Category Archives: Writings

To Do This Thing – a poem for the hunted.

To do this to such a thing
that was, this morning, so fine a thing,
so red and real a thing, so running free
a thing;
to do this thing to such a thing
so that now, this evening, it is no more
a thing than a mud-mangled thing,
bedraggled thing, its eyes popped out
as if on springs, a cartoon thing, a wrecked
and torn and bone-broken thing, its entrails
trailing as the thing is held up, bowel hanging
out like a string of chipolata things.
From a sunning itself thing,
russet light-catching thing, young-rearing thing,
to a red running thing, over-blown, worn down,
chased-to-ground thing.
Eyes on stalks. Heart thrown to the dogs.

 

This poem is by QCA member Fiona Owen,  from Going Gentle (Gomer).

The poem has been sent to David Cameron on behalf of QCA, in time for the vote to amend the Hunting Act at noon on Wednesday 15th July.

 

The Derision of Empathy. By Heidi Stephenson.

“Old English softe; yielding, gentle, mild, agreeable.”

I have a soft spot for animals;
I am soft on my nonhuman kin.
As soft as a baby’s bottom.
A typical example of the softer sex:
Accused of being “oversoft;”
Soft-boiled; soft-hearted;
A soft job, soft target –
For a sob story.
“Sentimental,” “weak” and “foolish”…
A “big girl’s blouse;”
With a lack of “grip” on “reality.”

I am deficient in hardness;
My upper lip’s not that stiff.
I don’t have a “stomach” for violence.
I am considered by many to be “soft in the head;”
Someone who gives soft answers –
When tough is the standard, the norm.
When the buck is supposed to stop with Bambi;
When the Benjamin Bunny, Jemima Puddle Duck ‘phase,’
Is meant to end abruptly,
With a rabbit stew;
A Pepper Pig pot-roast.
With old friends drowning –
In gravy and plum sauce:
The stuff of bedtime nightmares.

But there’s no soft-soaping me.
There’s no soft-pedalling;
To persuade me to turn a blind eye;
To deaden my ears to the screaming.
I can’t be soft on oppression, on cruelty.
I can’t be soft on suffering, neglect.
I am not projecting, imagining;
I am not “anthropomorphizing.”
I can see with my own, un-blinkered eyes.
I recognize pain when I hear it.
I smell the fear in excrement and blood.

And I don’t want a “taste” of your “real world”.
I have seen behind closed doors;
Where a Blue Beard horror plays out daily.
And I am not “over the top,”
Because I lack testosterone,
Or a killer’s ‘instinct’ –
Because I view silence as complicity.
And Aristotle’s ‘Great’ Chain,
As a self-serving fantasy;
Preaching man’s ‘superiority,’
Without conscience or impunity:
Making a virtue of enslavement.

“No pain, no gain,” you say;
But I won’t numb out on your ‘necessity’ myths.
There is a common beingness,
That modern time forgot,
But sorely needs to remember.
The Golden rule of a bygone Age:
To “Do – as you would be done by.”
To live and let live,
To harm none.
There’s an idea in that idealism,
That’s not “infantile” at all:
And it’s not one I want to “grow out of.”

Away with your exploitative, soft money!
If there’s to be a future,
Violence won’t be a soft option.

sheep