[Sylvia Fairley]

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.

[John Whitworth]

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;

[Sylvia Fairley]

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?

[Rob Stuart]

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.

[Jayne Osborn]

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

Jayne

[Douglas G. Brown]

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.

[John Whitworth]

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.