"workhouse" poems
In the worst hour of the worst season
of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking-they were both walking-north.
She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.
In the morning they were both found dead.
Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.
Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:
Their death together in the winter of 1847.
Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and a woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.
10.9k
A dancing Bear grotesque and funny
Earned for his master heaps of money,
Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey,
And cheerful if the day was sunny.
Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood
He tramped, and on some common stood;
There, cottage children circling gaily,
He in their midmost footed daily.
Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle
Were quite enough his brain to puzzle:
But like a philosophic bear
He let alone extraneous care
And danced contented anywhere.
Still, year on year, and wear and tear,
Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear.
A day came when he scarce could prance,
And when his master looked askance
On dancing Bear who would not dance.
To looks succeeded blows; hard blows
Battered his ears and poor old nose.
From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon;
He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon,
Capered in fury fast and faster.
Ah, could he once but hug his master
And perish in one joint disaster!
But deafness, blindness, weakness growing,
Not fury's self could keep him going.
One dark day when the snow was snowing
His cup was brimmed to overflowing:
He tottered, toppled on one side,
Growled once, and shook his head, and died.
The master kicked and struck in vain,
The weary drudge had distanced pain
And never now would wince again.
The master growled; he might have howled
Or coaxed,--that slave's last growl was growled.
So gnawed by rancor and chagrin
One thing remained: he sold the skin.
What next the man did is not worth
Your notice or my setting forth,
But hearken what befell at last.
His idle working days gone past,
And not one friend and not one penny
Stored up (if ever he had any
Friends; but his coppers had been many),
All doors stood shut against him but
The workhouse door, which cannot shut.
There he droned on,--a grim old sinner,
Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner,
Unpitied quite, uncared for much
(The rate-payers not favoring such),
Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare;
Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear
Danced back, a haunting memory.
Indeed, I hope so, for you see
If once the hard old heart relented,
The hard old man may have repented.
4.6k
Staring corpselike at the ceiling,
See his harsh, unrazored features,
Ghastly brown against the pillow,
And his throat--so strangely bandaged!
Lack of work and lack of victuals,
A debauch of smuggled whisky,
And his children in the workhouse
Made the world so black a riddle
That he plunged for a solution;
And, although his knife was edgeless,
He was sinking fast towards one,
When they came, and found, and saved him.
Stupid now with shame and sorrow,
In the night I hear him sobbing.
But sometimes he talks a little.
He has told me all his troubles.
In his broad face, tanned and bloodless,
White and wild his eyeballs glisten;
And his smile, occult and tragic,
Yet so slavish, makes you shudder!
4.3k
There was a chap called Charlie.
Who lived in separation.
In total world of degradation.
Father left when he were nine.
A raging alcoholic.
Charlie, his brother and his mother.
Sent off to the workhouse.
In the land of Lambeth.
No palace.
The family were ushered into areas of segregation.
Mother and children apart in our apparently grand nation.
Product of shame documented by satirists.
Dickens's favourite topic.
Poor folks made poorer,
In workhouses designed to embarrass.
Those already destitute,
Not by choice for sure.
Only crime being poor.
Dignity stripped.
Destroyed of heart.
Wrecked in health
To reduce their being even more.
God help you if you were not fit.
**** of the earth, you were purged.
We the Brits now get benefits,
Be grateful that we do.
_____________________________________________________________________________
Charlie found extreme success.
When as a film star of the silent kind.
With a plaque on the wall of his once posh house in Vauxhall.
His surname it was Chaplin!
By ladylivvi1
© 2014 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 10:35 AM UTC
The morning mists still haunt the stony street;
The northern summer air is shrill and cold;
And lo, the Hospital, grey, quiet, old,
Where Life and Death like friendly chafferers meet.
Thro' the loud spaciousness and draughty gloom
A small, strange child--so aged yet so young!--
Her little arm besplinted and beslung,
Precedes me gravely to the waiting-room.
I limp behind, my confidence all gone.
The grey-haired soldier-porter waves me on,
And on I crawl, and still my spirits fail:
A tragic meanness seems so to environ
These corridors and stairs of stone and iron,
Cold, naked, clean--half-workhouse and half-jail.
3.3k
it used to be a work house you know,
alongside the road. there is no idea
when it changed to a hospital, creating
another fear. now it is empty up for sale.
a long time.
they say the owner cut down trees ilegally,
noticed from the planning office
opposite. he is punished.
one tree lays across the wall,no one
tidies things .
we drive at 30mph as is the law,
strain to see the old architecture,
one eye on the road.
it is empty a long time.
sbm.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 1:25 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
Edie was caught in the claws of copulation.
She was attractive, with no roots showing
on the top of her scalp.
Great **** great *** could hold a conversation.
Everyday, she got into her workhouse of a car,
more home than her dingy apartment, and drove
to her first "appointment."
But on this day, the appointment that loomed ahead of
her had her shower cold and her face white.
She drove past an old movie theatre
and an abstract and title company with
the fanciest sign in town.
It was Edie's favorite.
She glanced out the window.
A regular ******* standing on the sidewalk was chatting
up a woman who looked bored stiff
and there was a young man a few jumps
away who couldn't hold his liquor.
"Pathetic," Edie muttered.
An average run-of-the-mill bar slouched behind
them and there were ridiculous looking people
spilling out the door.
But only those who had survived the night before.
Across the street, a newspaper dispenser ***** and chained
to a light pole stood content as its contents spilled from
it's belly like the guts of a dead gazelle.
Like the guts of it's readers.
Like the guts of a building out an open window.
Edie's ******* were sore and hurt after the
manhandling of last night.
They began with a ***** that got straight to
the point and then they did too.
He had advertised himself as "sweety but meaty"
and Edie discovered later
that his genitals were uncircumsized and below average.
Oh well.
Submission.
She had a headache in the morning and no aspirin.
Her decision was to stop later and get some.
But before then, she had something to take care of.
Something big that needed to be handled.
Something she hoped would be brief.
"Something," she thought, "that's for **** sure."
She pulled into a front spot in her black '98 BMW,
fixed her make-up, then her hair.
Edie closed her eyes, took in a rather large
amount of oxygen,
exhaled and stepped out of the car.
She had a hankering for eggs after all.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 7:24 PM UTC
The workhouse door is open and
you know that Christmas comes,
the sons of sons of father's mums all
congregate and with
not a *** to **** in,
with one voice all begin to sing,
'Oh tidings of comfort and joy'
comfort the poor boy 'cause he ain't
got a bean
not seen a meal for a week,
see more
see more
take a peek through the workhouse door.
And for some and sometimes for
more than some
Christmas is just another chore to do
another happiness to struggle through.
'comfort and joy'
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 7:19 AM UTC
“Women sync up with the moon,
like the sea does,
and it makes them unpredictable.”
he said.
(Surely not –
the sea and the moon are as predictable as you like!
you can chart them with maps!)
“Ah, but how about tsunami’s
that come along from nowhere
and drown the innocent?”
(Tsunamis aren’t caused by the moon,
they’re a result of the earth crashing into itself
and we are the earth,
us men,
and we drown the innocent.)
Every time I look at the moon -
(and I look at it often because I’m that kind of boy),
I can’t help but think of every woman in the world,
of every class and ever colour,
who has looked up at it too.
Cleopatra,
Kate Moss,
Katherine Hepburn,
Workhouse women with broken nails,
Baudelaire’s pale thin girls,
Courtney Love,
Female football players,
And how they feel
(or felt)
just as separate
or as close to it
As I do.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:50 AM UTC
They want more of you for less and that's how it swings,
the pretty lady plays me a song, but I don't know the words so
I hum along,
they want to see and never hear, want you begging somewhere at the rear in the penny stalls and it falls into that they don't want you at all.
If I could play the banjo or maybe the ukelele I'd be sweet, I wouldn't have to meet the scowls of howling managers with jowls so slack they look as if they're going when they're really coming back and the pretty lady plays a song,
it's for me,
a little bit of harmony among all this insanity and tomorrow if it comes on time they'll be waiting there all prim and primed to shoot.
Do I give a hoot?
If they want more of me for less of me we'll see how much they get and I bet it won't be much,
I touch wood for luck and **** 'em,
that the way it swings and the pretty lady sings for me,
things are looking up.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC
Poverty,
food in the reclamation yard.
Life's tough,
it's hard to be full of energy when
the meter is empty and all you see
are the toffs who scoff at society.
Poverty,
cardboard caskets in the cemetery.
There's a niche between the have and the have nots,
the place they throw away food and it rots,
bread, bread but not for the dead and the mould
we can give to the weary and old,
it's share and share and **** them, they don't count
and we don't care.
Circumstance gives a fat chance and the fat cats get the fat other than that all is well for the poor and the needy who dwell in the dark because the meter is empty.
Poverty,
in the park, on the bench, what a stench,
why don't they bathe, why don't they shave, why don't they save the pittance they get or better yet why give them a pittance, give them ****** all?
Poverty,
call for ticket number forty three, your benefits have changed please come to booth B.
We are being outsourced to be the dampcourse in some old Etonian duck pond, all expenses paid by another raid on the 'workshy' who in any case will get by
because we're all in this together dontya know.
Poverty
is just a name they use to defuse the ticking bomb,
castigate the poor, exonerate the rich,
build another workhouse and life's not such a *****
We know differently, we who live poverty, we who see inequality but we still and will
**** for a dime.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
.
returning to my childhood home in thought
returning to mallard quacks tolling
and the hour toiled
by ever thirsty church bells
cold damp rock house with ammonites
and belemnites coiling in the walls
and a cooling ichthyosaur
futilely trying to swim in the silty soil
struggling to catch prey
beneath the foundation
its darkness is rummage
.
a flush lawn planted nilly and obscene
monkshood mint cotton grass and ling
warm mentions an evening fire
and the family room
i'm mooding through the memory
and it grooms apart organic
birthing not river not smoke
rat sized earwigs take to the air heat
over the boiling tar garage roof
and i return home back through time
child swinging on thick vines suspended
by the yew over the stream
the willows dapple and paddle
the fir trees return
fierce sproutings of involving shade
ridding the house
of the intruder new extension
riding time back
and the caravan my parents
would later park on concrete
is swallowed
the storms of a bad year return the old wall
at the property edge
and the cottage reforms an ancient pace
with its surroundings
.
it's no longer my families claimed place
re-seemed with ghoulish history
the workhouse returns
and files with hard poverty
the wall punches through
in what will be the kitchen
and the cottage runs through long
with the neighbours space
dormitory takes the whole upstairs length
and the legend of the garment thief
drops ghost and rumour to live again
and then all this too flees out of history
.
rushing back through time
and this all sinks into the levels
swamp life takes over
and the ammonites
moisten with anticipation
prehistory is sprout to begin
.
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 10:08 AM UTC
Minimum hours
minimal powers.
let the pennies shower down on those in the new age 'workhouse'
we're back to the slums where the bosses toss crumbs to the masses and
what passes as good is as good as it gets, when the greedy get all and the poor get sod all.
The cries of the City,unheard since Victoria,I mean the Queen,not the place and that is the pity of it,
trapped in this sea where only the successful can be seen as being smug,
We should heave out the plug and watch them go down,give back the town to the people who share in it,those who care and those I swear will win.
Unless the cheapness of gin begins to rear its head and the poor all get hammered instead.
When the **** hits the fan we forget the soup van and it's bottles all round and around we all go.
If the cold doesn't **** us we'll be buried in snow and they'll cover the cracks
with more minimum contracts.
Aug 18, 2014
Aug 18, 2014 at 7:19 AM UTC
The great con moves along
tent city's not gone
it's just moved around the corner
where your eye does not see it.
A brave new world indeed
they
feed us on ******** expecting respect
and say,
it's all hunky dory,
well
they Fukin bore me.
We're worse off now than we've ever been
'cept for the queen
she's just as rich as can be while
we got tents on the side streets
rough sleepers in the malls
and employers pleading poverty
what a load of *****
A standard of living is giving
not taking, not stealing by dealing
from the bottom of the pack
what is it we lack?
compassion?
empathy?
no good asking me they've cut
out my tongue
the great con goes on and we are being
silenced
one
by
one
until we too are gone.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
In the doorways of regret where the cold winds of disappointment and let's not forget debt,reside
I have hidden thoughts and notebooks,there inside the darkened,unlit space,afraid to face and yet I must decide
that where these things reside, do I also want to live.
With nothing left to give or choose and holes in both of my worn out shoes,cardboard for a comfy bed,I am being slowly led into my own impoverishment.
Intent on keeping from the workhouse door and wanting more than what I've got
I spot each opportunity and score accordingly,
three points for a no hope job placement and being lent on by the job centre,who seem bent on placing me,somewhere where I should not be.
A point each for all charities and gold stars for the few who try to please the many,I haven't any words that can express just how the streets can mess you up.
Soup runs get a special mention for delivering to my attention,beef and broth and crusty bread
so if is that I am being led into the downtown streets, at least I'll go well fed and with company,
so many folks like me
down and misunderstood,both bad and good and some who could be so much more than
the man you'd rather not run into when out with friends and they ask you to,dig deep and
contribute
you, in your suit cannot explain
why it is you give and don't complain to politicians sat in high court clubs
and you,sat in the city pubs with colleagues,leagues away from streets which pay
no attention any more
to regrets inside the darkened doorway.
Here I stay like yesterday,the day before and like a hundred days or more,
if providence prevails
one day for sure all ships will sail into the harbour
and these thought I harbour greedily as I lay down to drink my cup of tea and sift through countless memories
and try to make some sense of it.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
Commercial poverty
an empty property?
there's money in muck or
so they say.
Vacant faces say it all no need for writing on the wall
and who could read it anyway.
Education in the pay of politicians.
They dumb us down to line us up to knock us down,
intelligence is frowned upon and yet
we get back up and carry on.
Fodder for the factory,
the workhouse is a house when all is said and done.
I see no ships
I see no Sun,
blinded on the run and some place far away from the refuse tips and folderol I'll find a place to stay and sit to read a book and take some time to take a look at what things really look like.
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 6:11 AM UTC
I couldn’t tell you why
Not here and now at least
You would never understand
Could not understand.
The structure of our thoughts
Make such complexity impossible
The greatest sadness is that our lives
Are lived out in such perverse ignorance
All that we remember is the apartness
How we bind ourselves in love to lies.
Sorrow is like the shattering of glass
Broken biscuits in tins
The howl of the workhouse
We as frail as a bird’s wing.
Love Mary
Xxxx
Dec 11, 2019
Dec 11, 2019 at 4:22 PM UTC