In Competition No. 3294, you were invited to provide the first 16 lines of an ode to a turnip or another similarly unglamorous vegetable. This assignment was prompted, of course, by Thérèse Coffey’s suggestion that we respond to shortages in salad vegetables by embracing the turnip. But I also had in mind the wonderful odes of Pablo Neruda, which celebrate the commonplace: onions, lemons, a piece of tuna in the market.
In a witty and well-made entry, echoes ranged from Pindar to Keats. Commendations to Hunter Liguore, Ann Drysdale and Richard Spencer. The winners earn £25.
Thou staunch, unrivalled beet of bulk and brawn,
Thou offspring of the fecund, fertile soil,
Long to thy leaves and roots have men been drawn
To steam or mash, or dice, or brew, or boil;
Like cannon balls your magnitude and weight
Brim full of wholesome nutrients and worth,
The appetite of man and beast can sate
And outclass all that grows in loamy earth.Oh happy, happy orphan boys of old
Who gorged upon thy sweet and meaty flesh,
Oh happy men who brewed, as bright as gold,
Thy alcoholic beverage, sweet and fresh;
Hurled in sport or served as tender fare,
There is no finer vegetable to grow,
That mangelwurzels shine beyond compare
Is all men know and all they need to know.Alan Millard
My heart aches for potatoes chiselled down
To golden chips that tempt me on their plate;
Or for potatoes roasted till they’re brown,
A rich repast to please a head of state.
Child of the earth, you come in humble guise
Stained with the soil from which you drew your being;
Nature’s own gift to humans, her surprise;
When carved to eat so tasty, so appealing.You were not born for death, immortal spud;
No hungry humans brought about your night.
Across the years you’ve thrived in mire and mud
To rise supreme, a cordon bleu delight.
The fare I eat this very day was known
To palates of the peasant and the king;
I bless you, proud potato, nobly grown
In far-off fields where happy songbirds sing.Frank McDonald
On either side the greenhouse lie
Among the allioideae
That clothe the earth and meet the sky
Upon my humble plot,
Some leeks I grow for chicken pie,
Some chives and garlic you can fry,
Some onions that will make you cry –
And one remote shallot.To this shallot let praises sing!
From this shallot I’m fashioning
A shepherd’s pie fit for a king
And knights of Camelot.
O hail, sweet-scented allium!
You thrill my archipallium.
More soothing thou than Valium –
The Fragrance of Shallot!David Silverman
Oh, simple swede, our culinary muse!
Within that purple skin, your golden flesh
when roasted, steamed, or diced in soups or stew
will titillate our flavour buds afresh.Swede gnocchi’s tasty, served with crispy sage;
there’s buttered mash, or swede and cumin patties,
up north, a curried swede is all the rage –
across the border: haggis, neeps and tatties.And that’s not all, you offer us a wealth
of vitamins: B6, with C and E
and fibre to protect our bowel health –
what’s more, you’re gloriously gluten-free!What can I say? You are beyond compare,
I cannot cease to praise your matchless taste,
I’ll never find a crucifer more fair –
read on now, lest my words should go to waste…Sylvia Fairley
Of all the roots we dig and eat,
By far the most ambrosial treat
Is purplish-red like wine or meat.
All hail the root we call the beet.Its hue, though royally elite,
Fills it with no highborn conceit,
This ruddy gem beneath our feet.
Hail, humble root we call the beet.The golden version skews more sweet,
A flavour not at all petite.
Both colours we are glad to greet
With ‘Hail the root we call the beet!’Its bulb is robust, not effete.
We taste the rich Earth when we eat
This veg that makes our hearts repeat
Praise to the root we call the beet.Chris O’Carroll
Fruit of the fertile Earth, whose loamy Womb
Hath borne thee from those Seeds which Sowers lay
Deep in encompassed Dark, from Stygean Tom
To furrowed Lines whose Leaflets break the clay,
Welcome! Let Light thy strengthening Leaves make bold –
Nutritious in themselves – and feed each Globe
With all sweet Nature can bestow, from gold
of sunlit Dawn to Evening’s mellower Robe.Brassica rapa: modest Food, beloved
Of simple Folk who till our native Soil,
Let not thy homely Habits find thee shoved
Aside, and mocked, fit just for those who toil
With honest Hands, far from the ruling Powers
Whose Ignorance of thee is manifest,
Whose lack of Knowledge is the Cloud that glowers
Above us daily, keeping all oppressed.D.A. Prince
No. 3297: all in the mind
You are invited to provide a psychiatrist’s report on a well-known literary character (please specify). Please email entries of up to 150 words to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 26 April.
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