- Non-Erotic Poetry
- The Drought
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Of course, two thousand and fourteen was the year
That the Drought began. At first we were even glad:
The sun, no rain, no floods. My children loved the sun.
We knew it could not last. But it did.
There were jokes, then the joking died away.
It was the livestock first, sheep and cows.
Wildlife, well you saw the birds spattered on the ground.
The crops failed. The trees were the very last to die.
At first there were the stories in the news.
Sad tales. The very young and very old,
Then the not so young and not so old,
Then just the numbers given until those too
Were suppressed. The scientists explained
The causes of the Drought. On a map.
It is always afterwards they talk to us.
They built plants to get water from the sea.
Too little. Much too late.
Laws were passed. Rations too. Neighbours
Found a woman giving water to her horse.
They killed the horse and hanged her
From a branch. There are no horses now.
I am told a few dogs. Perhaps cats. Running wild.
We thought there would be help
Or at least passage out. It seems
We are not quite so well liked as we thought.
Others had their ills. What help there was
Went to Ireland. Not England. Though I do not know
What the Irish ever did for the world.
There were less of them I guess. Then.
Well, then. Then it was too late.
These days there are fifty shades of brown.
Dust storms blow for days, blocking out the sun.
Some of us survived. I was lucky. I suppose. Others,
Friends, family were not. I would love to see
John, Judy or Eglantine. It is my children
That I miss the most. Engines take water from the sea.
Artesian wells. But each year machines break down,
The levels drop and wells run dry. What water
We have is for the crops and our masters' lawns.
We are owned now by those who can make it work
Wringing water from sea and land. None
For useless mouths. Though now precious few of those.
What hurts me most is that awful dry rasping in my throat
That stays however much I drink. I suppose
It could perhaps have been worse.
It could have been the Plague.
- COMMENTS
Tsothaalmost 10 years agoThis summer in South America was hellish. What should have been a 24°C ~ 32°C plus sporadic rain weather became a month of 36°C ~ 42°C and no rain for over a month. Global climate isn't simple, and the effects aren't a linear increase in average temperature — the results of "global warming" is making the entire system unbalanced. Perhaps to move to a new balance. Perhaps what you've described.
In any case, what I just read was an interesting take on the post-apocalyptic genre. I think it's delivered quite believably. What I would question is whether it's a poem — and please understand, not in a mean spirited way. I do not know what makes something a poem, and something else prose. But I was thinking that you have enough here to tell a ficticious story (and you did), which goes far beyond what other poems do (consider The Coin, e.g., which is far more condensed, but also tells less).
With all that said, I like what you've written here, no matter "what" it is. It's well written and interesting. Good job!
(And I will return to the prose / poetry discussion soon, in the forum.)
todski28about 10 years agoTo the last ten years in Australia where they have been shooting cattle because it's cheaper than trying to feed them and water them. Suicide rates in farmers is through the roof and we have had the harshest water restrictions in history. Makes you wonder where it's all heading.
Cleardaynowabout 10 years agoAuthorThank you Tod.
This was sparked by the recent variability in British weather. Specifically, we had the driest autumn on record followed by the wettest winter. It is only a couple of years since there were all the concerns here about water shortages and low reservoir levels. I thought what if after all this rain...
Global warming no doubt. However, I cannot get out of my mind that in the Eighteenth Century the rest of the world found Englishmen incredibly boring as our only topic of conversation was the weather.
I do not think it is central how feasible such a drought situation actually is in England. I am at least partly referencing what goes on in East Africa – which I think we (including me) compartmentalise and cut ourselves off from. Also I am giving more than a passing nod to the Irish potato famine.
Also to Camus’s The Plague. That was supposed to be an allegory for the dangers of fascism I believe. I certainly have no such analogy in mind. If anything, it stands for how fragile all the comfortable certainties in our lives are.
Once I started it, I just tried to think it through and make it as real as possible and make the protagonist’s feelings and reactions as real as possible.
todski28about 10 years agoBleak honest not over bearing. One of your best to date I think.
