Linguistics; stylistics; sf poetry being made, 2nd round; part 5...
I am more grateful than I can say for your help with this poem, and for all your contributions and criticisms and suggestions and inspirations; thank you. For me, the draft below is the final draft except for two loose ends: I still don't have a title that suits me -- the one shown is what's called a "working title" -- and I still don't have a name
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Not Papa. When your comfort is at stake, everybody turns a blind eye.
We all know that.
Except my goody-goody sister.
I went around and asked the servants. No one answered.
They were all afraid of me. And Papa.
Except one man, a stern and righteous sort
Who looked me in the eye and said with some surprise
"He broke the law! The master wouldn't harbor criminals."
"Criminal?" I said. "How is it criminal?"
The footman sniffed."He broke the law," he said again.
He never understood why Papa fired him
Without a reference.
My sister never understood
How much alike they were.
Only the sentiments differ.
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And spoke for someone without morals - ethics, even -
But a keen sense of what works and a devotion to
Leaving people alone.
She has a soul-twin back on Ozark
IN the mountains.
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Came back again and read it.
The entire poem reminds me of the salt laws in India, and the salt fence (people have to buy salt in India or they'll die. The English collected taxes through a salt monopoly and built a fence across the country to enforce it. Gandhi's great protest involved making salt).
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That's very interesting. I'd never heard of anything like that before. I wanted to read a little more about the history of that, so I Googled "salt fence" and India and came up with nothing relevant. Which is amazing. No one has written about it?
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