Best Cabbages Poems
Lines more lunatic than the sun – 7
playing on the raw-coal
the under-clothes of the airhostesses
continue to sing a song
even-then the germination of the almonds
can never become the sugar-candy
made of palmyra
may be they don’t want so
until and unless any night-guard comes
and deposits the RBCs of the jack-fruit-leaves
within a wrinkle-free hand-glove
you do absorb all colours
from the soil of the earthworms
and thus unfold your open hair
along the air of this cloudy day
then none but the gughni-sellers
will get back their names and titles
there is from the sky of the timber of hog-plum
it has rained even last night
the streets are wet
the trees are wet
there is splashing mud in the low lands
those all full-of-incidents
if you wish
you can send them
to the introduction of a proposal against war
i’ve never heard that
to take the responsibility
of the starving south-east
the rain has put down its crown
Lines more lunatic than the sun – 8
all on a sudden
one day again
i face the isabgool
the own fountain of vraj-kishore
may be, wants to fly away in such a manner
to another afternoon
my tiffin-expenses cann’t discover that valley
till now
from where
it is said
all night-gowns begins
then i’m sitting
with my hands and legs spread
in the sun-light
filled with
the sound of chopping of cabbages
on the flowers of the sun-plant
that are in-between the wife and her mother-in-law
i exercise my intelligence very much
if the question of my security is raised
it is only a ‘for-God’s-sake’-like adjuration
the knot of a white handkerchief is so much heavy
i don’t know earlier
my knowledge of using prosody
getting amalgamated calmly
with the stamen used by the sleep
Form:
Hilly lent me his post hole digger ‘cause I’m putting up a fence
around me veggie garden, so I could give it some defence
from marauding sheep and cattle that some keep on their block,
and forget about their fences, so I feed their wandering stock.
They eat all my silver beet and give me cabbages all hell,
and what the mongrels don’t prefer they trample in as well,
but I suppose there is one upside with growing what they eat,
for now and then the neighbours stock have saved us buying meat.
That post hole digger made life easy where it twisted in the ground,
instead of digging with a shovel that near breaks me back I found.
So with treated pine snug in their holes and rails upon the face,
I cleaned up the post hole digger to return to Hilly’s place.
I thought I’d leave it ‘til the morn although it has to be ‘round eight,
for that’s the latest Hilly’s sober, so nine o’clock is way too late.
But as it happened I slept in and got around there close to ten,
then for a moment I had thought that Hilly’s drunk again.
He was prowling ‘round the kitchen with a fly swat in his hand,
sneaking up to where the blighters were trying hard to land.
I asked him what he’s doing and with a mad look in his eyes,
Hilly said one got in his porridge so he’s killing all the flies.
Well I suppose sometimes we lose the plot and do get over keen,
but he would have got ‘em in one go by spraying with mortein,
so I asked him “Have you killed a few?” Then heard one of his jokes,
“Yeah, I’ve cleaned up five” he said - “Two sheila’s and three blokes”.
I could see that he’s fair dinkum ‘cause they’re splattered on the sink,
but how he knew what sex they were made me stop and think.
I asked “How do you tell the sex of flies?” Of course I should have known
when Hilly grinned - “Three were on the beer cans and two were on the phone”.
The noise broils over in the heat
And spread out like wares along the street
The haze of crowd, the jungled feet
Fresh scent of soil and the aroma sweet
I see the bright cloths, and the fashion shows
The haggling voices and their temptations
The big Trelawny yams that twin footed grows
The paltry cents of private hesitations
The market is abloom and abundance tease
The native hunger from its native ease.
There is guinep, the same we cracked
At school, a single seed to feed a twenty pack
The hog plums and the apples red, stacked
Like a lean-to shack, melons dripping and the sack
Of cherry tomatoes besides carrots on the mat
Two orange in bags and the eggs in their flat
Cabbages plump and green callaloo fresh and fat
Mangoes early, and seasonings for the pot
The magic of eyes the sleright of nose, the taste
That tells us how much to know goodness we haste
And among all this passion of colors, this fragrance
Of fruits, I see a richer, sweeter elegance
Our people bright giving this place its romance
Women subtle of eyes, whose bodies dance
Like fireflies around a shaded lamp, and men bold
Though bent beneath their unforgiving loads, hold
Work sovereign and do not crringe from sun and sweat
The building is dingy with crumbling walls and parapet
But like the lustered fruits that in cadence to the call
Rise above the struggle turning back the ancient fall
Savez vous planter les choux
A la mode de chez nous?
(French nursery rhyme)
You should eat your cabbage up my son
It's really quite delicious
May I forego the pleasure Ma
To me it is pernicious
But it must be good for you my dear
With vitamins A,B and C
I would eat it if I could mama
But it stinks like the Sargasso Sea
It's filled with anti-oxidants
Should give energy like a comet
Well that may be but quite frankly my dear
It makes me want to vomit
Won't you give them another try my love
And see the way it feels
I might have a go had they not
The redolent scent of performing seals
Should I work so hard to plant and crop
When you must reject my choring
Must you take it all so personally
It can be rather boring
How might I get through to you my son
I could e-mail, or text or whatsapp
A Morse code in cabbage and Brussels sprouts
Would still smell like a wrestler's ****strap
The government should pass a law
That cabbage shall make us all dapper
They can send me a personal copy
I will use it in the crapper
The schools must know that cabbage is good
They should teach it in all their classes
The schools can take their cabbages
And stick them up their curriculum
The pope ought to issue an edict
'Brassica salubritas est'
Enough! already! I will give it a try
If you’ll just get it off your chest
Aimez vous manger les choux?
Je crois bien que vous etes fous
Three of my chickens are dead and they have left a hole in my heart,
I want to mark their passing, prove that they were alive and very much loved by me,
They were real, breathing and full of life from the start,
Oh they made me laugh, so hilarious and quirky; such fun hidden away on our allotment,
They did no great deeds, were not famous and hardly anyone knew they were there,
Alert and trusting, they followed my steps, looked at me with their heads to one side, wondering and seeing,
They slept in my arms and closed their tiny eyes when I stroked under their beaks,
Laid eggs and loved wholemeal bread, sometimes combining the two in to a healthy treat in their run, pecking and pinching whatever they could,
Stood on my spade when I was trying to dig, and ate the biggest worms I ever did see,
Had me running in circles to catch them, jumped out of the hutch when I thought I’d put them in,
Kicked over their food tin so I’d give them more and always hid in the shed,
Rearranged their sleeping compartments when I had just cleaned them out, kicking the neat straw all over,
Ate all of my winter cabbages and nibbled at my sprouts, sat on the compost heap and looked around, Queens of the allotment!
Were brave in the face of danger, survived against the odds,
When poorly, they slept cozily in my basement, and understood when it was time to die,
They may have only been chickens to most, but to me they were my friends,
Always pleased to see me, they needed me, and greeted me loudly every day,
Three lives have been taken, but I will not forget them,
I will look back and smile, and talk kindly of Muriel, Edith and Ethel,
For they were the three hens that taught me that all life is precious, no matter how unnoticeable and small.
She's pretty tough for one so small
When things get rough she stands so tall
With a bundle of Love so beautiful
Good things come in small packages
God not her farts they smell like cabbages
Or rotten little darts of poison radishes
For a life so short what she's seen
Been through lows same as me
Even grown her own branch on the family tree
As her peace gets disturbed by a little wailer
The beast who deserves her halo
My sweet little niece I Love You Laila
If you knock her down she'll buckboard bounce
In her way back up she may just pounce
If you fill her heart with Love she'll never renounce
Of all the siblings near or far
You little sister are also a star
Just don't let her near the cookie jar
She's the only little sister I have got
I'm really sorry i'd hit her and often taunt
She's the only little sister I would want!
I don't think I tell you enough Tacey
Though your heads full of "stuff" an your totally crazy
I'm so glad to be bruv, you really amaze me. Xx
Form:
Old Friends
Come, sit with me and share some idle talk,
Of cabbages and kings, of life and death.
Or else, perhaps, opining as we walk,
We could discuss some current shibboleth.
We’ll wile away the day just as we please,
While deconstructing pop philosophy.
No topic is taboo, we’ll shoot the breeze
With politics mixed with theology.
Together we will save the planet Earth,
Preventing climate change from getting worse.
And when we’re done with that, for what it’s worth,
We’ll solve the riddles of the universe.
We’ll talk the talk and talk the walk and then
Tomorrow we will do it all again!
The Scene:
An explosion!
From those picking.. limbs tear
cabbages and cucumbers
combing children's hair
mixing with the backseat
of a zealot's Mercedes Benz
the gunpowder, smells of lamb,
and cotton, all blend
into a bitter, woolen,
prayerful smoldering
the faces, each one,
a sorrowful gurgling..
God sniffs, looking puzzled..
as usual, murmuring
'Why is this happening?
All this crumbling and burning!
Am I the god of Job,
of the savior foretold,
of the maiden unrobed,
of the crocodile's fold?'
'I created them all,
the most beautiful of races,
with a worn, savage love
for me in dry places,
I gave them this desert,
the Sirocco, sand dunes
where they hopelessly
struggle above catacombs
amid these car bombings,
and gun strapping martyrs
that blowup in my face
and all reason in shatters..'
'Stop it! stop!'
God moans, and he chatters
but a look in his face
tells you it doesn't matter..
I ask, 'Lord, why can't you
let good people live?
The fools we elected
can you ever forgive?
We all watch in horror,
and while your adored
the people in Dar fur
are swept up by warlords..'
(God's reply)
"Did you create pyramids,
were you Ramses slave,
do you think I look forward
to another small grave?
Have you fought in wars
when you didn't agree,
Who decides who wins
when they all pray to me?
It takes a whole village
to pull just one trigger
Womens wages are set by
Walmart's sale sticker
your planet is warming,
no snow packs for farming
bringing unwelcome guests
like mosquito borne pests,
greenhouse unrest, protecting
your own, consuming the rest.
I have eyes, I see everything
you never did, I have ears,
I hear empty words,
all things unsaid.. today's living,
may be tomorrows dead.."
(these are really my words, not God's, who I fear
is considering a reprise of the flood this year..)
After the betrayal
The veggies are being chopped whole day now by me
Lady fingers, carrots, cabbages, cauliflowers and chili.
The mocking eyes of each one make me thoughtful once again
Turning back, seeing them I feel myself bare, so very empty.
Cutting those crosswords, tossing, and then steaming ironically to cook
Lady fingers with their so many chambers attract me, with magnificent look.
I forget chopping them and fancifully recall my family’s previous chronicle
Where there were so many rooms, cabinets here and there made of ivory.
I used to control the entire castle with the queenly authority
The cleaner, the cook, driver and the gardener were always on duty,
All used to serve me, to satisfy me was their prime liability.
Each dust of that palace would even ask me before parting.
Now this poor me, deal only with potatoes, tomatoes and onions,
No room to stay, no cash, no stand-by member of staff, nothing I own today,
All I lost myself for my blind love, believing the gentleman who did betray.
Just a single night, it was raining drastically outside; I was locked at work,
Returning home I found, I’ve lost everything, the entire mountain love
My love be-fooled me, played with my faith, my belief, grabbed an additional,
Since then I left all, preferred this simple new life, full of fresh air more worthy
I’m now earning my own, far far away, in an unknown town solely, alone,
No family, no love, I’m myself and working in this veggie-cutting industry.
Ma issued a decree that Pa received with very little ardor:
"A vegetable garden is needed to supplement our meager larder!"
Pa would rather spend his leisure time snoozing on the couch,
But he allowed he'd better get to work to appease the dear old grouch!
Pa hadn't been an ardent granger when a young Hoosier lad,
Laboring under the demanding oversight of his agrarian Dad!
Since his options were rather slim, he set upon tilling a patch,
And with spade, shovel and rake cleared it of its thatch.
Ma said, "I want lettuce, radishes and sweet pertaters,
Carrots, cabbages, rhubarb and beefsteak termaters.
Onions, asparagus, sweet corn and blackeyed peas,
And celery, string beans and rutabagas if you please!"
Under Ma's constant cajoling his summer looked very bleak.
He knew he had a "long row to hoe," so to speak!
Pa spent the summer planting, weeding and ever wishing,
He'd be relieved of his plight so that he could go fishing!
For seeds, plants and such they'd spent a fortune in dough,
And all that hoeing and spading had'nt helped Pa's lumbago.
Muttering beneath his breath, "Things'll be different next year;
She can plant flowers - I'll sit in the shade and enjoy a frosty beer!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(© All Rights Reserved)
Placed No. 4 in How Does Your Garden Grow Contest
The Entrepreneur
I`m thinking of the man who was clearing land
He wanted to grow cabbage, a good idea especially
Since farmers get subsidies from EU for planting orange trees
The country drowning in orange twice a year
There many stones on the ground here and looks like
The extracted teeth of giants, so the man decided
To construct a pyramid for the untrained eye the mound
Of stones look like a heap of rocks, and it has also become
A Paradise for rabbits
The cabbages his soil produced were pathetic, so he gave
It up, he didn`t have the long view as a farmer needs.
He went to Franc instead and worked on a winery there.
He saved his money and began driving a Taxi I Paris but
Lost his licence for drinking wine on the job
Don’t plant cabbages near your buddleia bush
Not unless you want cabbages turned into mush
The butterflies love buddleia but they love cabbages too
And the baby caterpillars won’t want to share them with you
So take my advice and plant cabbages well away
Then you will have some leaves for your dinner today
Jan Allison
28th June 2014
A Vegetable Story
Broccoli, Spinach, yummy fresh Garden Peas,
Cabbages, Winter Greens, Cauliflower Trees.
Runner Beans and broad, Mange Tout so Francais,
Curly Kale, Crunchy Sprouts on a cold windy day.
Onions, Parsnips, Carrots and tall Welsh Leek,
King Edwards, Purple Turnip, ready next week.
Corn cut off the cob with sweet Barley Rice,
Mash up that Swede for a treat savour nice.
Tips of Asparagus are one acquired taste,
Into the soup, don’t let them go to waste.
Vegetable Squash with Butternut and Pumpkin,
Tearing Sour dough bread, ready for dunking.
Please don’t choke on a strange looking Arti’
Exclusively reserved for a Vegan style party.
Try some boiled Beet and a large slice of Yam,
Fennel is soporific, a bit like I am.
Parsley and Cress make a simple garnish,
Spring Onion and Celery, very Saladish.
Going to the wood, picking wild Mushroom,
Beware some are poison, Stomach-ache of doom.
Lots of choice for a Veggie style life,
No need for meat, no need of a knife.
Don’t want to preach, so my voice is on mute,
That’s all from the Veg, lets start on the Fruit.
Once upon a midsummer’s night,
I dreamed a dream of horses white,
of Billy goats and little fishes-
of dogs and cats and childhood wishes.
I dreamed of a dragon living by the sea,
and of the child I used to be-
of carrousel music and brass rings-
hard rock candy and cabbages and kings.
I dreamed a dream in black and white,
of a fire breathing monster and a gallant knight,
of sailing ships and an oaken tub-
of black birds singing and a rub-a-dub-dub.
I dreamed of candlesticks and cockleshells,
of little lost sheep and silver bells-
of turtle doves and diamond rings-
sealing wax and old kite strings.
I dreamed a dream of what not to eat-
green eggs and ham and pickled crows feet-
of someone named Spock and a mother goose,
of a nutty squirrel and a stupid bull moose.
I dreamed of a pie-man on the way to the fair
and of a poor doggie whose cupboard was bare-
of a crooked man and a crooked mile-
a crooked fence and a crooked pig stile.
I dreamed a dream of a merry old sole-
his fiddlers three and eggs of gold-
of spinning wheels and long silken hair-
of sleeping beauties and maidens fair.
I dreamed of cinders and slippers of glass-
of mice and pumpkins and knobs of brass-
of a golden harp that really sings
and of clocks and hats and other strange things.
frankly zapped after wildly oscillating
in tandem with seven bobble heads and ten French horns)
a devilish trumpeting event
by pre-Christian Celtic festival standards
with a “proto” Don twick or tweeting
like a Taj Mahal wonder of webbed, wide world scout
Samhain celebrated on nightfall of October 31
for bachanalia, candy corn, dreaded locks tot tout.
Now, the Celts I met lived 2,000 years ago
in the area now Ireland,
the United Kingdom and northern France,
believed that the dead,
cuz the underworld could not tolerate nor find stand
ding room, thus returned to earth on Samhain –
accessing a outdated map drawn by Rand McNally.
Though all roads leading to Rome,
would be millenniums as future did advance
but (mentioned for no particular rhyme nor reason)
only for discordant anachronism
Lewis Carroll took a tumble,
and neither fat nor slim chance,
would never find him completing Alice in Wonderland,
cuz quite an expanse
of centuries extant between his accidental slip
somewhere back in time at a glance
hence, he befell the same fate,
how Alice would never en hance
her life, yet the first stanza hailed
as powerful punch from grunting naked tribesman
with armstrong brandishing big lance
which phallic symbol extolled bare necessity,
and no need to wear seer sucker pants
even when inaugurating the ritual, including the verse
..."The time has come," the Walrus said
"To talk of ma ny things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."...
set the listeners in a trance
emptying coffers of bipedal feral simians to add vance
this yearly practice filling rucksacks
with berries, carrion and twigs.
Whether ya favor Golem, Hobgoblins, or Dybyk,
take pause buffer ja pour out massed goodies heck
enjoy satiating yar sweet tooth while still able to lick
every morsel of junk food afterwards a tooth pick
might be necessary to remove gobs that didst stick
analogous to tallow melted from candle wick.