowing what they owed
their fathers and their lords,
in gratitude for that paternal protection
from greedy hands and mouths that would
their virtue or their happiness remove?
Where now the dutiful wives
and daughters,
obedient, demure and kind?

They are gone.

And in their place are witches, harridans,
who refuse and demand,
and speak a constant tale of ‘no’, or
‘we will stand alone’, ‘we need you not’,
‘we are your equals, not your servants.’
Ingrates all!

The world is out of kilter.

Where now the honest labourers,
who worked our fields and nurtured our rich estates,
who knew their place
and gladly served our wiser will,
who ploughed and sowed and reaped the lands
our fathers gained,
discovered and enclosed by them,
and duly passed from son to son,
improved and cleared, to yield
such bounty?

They are gone.

And in their place, sullen and slavish,
loiter the scroungers
and delinquent youths,
who think themselves owed
some treasure of past generations.
They do not see the justice of our righteous claim
to grow our hard-held wealth
untaxed, unconstrained,
a fair inheritance of our fathers’ gracious state.
Villains all!

The world is out of kilter.

Where now the vast and brimming garden of the Earth,
endlessly opening its virgin vistas to our industry?
Where now the wide dominions
laid out for our conquering,
the wild beasts apt for our domestication,
the oceans, forests, steppes,
pristine and ever generous?
Where the boundless empires we claimed and plundered?

They are gone.

And the infinite world is turned tight upon itself,
a small, hard kernel, an involuted globe,
where evermore we walk old paths again
and trace our own innumerable footprints on the sullied ground –
the bleaching seas and treeless wastes
a common tragedy.

The world is out of kilter.

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Misanthropy – blank verse

They are building fences,

where there were trees,

enclosing absence,

brash and ‘functional’, unnecessarily high,

with none of the beauty that might follow function,

just a barrier to the eye,

to keep in dogs whose highbred bodies cannot jump.

‘This is ours,’ they say,

this pile of turned earth, this parking space,

‘and we do not care how much our boundaries invade your space or shut down our view.

This is ours.’

With a closing, a turning of the back upon the world beyond the pale,

these wooden walls turn neighbours into ‘us’ and ‘them’.

 

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Copyright © 2014 Fliss Watts

(With thanks to The Dancing Professor for a reminder and a trigger.)

September pastoral

Warm September morning

The geese are back, noisy and disorganised

on their daily commute.

A haze lifts from fields glistening with a heavy dew,

and eastward, above a band of bright cloud,

the felltops float.

The hedge is red with haws

and, bright against a pyramid of tight black silage bales,

a robin pauses in its insect hunt,

poses, ready for its close-up.

Swallows and martins still climb the air,

swerve and stutter,

pin-sharp against the clear sky,

training for the marathon to come,

but the swifts are already gone.

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Copyright © 2014 Fliss Watts

Migration/Personal Identity – an Empiricist Poem (1988/2014)

Filling another suitcase and checking the weather over there…
Anticipations of a new beginning.
Who will ‘I’ be
there, re-located –
dislocated?

The mossy self seeps into its surroundings,
or they infiltrate.
How many transplants can it sustain?
How thin can its thread be stretched?

The risk of making the wrong place ‘here’
loosens roots.

Balanced precariously at a point of displacement
weightless
vanishingly small
.

But with the ramifications of passing time,
milestones like anchors, accumulate in memory.
A liquid, floating self emulsifies, nacreous,
coiled around the gritty concretions
of however many ‘here’s and ‘now’s.

© Fliss Watts 2014