A twill and threadbare poorhouse,
a school.
Broods drilled by unsullied nuns
into sullen lines.
The muted squeak of timid mice
as new brown leather boots
attempt to skip,
though skipping is an offense
behind the fence.
We are tagged, and fed tapioca,
led to cold toilet blocks
to scrub ink-stained fingers
with bricks of green carbolic,
while outside
rosery beads click impatiently.
Rain or shine; strays,
tykes and orphans
are made to march through,
a gray flannelled time
for God knows what reason,
or for God knows what
dark twisted rhyme.
I sniff at my hands and oh!
Such scent, such ecstasy,
a memory presented to my nose.
But where do we find this block of adorable redness?
It was sold in every shop: lovable carbolic soap,
an aromatic compound, so ruddy, so redolent.
But this is now so rare; it merely
presents itself to my pleading mind -
a psyche that puts forth its arms,
a plea to a storehouse of valuable memory,
a whiff of an echo, an echo of an odour,
an odour that's been sent.
So who remembers, recalls a soap that's not
so round, bright pink, cream, blue or white,
that isn't sold in pretty-pretty paper?
We do so wish to sniff, sniff, sniff at an odour that's so old.
(3 Oct 2023)
We were always a little ash white,
the girls always a bit cleaner;
the soap always green carbolic
the toilet paper always slick and hard to scrunch,
six year old bottoms always a little sore.
The nuns who ran these grey bricked barracks
called it the: Covent of 'Saint Hilda's Sacred Tears.'
There were lots of tears but no saints.
No black kids either, though there were many
seen on the grimed streets. They looked well fed and happy.
We were different. Our parents had sinned,
had broken the golden rule and got caught
birthing the unwanted.
Back then the birch cane was an instrument of love.
From here-on I must paraphrase...
Each Sunday, The scrawny priest
would look down upon us -
speaking thusly:
"You're all sinful
fit only for cannon or factory fodder,
forever doomed to poverty."
A pause while he did the sign of the cross
while mumbling to himself in Latin.
"The righteous must
resign themselves in good grace
to their natural place,
to humbly throw themselves
upon the mercy of their betters."
Such sermons filled us all with much joy,
and we were all briefly uplifted
until the hatchet-faced nuns
led us back to our own special hell.
Blameforth forwented, sithering
Scunderblast thisk thisk away!
Harforsless, zoit, thundersnatched,
Norbutting thuz, implude display .
Bewardled mishings, long tidalfines
Jalaquoone in boodle thwerts,
Barting tubs, sweet moodletines
Deathling dropping, curdlecurts.
Darplion uplouded, mithooze tarumpus!
"Parnack, wugnuts! erdingdeen,
Crulsh! quolsh, quebombified"
Carbolic, falsquashed...quinshing scream.
Entry for
Vogon Poetry (really bad poetry) Quoopisk Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Team Poetry Soup
24/5/2020
( Coming home from the mill. )
Air full of smog from dirty factory chimney
people walking around square quite nimbly,
grey clouds above small terraces workers abodes
typical northern town with narrow cobbled roads,
Local shop owners struggle to make both ends meet
children with no socks or shoes on their feet,
family men hope for a day's work to pay rent
to feed all his children that to him were god sent,
wives with baskets looking for bargain goods
so poor though happy with their neighborhoods,
men hope to earn extra money for a small bet
women on hands and knees cleaning door step,
clean clothes pegged out uniformly on washing line
smell of fresh linen, carbolic or fragrant pine,
sparse food deliveries are made by horse and carts
factory workers full of hope and bleeding hearts,
communities of northern England full of respect
where life was so hard and would never be perfect.
Composed 25th April 2017.
Contest:-celebration of art.
by Robert(Bob)Moore © 2016
Do you remember Dolly Blue,
Carbolic soap and brownstone too
mam at the copper, stick in hand
to stir the clothes, so they’d look grand
squeeze out the water, through the wringer
be careful though, don’t trap your finger
‘cause that might hurt and make you cry
then hang them on the line to dry
Then came machines, with an agitator
just throw stuff in and come back later
still have to put them through the wringer
that’s still a danger to your finger
Then came spin dryers, they make a din
you just throw all of the wet clothes in
then hang them out upon the line
that’s OK if the weathers fine
Next came the dryer, to make them dry
just flick a switch, and watch them fry
don’t need to hang them out today
so the washerwoman just faded away.
The wind smells of
frozen milk and carbolic,
this is the edge of December;
a slopping out of leaves
and burnt wood, the overspew
of ovens that keeps
us holding our coats at the throat.
The winter is still out,
we wait for the last bus of snow.
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