A dedication to my grandmother who, even while battling cancer, never stopped.
Please note: below is an insight into my poem. You may want to read it after the actual poem or not at all.
I have not decided what the "thing" is that is the cause of the conflict in the poem. Nor do I know when it is set. I like that I don't know because it allows others to fill in the gaps with their own imaginations.
But I have been thinking a lot lately about history and the way we structure societies. Reading history books about England in the late 1700's and early 1800's (the Regency era) I was taken by how rigid and structured it was, and how that structure was partly an attempt to "tame" the violence and discord that occurred only a few hundred years previously. Burning people at the stake, killing and torturing fellow citizens because of the type of Christianity they practices. It was as if they feared that darkness was so close to the surface a system had to implemented that controlled even the simplest interactions, and had an impossibly high standard of properness and gentility to be adhered to. I wonder how much those standards were really met, as books written by the time were also bound by those laws. What would Darcy and Bingley actually talk about when there were no women present? How many affairs or other illicit activities happened and did others know, maybe just chose to look the other way if a powerful man wanted to keep a mistress? What was talked about behind closed doors? I wonder if the revolutionary ideas from France make their way into the highest echelons of women in society, for they are so absent from the fiction I have read. This poem is an outlet for my wondering.
On another note, this is an example of my favourite type of poetry: when I can rise above me and my world and create a narrative containing a message rather than directly exploring a feeling or experience.
Perhaps this is what I would have been like I'd grown up on a farm :)