Spectator competition winners: a kiwi fruit for Emily Dickinson

In Competition No. 3194, inspired by Tony Harrison’s poem ‘A Kumquat for John Keats’, you were invited to write a poem of that title but substituting your choice of poet and a piece of fruit. It was a palmary entry, so I’ve made space for an extra winner.

Hats off, all round, and £20 each to those printed below.

On Wenlock Edge you stand distraught, Your brow compressed, your features taut,And weep to contemplate the fate Of creatures in a fallen state. To you the lover’s solemn vowIs frail as blossoms on the bough,While tunes that stir the patriot’s blood Leave young men perished in the mud. Because your verses tip the scaleUnevenly to hopes that failOr ruined dreams, may I upliftYour sad heart with a special gift? Accept, to balance your purview,This bowl of cherries just for you,As consolation for mankindWhen mortal matters touch the mind.Basil Ransome-Davies

Have an avocado, Henry, From Aisle Twenty-Two in Fresco, In a tray of sculpted cardboard Double-wrapped in sturdy plastic (Though its alligator casing Might withstand a bolt of lightning That the Shawnees’ Animikii, Animikii, Thunder Spirit, Sends across the sacred mountains), Ready for your great consumption Possibly with prawns within it, Fresco prawns kept fresh by freezer, Ready stripped of their intestine, Do not eat the black vein, Henry, Whip up mayonnaise and ketchup, Dear-oh-dear, your pear’s rock solid. Bill Greenwell

If we give poor Tom a peach,Will he eat it on the beach?Will he rub against the panes?Will he eat it by the drains? Will he eat it from a plate?Will he murder and create?Will a juicy drupe taste sweetIn a half-deserted street? Can a fur-skinned fruit reverseWhat disturbs the universe,Be it patients etherisedOr decisions re-revised? Will he weep and fast or eat it?Will he find a face to meet it?Shall we seek him on the beach?Shall we tempt him with a peach?Chris O’Carroll

A small shop window caught my eye today,Bright fruits of every colour on display,A harvest hymn of hues, all gathered in,As tempting as an evening lime and gin;Yet, even though I could have fancied eachAnd every one, my favourite was the peachWhich made me think of you — the gentle wayYou’d feel its felt-like flesh and then surveyEach detail of its pink, late summer hazeAnd call to mind your sunlit Surrey days.Then, savouring that first delicious bite,How glad you’d be and sad you’d be, delightTinged with regret, for though both sweet and tartIts juice might taste, a stone lies at its heart.Your fruit brought joy but touched on sorrow too,Just like this peach, the essence, John, of you.Alan Millard

As if a shaggy Egg — could hold A Galaxy of Green —With starburst rays — not liquid Gold —And small black seeds — between — Exotic — as a Persian RugFrom distant Samarkand —This pocket Eden nestles — snugAnd homely — in my Hand — Just as the Skylark’s drab outsideHolds Arias — but furled — Its burlap Coat — conspires to hidea slippery — Emerald World — That has the taste — Temptation has — As Tart — and Sweet — as sin —Denouncing my indulgence — asIt dribbles down — my Chin —Susan McLean

‘I have heard, Father Lewis,’ began his young guest,‘That, living immured in your cloisters,Your meals are increasingly dull to ingest,And you yearn for some fruit with your oysters. Although you have tried them with pineapple pickle,Your appetite, sadly, has faded.I’ve come to suggest a receipt that may tickleA palate that’s thoroughly jaded. Here’s a platter of molluscs: there’s cuttlefish, clam,Abalone and mussel and scallop,Which go very well with my gooseberry jam —Pray allow me to give you a dollop.’Brian Allgar

Might you consider, Milton, how you couldBe brightening your life, though light’s denied,To taste a fruit that’s flavoursome and good,And Soil Association certified.To feel its firm exterior, and soonTo pierce the skin and reach the flesh laid bareIntense and dark, amid the blaze of noon,For, though you see it not, you’re yet aware.Upon your lips the fragrant juice might stay;Perhaps, unnoticed, linger on your chin —The stone, unyielding, may be cast away.You fondly ask for more; it is no sin,The humble cherry, offering its treasureCan serve its Maker, giving blameless pleasure.Sylvia Fairley