"scullery" poems
the walls of the inside passage
look the same from sound to straight
tugs and plugs dot the coastline
as the quartermaster rolls
giving time for evening glare
pods are in sequence
as the high tail smashes and jaws at the krill
white bellies and sea cows bob and weave
as bow heads glide over haida gwaii
northern lights dance
and tlingit chant
as the tide settles softly on savory shores
their getting hungry in hoonah
as the blue back and beating drums
mark the life blood of the sea
driftwood nets
and sitka spruce
surround the cook house
ravens and tinhorns
man the scullery
kerosene lamps flicker
as clam shells roast
on open flames
villagers stroll
on pebbled sand
*in the harbor of souls
where ships set sail
on might and mass
into the steady winds
of the golden skies*
ice fields (to the north)
of kryptonite blue
cutting hills at
a glacial pace
knuckle clouds
above the snowline
where warlocks
craft a hidden trade
trappers, skinners
muscle shoals
grizzly feasts
in kodiak bowl
determined pilgrims
on a dead horse trail
in search of gold
the holy grail
Mar 1, 2017
Mar 1, 2017 at 11:52 PM UTC
She sits by darkened hearth
No warmth now issues forth
Her tattered clothes look more like rags than a dress
But still she carries on
Even when hope is gone
For a princess is a princess nonetheless
If dancing at the ball
Or scrubbing floor and wall
In scullery or in carriage for a ride
Hanging linen out to dry
Or set on throne most high
None of that can ever change what is inside
For it’s not silken gown
Not scepter, sword, or crown
Nor poise to rule court with great ability
Look closer and you’ll find
A heart that’s good and kind
Are the signs of grace and true nobility
Of palaces she dreams
White horses matched in teams
With jewels agleam and in its place each tress
Though life may be unjust
She is regal in the dust
For a princess is a princess nonetheless
Jul 19, 2022
Jul 19, 2022 at 10:26 PM UTC
Alice stands
in the room
by the stairs,
at the end
of the house;
the low end,
servant's end,
Father said,
don't go there,
but she does.
She goes down
the back stairs,
down long dark
passageways,
watching staff
in their world,
the kitchen,
scullery,
the wash room,
other rooms.
And this room.
She watches
the thin maid
called Mary
ironing.
Why're you here?
Mary asks.
To see you,
Alice says.
Why see me?
Mary asks.
I love you,
Alice says.
Mary frowns.
You shouldn't
use those words,
Mary says
turning round.
Alice stands
her small hands
in pockets
of her blue
pinafore.
But I do,
I love you.
Why is that?
Mary asks.
You are kind
like Mother
used to be
before she
had to leave.
Mary heard,
rumours spread,
the mother
had to leave,
had problems
in the head,
locked away
so they say,
for a year
and a day.
She'll be back,
Mary says.
Alice sighs,
I love you,
I want you
to stand in
for Mother,
between us,
Alice says.
Mary sits
on a chair,
flushes red,
between us
I can be
I suppose,
Mary says.
Uncertain
of her pledge
she gazes
at the child
standing there.
Need a hug,
Alice says,
motherly.
Mary feels
at a lost
what to do.
Can I sit
on your lap?
Alice asks.
Mary nods
and opens
her thin arms.
Alice walks
to Mary
and climbs up
on her lap,
lays her head
on Mary's
silky *******
smells apples
and green soap.
Mary hugs
her closer,
kisses on
the child's head.
Love you, too,
Mary says.
Our secret,
Alice says,
none must know.
None will know,
Mary says,
just we two.
Nanny's voice
echoes down
the passage
Best go now,
Mary says,
learn for me
at lessons,
do your best,
my daughter
adopted.
Alice nods,
kisses quick,
then goes up
the back stairs
out of sight.
Seen Alice?
Nanny asks.
Not at all,
Mary lies,
sees the dark
cruel eyes
scan the room.
She'll be pained
if she's caught
down this end,
Nanny says.
Then she gone,
her black skirt
swishing loud,
the black shoes
going click,
clack, click, clack.
Mary gives
a rude sign
with fingers
behind fat
Nanny's back.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC
I hear the bugle now,I
see the frugal how they scrimp to save,to
become the slave of lesser gods,to
calculate the weights,though even,odd it seems
that in my dreams all things being equal,
no one prepared for me the sequel to the sage
or wrote homework on the workhouse page, when
poverty becomes all the rage
I shall be rich,
shall stitch in all its finery with golden threads and count my wealth in binary code,
throw digits to the Kings of the road when
poverty becomes of age.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
I don't want to sound pretentious,
I don't want to be a bore.
But my car is a Lamborghini
And yours is just a Ford
My home is my castle,
Seven bedrooms to explore.
I have a maid in the scullery,
And marble on the floor.
I dress in top designer chic,
My jewellery's in the vault,
I have a gun beneath my pillow,
It's really not my fault.
There's floodlights in the garden
And security alarm fired up,
I see a psychologist weekly
To ensure my brains not stuck
I want to build a pyramid,
So when my time has come,
I can take the whole lot with me
So I won't be worrisome!
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 3:24 PM UTC
Have you ever been Cinderella at the ball?
Have you ever stood there so completely in awe of the impossible wonderful you're experiencing?
Have you ever had to leave the ball so no one sees your riches turn to rags
Return to the drudgery of a reality full of tyrants and sycophants;
Thinking that you'll be okay going back to being just you after the clock strikes midnight?
How do you go back?
How do you ever taste anything the same again?
How do you learn to not ache for that kind of love; that kind of beauty?
How do you go back to living as a scullery maid?
How do you go back to the cold hearth alone?
Do you tell yourself you never deserved it?
Do you tell yourself it wasn't real?
Do you tell yourself the prince never cared?
Do you just sit alone by your hearth, covered in the day's cinders and hope beyond hope that it wasn't all in your head?
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 2:00 AM UTC
Picture in me the ravening beast
and you’ll have a sketch of my character;
though I’ll warn you
it is not I who stalks deadly in the night,
looking for soft flesh on fleeing feet
and the taste of fear.
I save my prowling
for the scullery door and
the elusive glow of the hot oven.
I am the Thing That Scuttles,
the Devourer of Grains,
a card carrying member of the Cheese Sanctification Society.
(Progenitor of Pestilence, too, if you want to get fancy).
Stop up your cracks and close your cellar doors.
Anything less than a full lock down
I consider an invitation.
There are no spells to keep me away for long.
No beauty dares kiss my lips
and try to change me.
Isn’t that grand?
I know of no creature more comforted
by their own monstrosity than I.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 10:07 AM UTC
Lady & Lord Dawson
presumably
lived quite
peacefully,
until one day-
Lady Dawson announced ;
" Forsooth"
Thy Lord Husband
Ti's heavy a heart I bear-
I spied
Thy self without powder or wig,
Not in thy house-
Betwixt an-others arms
Thy Lord Husband
& thy
Scullery Maid in
thy own barn"
Betwixt looks
on thee tempestuous
pocked face
Never rakishly looked to
Thee own Lady
Wife the same
Not
Thee be sad
Thy heart never break
For
Thy love never came.
Marriage of
Thy
Parents wishes
&
Thee inheriting
Thy gain!
Lady & Lord Dawson
" Lived"
Quite
Peacefully.............
(possibly 2 be continued)
Always Me Ayeshah
Mar 13, 2010
Mar 13, 2010 at 3:57 AM UTC
My Sister Annabel
wore a button hole Anemone,
reflecting a broken heart
Sometimes trellises harness
country abounds
where the Land owner promises
wealth and company
and instead finds himself a scullery maid
where the Mastiffs in another life
may have been the commonable.
Oct 22, 2012
Oct 22, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC
You're what?
Mrs Broadbeam said
gazing at Mary the kitchen maid
who stood facing her
hands behind her back
red knuckles clutching each other
Miss Alice's lady's maid
Mary said softly
eyeing the cook
fearing her censure
lady's maid?
you?
who said?
Mrs Broadbeam uttered
spitting as she did so
His Lordship
Mary said
just now when I went to see him
Mrs Broadbeam breathed deeply
and stared at the thin girl before her
but you know nothing
about Miss Alice and she
hardly knows you
the cook said
Mary said nothing
about Miss Alice climbing
into her bed one night
and insisting Mary
be her adopted mother
as her own mother
was ill away in hospital
called an asylum
I know her
Mary said
I took her for walks
and we saw the horses
in the stables when the nanny
asked me to look after her
the other month
asked you?
the cook said
that's her job not yours
Mary looked past the cook
at the stove where a *** was boiling
and how am I to manage without you?
Mrs Broadbeam said
the nanny said she
will get another girl to help you
Mary said
looking back at the cook
Mrs Broadbeam sighed a big sigh
and when is this meant to start?
the cook said
Sunday for church and after
Mary said blinking
and biting her lip
there was silence and stares
and big heaving of breath quietly
all right well until then
don't stand there
there is work to be done
potatoes to peel
washing up to wash and dry
Mary nodded her head
and putting her apron
about her waist
walked off to the scullery
to begin more work
the voice of the cook
bellowing from afar
from the kitchen
pots and pans banging
then silence
then the cook's voice singing.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 2:50 PM UTC
Outside the door
of the butler Dudman
Polly sticks up
two fingers at him
and mouths a string
of four-letter words
she strides off
towards the kitchen
where Mrs Gripe
(the cook)
is waiting for her
Polly's thoughts
are on George(master)
and what Dudman said
about her not
having *** with him
when he comes home
from the place
he is resting
with shell-shock
from the War
or you will be fired
she hears Dudman's voice
in her ears
as she climbs down
the stairs and along
the passage way
she passes Susie
near the kitchen
entering the scullery
where have you been?
Susie says eyeing her
never you mind
Polly says
and enters the kitchen
where Gripe stands
hands on her hips
and gazing at her
where you been?
Been waiting for you
Gripe says coldly
Polly bites her tongue
and goes to the sink
and begins
to peel the potatoes
cat got your tongue?
I said where have you been?
Gripe says
Mr Dudman wanted
to see me about something
but I am here now
Polly says
Gripe stares at her
what about?
Gripe says
ask him
Polly says
peeling the potatoes
with viciousness
I am asking you
Gripe says
and I expect respect
not rudeness girl
Polly gouges out
a potatoes eye
and turns towards Gripe
about something I do
and mustn't do in future
and I am sorry
for being rude
Polly says
Gripe stares at her
and Polly stares back
about you
and Master George?
Gripe says
Polly reddens
and looks away
and nods
be discreet and careful
if Master George
wants you
Gripe says quietly
and turns away
and puts a big saucepan
on the stove
silence comes
and Polly peels on
and wonders what
George is doing now
and maybe
she thinks
Gripe isn't always
the big cow.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 1:16 AM UTC
Grandmother had told me tales of the past,
Fairytales that we’ve all heard of,
The maidens in the scullery maid attire,
transforming to the princesses with the
embroidered and jeweled gowns; rivulets of silks and satins,
blue as the sea, greener than the highlands, more purple
then the dusky skylines, a true stamp
of royalty, poise, eloquence, and beauty.
And ensembles topped off with gold
encrusted and amethyst crowns.
Sure, the fairytales were what I lingered
onto during the years of my inexplicitly
innocent childhood, that I wished I still had.
I missed it, the tales, the anecdotes
that shaped my perception on love, hope, and faith,
far off from what I viewed in the looking mirror today.
I missed my grandmother’s hands, brittle and worn,
but kind and warm; I still thought about them
as I cleaned out the attic in which I’d forgotten existed.
And I grew up, my memories of it faded,
now covered in cobwebs and bristling wind
that sent a chill up my spine, but I found
much more than what my memory had allowed me to collect.
Amulets from what I assumed to be my grandmother’s youth
were stowed and tucked away in the alcove of a velvet shelf,
hidden by the splintered of decaying wood.
Next to the swell of the dresser, the door of the
furnishing remained ajar, revealing manila
colored increments of letters, some harbored
by the envelopes, some pierced out in the open.
The edges had crippled away,
flecks falling to the sandalwood bottom.
They were timeless, old, maybe not important,
to the wandering eyes of a stranger.
But to me - they held a mystery
that was waiting to be unraveled.
A story of my grandmother’s life she never shared with me,
just as private as she was open, perhaps I’d find in those envelopes
the same mindset I also had when I was young.
Perhaps she believed and dreamt of fairytales I had once done,
paraded around in the jewels and bangles hidden way,
basked in the ambiance of a sweet love
that was doomed to end in the decay of both parties.
Little figurines of silver and gold were placed under one
of the drawers parked away in the furnishing,
toys form her childhood, weighted by standard and price.
Her words I had adored as a child,
ate them up like sickly syrup and supported
them as if they were undiscovered treasure, but
now I finally got to “see” my grandmother’s
treasures deposited in her attic, the very place she
had hidden the most interesting stories that she
left for me to discover after she left.
Dec 12, 2018
Dec 12, 2018 at 9:26 PM UTC
If after a certain age
you cannot be your own counsel
forget everything and go become a Socialist
they do a good line in regurgitating Bullshite
With mixed up minds
and ideology of hate and envy
Devils Advocates on temporary release from the madhouses
they say politics is spin and opposing sanity is power
The boring tonton Macoute
fantasists and deluded failures in hidden affrays
no rhyme or logic, the demagogues of the brainless and losers
paranoid semi-illiterates pontificating on their superiors affairs
What the blind butler saw meets what life below stairs reakons
as they drain the remaining drops of champagne flutes they ferry
in silver trays back to the scullery
and in that familiar Valhalla, they are gods who rule the world
Aug 13, 2019
Aug 13, 2019 at 9:36 PM UTC
The Lady Mary had locked the door
And called the scullery maid,
The Boots was called and the Footman,
So they thought they were being paid,
She lined them up with the Butler,
The Housemaid, skivvy and Cook,
‘You’re not to go wandering out the door,
Not even to take a look!’
She knew her word, though the very law,
Was never to go down well,
For Alice was sweet on a lawyer’s clerk,
A lockdown seemed like hell.
The Footman needed his racing mates
To place a bet on the book,
So the Lady Mary had made it plain,
‘Not even a peep or a look!’
The grumbling went with the Cook downstairs
As they stood, and waited for tea,
‘It’s all very well for the likes of her,
There’s places I have to be!’
‘Enough of this nonsense,’ the Butler said,
‘We’re lucky to grace her floor,
If you want to leave in a fit of peeve
You’ll never get back in the door.’
They huddled down for a week or more
It was better than paying rent,
But a silence settled on every floor
For nobody came, or went,
The pantry shelves were emptying out
But the tradesmen never came,
‘We’re going to starve,’ was the one lament
When they ate the last of the game.
The Footman called the Scullery Maid
And they huddled up on a pew,
‘If you sneak out for an hour tonight,
Then I will cover for you,
And you can visit your lawyer’s clerk
Then place a bet on the book,
I’ll let you in when it’s nice and dark…’
‘I will, by hook or by crook!’
She slipped on out by the kitchen door
And he turned the key in the lock,
Watched the Butler heading for bed
And sat by the kitchen clock.
At ten o’clock, with a tiny tap
She had made her prescence felt,
And tumbled in as he opened the door,
Went straight to the hearth, and knelt.
He locked the door, then he heard her sob
And saw that her head was bent,
She stared so long and hard at the floor
That he thought his bet was spent.
‘What ails you Alice, now what went wrong,
Don’t give me none of your lies!’
She looked up into his face just then
And he saw blood stream from her eyes!’
‘They’re dead, all dead,’ were the words she said
As her tears had mixed with the blood,
Your racing pals and my lawyers clerk,
And the horses, down at the stud.
The Lady Mary, she should have said…’
But he cut her off right there,
Leapt up, unlocking the kitchen door
He dragged her out by her hair.
He locked the door and he scrubbed his hands
But he’d locked the beast within,
As blood then streamed from his Footman’s eyes
And he earned the wages of sin.
The Lady Mary came down the stair
To find him, dead on the floor,
And said to the Cook, with blood red eyes,
‘You’d best fling open the door!’
David Lewis Paget
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC
early mountain
for haze of scullery
on a catch of spice
Feb 18, 2021
Feb 18, 2021 at 1:49 PM UTC
The Italian monk
eyed me
in the refectory.
I watched him
I had no choice
he was opposite me.
He ate slow
his jaw moving
to a slow rhythm.
God centered
he said later
in the scullery
as we washed
the dishes
after lunch
that is what we are
God centered he said.
Sunlight filtered
through the coloured glass
of the refectory
on to the polished
wooden floor
I gazed at it
while the monk read
from some book
on Oliver Cromwell
in a mono-toned voice.
We sat in her lounge
she kissed me
whispered
suggestive things
in my ear
in her warm
**** voice
and we did.
George tolled the bell
for the office of Vespers
I lined up behind
the tall dark
tonsured monk
who smelt
of baked bread.
The afternoon light
was bright
and shone
through the branches
of the one tree
in the cloister garth.
Focus on God
the French monk
said to me
in French
Gareth
translated for me
I said I would
or did
or some
such answer
in my poor French.
Whatever you do
do with all your heart
Dom Joseph said
quoting St Paul
as we sat
on the private beach
of the abbey
the other novices
tossed stones along
the incoming tide.
She shut her mutt
in the kitchen
where it whined
we went
to her bedroom
and had ***
She not thinking
of her husband
coming home
from his job
but I thinking
of just that
imagining him
standing by
the bedroom door
with a displeased face.
The bell
for Compline rang
the monks stood
in the choir stalls
in their black robes.
I stood
in the semi dark
mouthing
the Latin chant
of the office
the others
were professional
I was just a novice.
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC
My thanks to James Stephen for his input on this work.
on the other side
of the path
one yellow flower
**
early, the crowd came to see the famous arch . laburnum. i came to see the kitchen garden, seeds growing
**
old words
for things once common
when the things disappeared
the words went with them
**
some words remain remembered;
scullery, coal scuttle, hod,
broom.
that is yellow.
**
have a vacuum for
most things
broom is for incidentals,
crevices, or when I'm lazy
'bout getting vacuum out
broom is red
with matching dustpan
**
i have a vacuum
there is nothing there.
the broom is for
the garden
mainly
or elsewhere for smelling like coconut
**
sweep your garden ?
**
slate bits
came from gloddfa ganol....quarry in blaenau.
front yard. leaves fall.
**
leaves here falling too
a tree here a tree there
so far
soon it will be
all of them together
a collective shed
next 6 months
nothing but bare branches
**
these are the falling days.
Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 1:26 AM UTC
The hotel room in St. Asaph (Wales), was damp
and smelt of spent body passion, I didn’t have a coin
for the gas metre; in the decomposing bed a woman
Snored, and from the depth of my soul
the beginning of an anguished scream.
the morning was ashen as my face and find drizzle fell.
The hotel bar was closed, I walked for bone aching
for miles while the heaven descended.
Apocalypse Now!
No such luck, when the clouds parted the hills
where green with grazing sheep on.
Dear God, where were you yesterday when I married
a scullery maid, have you no mercy.
Aug 15, 2017
Aug 15, 2017 at 3:27 AM UTC
1.
In Springtime I recall the lilacs sweet scented
Growing up the right hand fence at the bottom,
Of a rather overgrown and swayward garden.
Each flower part of a composite bloom, opening slowly its tiny
Trumpet like stamens from where the bees suckled
Filling their back legs with yellow powdered nectar
Which made honey for sandwiches at teatime.
2.
On my way to infant’s school I would clasp
Handfuls of sweet cherry blossom petals
The tips of each petal turning brown in the sun
My shoes covered as I kicked heaps of this candy floss
Pink tissue paper along the road as I thought about school
And the day ahead, in my brown Clark’s leather sandals.
3.
The smell of the scrapings of new potatoes floating
In tap water in a blue polythene bowl in our scullery
And on my mother’s cracked, dry and sore hands
Ingrained with the dirt from compost and soil.
I loved these hands rough yet gentle to stroke a face.
Love Mary September 12 /201
Sep 12, 2019
Sep 12, 2019 at 11:49 AM UTC
I am finished with being a muse –
The victimized wet-dream of art
Who, slowly turning on a dais
Raised on superficial planks,
Will soon be a forgotten toy
That once loved, now has lost its charm,
And crushed into a corner waits
Till memory renews its rank.
The gods can have this blessing back.
I'll mar my face and tear my hair
And burn my robe and crown of gold
And wade in mud up to my knee,
Or suffer cows and sweat for milk,
Or brave a sea of mug and chair.
Oh, silver platter-washing, I
Would gladly be ordinary!
Yet, bar-girls also have to feign
And feint from lofty thoughts of He.
And milkmaids, too, are often set
Upon a stool above their wish.
From scullery to cloudless mount,
If privy parts inverted be,
You serve the wielder of the wand,
Obliged to lie down as his dish.
May 3, 2019
May 3, 2019 at 10:30 PM UTC
He said he would make you his
Queen.
In reality he treats you like a
Scullery maid.
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 1:46 PM UTC