Christmas Day in the Workhouse

It is Christmas Day in the workhouse,
And the cold, bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
And the place is a pleasant sight;
For with clean-washed hands and faces,
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the table,
For this is the hour they dine.

And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers,
To watch their charges feast;
To smile and be condescending,
Put pudding on pauper plates.
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They've paid for — with the rates.

Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly
With their "Thank'ee kindly, mum's!'"
So long as they fill their stomachs,
What matter it whence it comes!
But one of the old men mutters,
And pushes his plate aside:
"Great God!" he cries, "but it chokes me!
For this is the day she died!"

The guardians gazed in horror,
The master's face went white;
"Did a pauper refuse the pudding?"
"Could their ears believe aright?"
Then the ladies clutched their husbands,
Thinking the man would die,
Struck by a bolt, or something,
By the outraged One on high.

But the pauper sat for a moment,
Then rose 'mid silence grim,
For the others had ceased to chatter
And trembled in every limb.
He looked at the guardians' ladies,
Then, eyeing their lords, he said,
"I eat not the food of villains
Whose hands are foul and red:

"Whose victims cry for vengeance
From their dark, unhallowed graves."
"He's drunk!" said the workhouse master,
"Or else he's mad and raves."
"Not drunk or mad," cried the pauper,
"But only a haunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,
Declines the vulture's feast.

"I care not a curse for the guardians,
And I won't be dragged away;
Just let me have the fit out,
It's only on Christmas Day
That the black past comes to goad me,
And prey on my burning brain;
I'll tell you the rest in a whisper —
I swear I won't shout again.

"Keep your hands off me, curse you!
Hear me right out to the end.
You come here to see how paupers
The season of Christmas spend;.
You come here to watch us feeding,
As they watched the captured beast.
Here's why a penniless pauper
Spits on your paltry feast.

"Do you think I will take your bounty,
And let you smile and think
You're doing a noble action
With the parish's meat and drink?
Where is my wife, you traitors —
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above me,
My Nance was killed by you!

'Last winter my wife lay dying,
Starved in a filthy den;
I had never been to the parish —
I came to the parish then.
I swallowed my pride in coming,
For ere the ruin came,
I held up my head as a trader,
And I bore a spotless name.

"I came to the parish, craving
Bread for a starving wife,
Bread for the woman who'd loved me
Through fifty years of life;
And what do you think they told me,
Mocking my awful grief,
That 'the House' was open to us,
But they wouldn't give 'out relief'.

"I slunk to the filthy alley —
'Twas a cold, raw Christmas Eve —
And the bakers' shops were open,
Tempting a man to thieve;
But I clenched my fists together,
Holding my head awry,
So I came to her empty-handed
And mournfully told her why.

"Then I told her the house was open;
She had heard of the ways of that,
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
and up in her rags she sat,
Crying, 'Bide the Christmas here, John,
We've never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger —
The other would break my heart.'

"All through that eve I watched her,
Holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord and weeping,
Till my lips were salt as brine;
I asked her once if she hungered,
And as she answered 'No' ,
The moon shone in at the window,
Set in a wreath of snow.

"Then the room was bathed in glory,
And I saw in my darling's eyes
The faraway look of wonder
That comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted,
And her reason came and went.
For she raved of our home in Devon,
Where our happiest years were spent.

"And the accents, long forgotten,
Came back to the tongue once more.
For she talked like the country lassie
I woo'd by the Devon shore;
Then she rose to her feet and trembled,
And fell on the rags and moaned,
And, 'Give me a crust — I'm famished —
For the love of God!' she groaned.

"I rushed from the room like a madman
And flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying, 'Food for a dying woman!'
And the answer came, 'Too late.'
They drove me away with curses;
Then I fought with a dog in the street
And tore from the mongrel's clutches
A crust he was trying to eat.

"Back through the filthy byways!
Back through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret,
Wrapped in an awful hush;
My heart sank down at the threshold,
And I paused with a sudden thrill.
For there, in the silv'ry moonlight,
My Nance lay, cold and still.

"Up to the blackened ceiling,
The sunken eyes were cast —
I knew on those lips, all bloodless,
My name had been the last;
She called for her absent husband —
O God! had I but known! —
Had called in vain, and, in anguish,
Had died in that den — alone.

"Yes, there, in a land of plenty,
Lay a loving woman dead,
Cruelly starved and murdered
for a loaf of the parish bread;
At yonder gate, last Christmas,
I craved for a human life,
You, who would feed us paupers,
What of my murdered wife!"

'There, get ye gone to your dinners,
Don't mind me in the least,
Think of the happy paupers
Eating your Christmas feast;
And when you recount their blessings
In your smug parochial way,
Say what you did for me, too,
Only last Christmas Day."

George R. Sims (1879)

An 1845 newspaper illustration which accompanied an article
about conditions inside the Andover Union workhouse,
where starving inmates ate bones meant for use in fertilizer.

Victory for Obama and America: Obama is Still the One

Obama has been scandalized and

assaulted

by fiendish ideologues;

His character and

American citizenship have

been questioned.

They done tried to make him stop

fightin', stop lovin', stop leadin',

-- But we all can see, "He's still the one."

Now that he has been re-elected
to serve another
four years as the President
of the United
States he's gonna shine brighter for us
than the North Star.
They done tried to make him be
angry, be vengeful, be feeble
-- But we all can see, "He's still the one."

Obama, we trust you and believe
in justice for all
just as you do, and we pledge
anew our support
to help move America toward
justice for all.
They done tried to make him stop
fightin', stop lovin', stop leadin',
-- But we all can see, "He’s still the one." 

     © Uriah J. Fields, 2012

Photo: The Obamas Dancing,
by Daniel J. Calderon, USN, at Wikimedia Commons

A House Retires

A house is melting into its leisure.

The green tin roof bends itself into fanciful angles,

achieving arches and curves

with corners dripping

like cool summer pleasure

laid thoughtlessly in the sun. 

Creeping plants previously prohibited 

rise slowly through the shrubbery,

slide up the siding

to find windows waiting open and smiling. 

So the vines pour themselves in, filling the rooms with a leafy slosh. 

And the ceiling beams are dizzy to touch green life again.

The walls welcome

the brush of tendrils,

the pressure of clinging roots,

the ticklish cracking of the rigid plane they have courteously held 

since they were put just so.

Now their orderly particles shake loose,

dusting plaster like sugar

for beetles and flies 

who will join the celebration 

or trip away, sparkling in the breeze on their way to some new ground. 

At last

wooden posts succumb. 

They soften their knees and shoulders to test relief,

then let their work go,

curving into smiles of anticipation as the floor below them also relaxes,

and all the edified parts sink closer,

dip their toes into the cool earth cellar,

waiting for the plunge.

© Laura Seale, 2012

Abandoned House; photo by Daniel Leininger
from Wikimedia Commons

Lucretia ...after Rembrandt van Rijn’s painting

I.

I will tell you because

only you will understand:

Sextus had me first.

with me, he was silent;

he offered no threat,

did not fool me--

I just gave in.

gave in.

what do you call it, Lucretia?

surrender?

submission?

choice?

now we both know: there is no choice.

II.

there is a sense of self-betrayal,

a gasp in your chest

when you look at my bed;

the scent on your dress, always,

a handful of spit and sweat,

the tragic film of memory.

there is the fight to not remember

when you were younger,

when you fell asleep in the arms of God,

and he loved you more

than you will e v e r know again.

III.

here is how you work, Lucretia:

you lie

and you take it.

(but I took it, then I lied.)

like a good wife, you told your husband,

and your husband consoled you:

you did not sin because your body did not sin.

your body did not sin because your mind did not sin.

and your mind did not sin because

you did not feel pleasure.

(then pleasure must be sin)

IV.

let me tell you a secret:

some nights I dream about Sextus,

and I think I would like to love him.

I think I would like for him to love me.

here is another secret:

I wish he had kissed me.

did he kiss you, Lucretia?

I would rot with jealousy.

V.

what does sin feel like to you, Lucretia?

does it feel like pleasure?

or does it feel like guilt?

both and also something in between:

a void with anxiety

panging from within.

we’re supposed to be scared 

of these things, Lucretia:

the strong arms with the gentle hands

the breath in our ears on the verge of sleep

but to find solace,

we must find comfort.

VI.

comfort is the ghost I hold at night,

wanting, wishing it would hold me back.

fear is waking in damp sheets,

forgetting where I came from,

remembering where I am.

VII.

guilt was two weapons on the table before you:

silence and the knife

I admire you for choosing the latter, Lucretia,

because I chose the sharper,

though we both chose tools of strife.

now everything I have felt each night

you feel in this single moment

while I still have many nights left to go--

so dig that knife in hard, Lucretia

take it all in one blow

© Katherine Freeman, 2012

Rembrandt's Lucretia, 1666
Photo from Wikimedia Commons
Painting in the Minneapolis Institute of Arts

Rank

Something there is that is rotten in the state of state

that imposes the doorman’s snappy salute to the uptown patron;

      leaves the frazzled waitress to grovel for a tip;

      requires genuflection as the lawn-mower man

scraps for yard-work from the landed

      mandates a nod of submission in the workplace.

Something there is that is rank.

Congress can pass laws yet gravity never yields.

The somebodies define the nobodies as sure as 

the earth whirls through the cosmos.

Something there is that is rotten in this state of flux

that pinches the wallet and soul as a new Lexus rolls off the lot;

        tears at the heart as the face sags and the butt balloons;

        shreds all our dignity as we don the faddish blouse made in

  sweat or slurp the coffee grown for pesos, sold for dollars;

        diminishes as we venerate the half witted celebs we see on TV.

Something there is that is rank.

Somebody will see all this status anxiety as silly. 

Somebody will realize nobody is a nobody. 

Some will some day, I am quite sure.

Something there is that is rotten in the state of affairs

that sets the wild-eyed beggar-man to spinning for the ‘bus fare’;

      demands of the happy bride a vow to love and to obey;

      forces the fragile, uniformed maid to make the careful show of

deference to her subtle employer as she dusts the tabletop;

      gnaws at the plumber as he bends over in ill fitting jeans.

Something there is that is rank.

© Byron Harris, 2012 

Waitress serving in a restaurant while wearing a chicken costume
Photo by Ross Berteig, Wikimedia Commons

The Answer for the World

What is the answer for the world?

Where do we go from here?

How can we bring peace to this troubled world?

When will we stop this violence?

All these questions make me wonder,

And I am not quite sure where to go.

I want to find the answers,

But only questions come.

Love comes to mind, and it feels so right,

And yet, its not as easy as it is said.

Why can't we stand on the shoulders of Love

And enclose ourselves with a blanket of Caring?

If we could only stand firm

And share our love with the world,

Then maybe peace could come from deep down;

But violence seems to stop us.

Oh! Violence, why are you so deeply rooted?

You hurt so many of us,

And we find it all around us,

And it seems to choke us.

So we must find a way to reach out

And bring forth the love we have,

So that we can take each day

And say, "LOVE is the answer!"

                             © Hilda Ward, 2012

Blankets and care being provided to people rescued when their boat
capsized in Baltimore's Inner Harbor
U.S. Navy photo by Machinery Repairman 2nd Class Jerry Neblett. ~Wikimedia 

Word into Light

I was taught as a child that

Every book was as sacred as Bibles.

There would be no writing in them,

No tearing or bending of pages.

There would only be the reverence of reading,

Of epiphanies waiting for seekers between the lines,

Of new chapters opening in the face of closed doors.

There would only be the reward of seeing libraries as temples,

As spaces where chapter and verse minister to every unknowing,

Of seeing bookshelves as sanctuary where God begins as word 

and transforms into the light.

 

© Camisha Jones, 2012

Book of Kells, 8th Century; from Wikimedia Commons
Now in Trinity College Library, Dublin