The Oldie "Vegetable Love" competition by 4th April
 

I'd be surprised if anyone's got a poem already in their repertoire on this topic! But I know it won't be long before some good 'uns appear here :)

Jayne

COMPETITION NO 175

James Le Fanu [who is one of The Oldie regular columnists] was writing in a recent Oldie about the intelligence of plants. A poem, please, on another side of plant life, entitled ‘Vegetable Love’. Maximum 16 lines.

Entries to ‘Competition No 175’ by post (The Oldie, 65 Newman Street, London W1T 3EG), fax (020 7436 8804) or email comps@theoldie.co.uk by 4th April 2014.

Well, I have, Jayne, but it doesn't seem to fit the rubric, alas.

:eek:

Well, oddly enough, I have got one, but I'm afraid it was used for the Spectator comp last June (Chain reaction)

Yes, my ad in Gardeners’ Weekly, where I hint a shade obliquely -
yet with longing - for a soul-mate who’ll consent to share my life
ends my celibate existence, I’ve abandoned all resistance;
every day I dig for victory in my plot to find a wife.

Entre nous, I’ve been a ‘chips’ man, ‘other veg won’t pass my lips’ man,
now a Damascene conversion’s made me yearn to eat my greens,
so it’s calabrese and marrow from the costermonger’s barrow,
winter cabbage, sprouting broccoli with peas and runner beans.

Slicing, sautéing and grating, I can feel myself mutating,
growing leaves as I’m transformed into a vegetable state;
every pleasure life dispenses to a brassica chimensis
seems to sow the seeds of passion and the need to propagate.

Eager for an instant wedding, being raised for early bedding,
germination will be rapid and what’s more I’ll drive away
your proclivity to scurvy. If indeed you’re cute and curvy
you’ve a lifetime guarantee you’ll get your healthy five-a-day.

If it didn't win you can use it. People might be interested in this extract from Erasmus Darwin's 'Loves of the Plants'. Yes, he was the daddy of that Darwin.

The Loves of the Plants

Descend, ye hovering Sylphs! aerial Quires,
And sweep with little hands your silver lyres;
With fairy footsteps print your grassy rings,
Ye Gnomes! accordant to the tinkling strings;

While in soft notes I tune to oaten reed
Gay hopes, and amorous sorrows of the mead.--
From giant Oaks, that wave their branches dark,
To the dwarf Moss, that clings upon their bark,

What Beaux and Beauties crowd the gaudy groves,
And woo and win their vegetable Loves.
How Snowdrops cold, and blue-eyed Harebels blend
Their tender tears, as o'er the stream they bend;

The lovesick Violet, and the Primrose pale
Bow their sweet heads, and whisper to the gale;
With secret sighs the Virgin Lily droops,
And jealous Cowslips hang their tawny cups.

How the young Rose in beauty's damask pride
Drinks the warm blushes of his bashful bride;
With honey'd lips enamour'd Woodbines meet,
Clasp with fond arms, and mix their kisses sweet.--

Stay thy soft-murmuring waters, gentle Rill;
Hush, whispering Winds, ye ruflling Leaves, be still;
Rest, silver Butterflies, your quivering wings;
Alight, ye Beetles, from your airy rings;

No, it did win, John. But I have this hazy feeling that I originally entered it, unsuccessfully, in a slightly different form, in an Oldie comp, then tweaked it to fit the 'chain reaction' brief for the Speccie (last letter of each line, first letter of the next) I have a strong feeling that the Oldie set the vegetable comp about a year ago, or maybe two. Does anyone with a better memory than mine remember anything about this? Or am I just going completely ga-ga?

You're quite right, Sylvia. Comp 160. I particularly remember a rather dark entry from John which we were all convinced would win but didn't.

Ah, but Sylvia, I am living proof that you can win The Spectator and The Oldie comps with the SAME poem! ;)

Jayne

The mistletoe lovingly clings to the gum,
And the woodbine encircles the birch;
But the tumbleweed is a philandering bum
Who will leave his true love in the lurch.

This would be that dark entry. I've changed it a bit and here we go again. These things even themselves out. I never thought Long John Silver would win and heigh-ho.

Vegetable Loves

It's three o'clock behind the church, a gibbous moon is riding high,
Monstrous leeks like giant penises assault a starry sky,
Swollen onions big as footballs, bloated pumpkins plump as sheep,
Vicar's digging, digging, digging, by the glistening compost heap.

Peapods fat as bookies' wallets, beanstalks broad as Hattie Jacques,
Tender tendrils twisting, twining, groping, grasping at their stakes,
Vicar's forking dripping, dropping tons of dark, nutritious mulch
Down gigantic steaming trenches gaping like the Devil's gulch.

Beetroots, turnips, swedes and parsnips heaving as the rain comes hissing,
Passionate potato tubers, grinding, gasping, gagging, kissing,
Lettuce loves like sails a-billow, copulating radish roots,
Vicar's stamping, stumping, stomping in his massive mud-caked boots.

Swampy stench of Sex and Violence makes the darkness fierce and feral,
Any kids who cross the heaving churchyard cross it at their peril,
Though the gravestones steam with vegetable coupling, vicar's shed
Is crammed chockfull of horrid little skulls of the untimely dead.

Yes, as with vegetable waste, it's definitely recycling time. Here's the long version of a previous effort. Of course, stanzas 4 and 5 will have to be cut, and I may have to try and get a bit more love into the thing. Though I suppose that if it didn't win last time ...

Asparagus and Broccoli detested one another,
Which made young Carrot rather sad; he loved them like a brother.
Hoping to reconcile the pair, he organized a party,
Inviting vegetable friends, and leafy litterati.

The first one to arrive was Dill, then Endive, Fennel, Garlic,
Herb, Iceberg Lettuce, Jersey Royal, Kale, and Leek from Harlech,
Then Mushroom, Nutmeg, Onion, Parsnip, Quince, Radicchio, Swede.
The Turnips came in evening dress, a handsome pair indeed.

The house was full to bursting point, no room for any more;
Though guests continued to arrive, they couldn’t pass the door.
The U- to Y-’s were turned away, resentful and upset,
But sly Zucchini crashed the gate by posing as Courgette.

The younger sprouts were full of beans, and though the crowd was dense,
They blithely started playing squash, which gingered up events.
The music was provided by a band called “Sugar Beat”
Till someone let a rocket off, which knocked them off their feet.

“These kids have so much energy!” said Salsify to Spinach.
The revelry was clearly heard from Golders Green to Greenwich.
What rooty-tooty goings-on! What salad days! What capers!
The guests could hardly wait to read tomorrow’s morning papers.

The party was a great success, the happy throng enraptured -
Until a giant hand appeared, and all of them were captured.
They lay upon the chopping board, a fearful, tearful group,
About to meet their destiny as vegetable soup.

My kale adores your amaranth;
my beets revere your beans;
my squash prefers your ginger root
but flirts with collard greens.

The passion of radicchio
is such you'd never guess
for it would give its very life
for love of watercress.

And in the cellar, near the wine,
although they lack the lips,
potatoes find a way to kiss
that fills the world with chips.

My Swede to Love

Once, I had a swede to love,
they lettuce hold hands by a cabbage heart,
"Yam", I said, when asked was I in love,
but Basil's jealous rage drove us apart.

It was a turnip for the books
when Holly hocked that nut Meg in a barrow,
and prim Rose there with thyme worn looks
helped her pump kin for their marrow.

But snow drops cold, a car rots love,
a has bean stalks me in the dark,
I got no peas until I strove
daily to ban Anna from the park.

But now I shout it from the highest dill,
and even from the golden wonder drill;
my broccoli has gone to pot,
and sprouts no more because I lost the plot.

Jim's reminds me of Benny Hill's 'Garden of Love', which I always had a soft spot for:



(Chorus) The sun and the rain fell from up above
And landed on the earth below
In my garden of love

Now there’s a rose for the way my spirits rose when we met
A forget-me-not to remind me to remember not to forget
A pine tree for the way I pined over you
And an ash for the day I ashed you to be true

(Chorus) And the sun….

Now there’s a palm tree that we planted when we had our first date
A turnip for the way you always used to turnip late
Your mother and your cousin, Chris, they often used to come
So, in their honour, I have raised a nice chris-an’-the-mum

(Chorus) And the sun….

Now there’s a beetroot for the day you said that you’d beetroot to me
A sweet pea for the sweet way you always smiled at me
But you had friends who needed you
There was Ferdy, there was Liza
So, just for them, I put down a load of ferdy-liza

(Chorus) And the sun….

But Gus the gardener’s left now and you went with him, too
The fungus there reminds me of the fun Gus is having with you
Now the rockery’s a mockery, with weeds it’s overgrown
The fuchsia’s gone, I couldn’t face the fuchsia all alone

And my tears fell like raindrops from the sky above
And poisoned all the flowers in my garden of love

I think Benny Hill should get the dictionary!

Brian, why not instead cut S2 and 6?
S2 is a list, whereas other verses hold the witty wordplay (which impresses me).
Dropping 6 leaves the ending upbeat, with Carrot's love having accomplished its goal;
maybe the last line would be rejigged to emphasize that?
A tweak of 'was full' to 'grew full' (in S3-becoming-S2 L1) may be needed too.

Seconded! If he wrote it himself, or whoever did, it's a work of brilliance.

Graham, your idea for shortening my piece is an interesting alternative, although without 'D' to 'T' in the second stanza, "The U- to Y-’s were turned away" rather loses its point. And I think I prefer the gruesome ending. On the other hand, I agree that keeping the puns would be a Good Thing, so I'll continue to mull it over - there's still plenty of time ...

Later: Having duly mulled, I've decided to ditch the whole alphabetic element, though I'm sorry to lose Zucchini. I've also changed the last line.

Asparagus and Broccoli detested one another,
Which made young Carrot rather sad; he loved them like a brother.
Hoping to reconcile the pair, he organized a party,
Inviting vegetable friends, and leafy litterati.

The younger sprouts were full of beans, and though the crowd was dense,
They blithely started playing squash, which gingered up events.
The music was provided by a band called “Sugar Beat”
Till someone let a rocket off, which knocked them off their feet.

“These kids have so much energy!” said Salsify to Spinach.
The revelry was clearly heard from Golders Green to Greenwich.
What rooty-tooty goings-on! What salad days! What capers!
The guests could hardly wait to read tomorrow’s morning papers.

The party was a great success, the happy throng enraptured -
Until a giant hand appeared, and all of them were captured.
They lay upon the chopping board, a fearful, tearful group;
The owner of the house just loved xher vegetable soup.

John, harking back to your #4, Erasmus Darwin was the grandfather of the Origin of Species Darwin, not the father.

I think it's excellent Brian, good suggestion as per Graham to truncate it slightly.

Personally I'm not gone on giant and houses's owners is a bit clunky,
You could contemporize somewhat if such suited your purpose;
Nigella Lawson simply making vegetable soup or some variation thereof and perhaps 'a pair of hands appeared'

Jim

Thanks, Jim. I'm happy with 'giant hand', but I agree that 'house's owners' is clunky. I'd thought of 'The owners of the house just loved their vegetable soup', but that also felt clunky. I'm still mulling.

Jerome, you are right. Grandaddy.

That's looking good, Brian. I'm sorry too to see the end of the Zucchini/Courgette quip but what you have is entertaining and the final twist on the theme of 'vegetable love' made me laugh out loud.

Need some help, since I usually don't enter these things, and the rules seem vague. Here's my poem:

Aubadergine

Awakening, I still can taste your flesh,
the soul contained within the supple
skin you wear, voluptuous and purple.
I have been warned you are the path to madness
and yet, despite the crumbs and salt that kiss
and linger on my lips, there is no brutal
morning-after sting; but just the sweet and subtle
whisper of a roasted scrap, a speck of crust;
a bitter lemon and the scent of thyme;
the rapture of the olive grove, and you as mine.



The problem is that - while it's never been entered in the Oldie comp - it's been published. In my last book, and also in Lucid Rhythms, back in 2008. I assumed this disqualified it, but when I checked what instructions I could find, there didn't seen to be any mention (or I didn't notice it) of past publication. Can somebody clarify the rules for me? Thanks.

Michael, I can't help you on the rules. But it is nice to log on to a poetry site and find a poem you really love. Love this.

Barbara

Terrific poem, I loved it. But my policy is, never to enter anything for a competition that has been published, in a book or on the net, or that has won another comp. Am I being too po-faced about it?

Yes. As the wizard Whitworth has it, if you can sell it once you can sell it twice.

That bearded old legumophile
Captain Birdseye and his smile
bright with rapine motivation
prowl the farmlands of our nation,

his carnal appetites all whetted
by sweet young caulis defloretted,
by baby beans when firmly bodied
and little peas all pertly podded.

His heinous henchmen winkle out
each luscious newly rounded sprout
and slender carrot while he seeks
plump, tender pre-pubescent leeks.

For Captain Birdseye feels no shame
at love which dares not speak its name.
Till laws forbid legumophilia
he'll continue willy-nillier.

Not having any money for a cemetery plot,
I laid my other half to rest beside the garden shed.
You’d think this was illegal, but apparently it’s not
(Provided that the person you are burying is dead).

Within a week the poplar that we’d thought a lifeless stick
Came into leaf, and once again we’ve got a bushy hedge.
We’ve flowers too, our lawn’s become luxuriant and thick,
But most extraordinary is this sudden wealth of veg.

My missus has, in death, turned into something rich and strange,
As Phlebas did: those were her eyes that now are baby corn,
Her bones are leeks, et cetera. In undergoing change
From animal to vegetable my wife has been reborn.

I see her face reflected in the gloss of aubergines,
Alfalfa conjures up her hair, I taste her lovely lips
In every fresh and tender bite of steaming collard greens,
And scent her fragrant bosom when I’m peeling spuds for chips.

We're good, aren't we. What would she do without us?

I must be a vegetable myself: my mind responds only with blankness to this comp. Hats of to those of who have managed to make so much of an unprepossessing rubric.

Well, I see you're in England, Sylvia, so my policy may not work for you. But I always figure that anything that's been published in the US small press is EXTREMELY unlikely to have been read in England, and I boldly submit previously published things. Usually they require some tinkering anyway.

Then I must be a vegetable too, Adrian. I guess you and I won't be seeing our names in The Oldie for this one!

And, dear Sylvia, I can hardly believe this: "But my policy is, never to enter anything for a competition that has been published, in a book or on the net, or that has won another comp. Am I being too po-faced about it?"

If the rules don't say you can't, then you can. Publish and be damned, like Wellington :p

Jayne

The great Les Murray said to me that another continent doesn't count. Another thing you can do is CHANGE the thing a little bit, soup it up, make it better.

These days, the things competition setters seek to forbid, you just can't take them seriously.

I think putting in somebody else's poem is a bit off, like that chap R.J. Allen. So I won't be plundering Brian's stuff, plunderable though it undoubtedly is.