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I was raised almost entirely on turnips and potatoes, but I think that the turnips had more to do with the effect than the potatoes.

quote by Marlene Dietrich
Added by Lucian Velea
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Sky Reflection

Quiet sky reflection

The sky over Europe is silent, but there is fear in the air, few lemons no oranges
and no mangos for starters. When planes do not pollute the sky we starve.
I remember a time when what we ate followed seasons plenty of fruit in the fall
of which we made jam. But we did have plenty of turnips. At Christmas, we killed
a pig and a ship docked with festive oranges and bananas. Millions of people are
stranded on foreign shores desperate to get home, planes are to refined to pass
a bit of volcanic ash. (And, it is called progress) a question remains why did they
leave in the first place? why are they so desperate to get back to the rainy place
they left? Mind, many didn’t want to go, but holidaying is a must, a human right.
Shoulder to shoulder with fellow travelers, suffer the indignity of being treated
as cattle at airports and made to like it. To be met with distain behind skilled at
at some dreadful hotel and be forced to eat when it suits the staff. You are not
a person, but a tourist good for the economy of, say, Spain. It worries me this
interconnected world a strike and a bit of ash and we have no potatoes, the most
stable of food. We must rethink globalization; learn to be more self-sufficient, let
our menus follow the seasons. Lamb with mint sauce is Easter food we need not
eat lamb in October but Irish stew with turnips and boiled home grown potatoes.

poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Happy Gardeners

We were storemen, clerks and packers on
an ammunition dump
Twice the size of Cootamundra, and the goods
we had to hump
They were bombs as big as water-butts, and
cartridges in tons,
Shells that looked like blessed gasmains, and
a line in traction-guns.

We had struck a warehouse dignity in dealing
with the stocks.
It was, “Sign here, Mr. Eddie!” “Clarkson,
forward to the socks!”
Our floor-walker was a major, with a nozzle
like a peach,
And a stutter in his Trilbies; and a limping
kind of speech.

We were off at eight to business, we were free
for lunch at one,

[...] Read more

poem by Edward George Dyson
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The Shepherd's Week (excerpt)

MONDAY, OR, THE SQUABBLE
Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, CloddipoleCUDDY

Hold, witless Lobbin Clout, I thee advise,
Lest blisters sore on thy own tongue arise.
Lo yonder Cloddipole, the blithesome swain,
The wisest lout of all the neighbouring plain!
From Cloddipole we learnt to read the skies,
To know when hail will fall, or winds arise.
He taught us erst the heifer's tail to view,
When stuck aloft, that show'rs would straight ensue;
He first that useful secret did explain,
That pricking corns foretold the gath'ring rain.
When swallows fleet soar high and sport in air,
He told us that the welkin would be clear.
Let Cloddipole then hear us twain rehearse,
And praise his sweetheart in alternate verse.
I'll wager this same oaken staff with thee,
That Cloddipole shall give the prize to me.LOBBIN CLOUT

[...] Read more

poem by John Gay
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Eternal Eden

Under a splendid sky of orange and grey,
Awakened a dawn as lovely as the foremost day,
And there beneath the rainbow and blueberry hills,
More beautiful than a proud peacock’s quills,
A place called Eden with endless delights,
A lush garden by day with Arcadian nights.

The Creator is the only sovereign in this land,
On every hill and valley, you can see God’s hand.
He’s loved and praised with every creature’s breath,
For by His grace, we know not the sting of death.
There are many flower blooms to brighten all life.
The birds melodious songs soothe away strife.

There’s food for the stomach and thrills for the eye,
For all God’s creatures of land, water, and sky.
We have leaves for the butterfly and nectar for the bee,
And berries for the springbok and still plenty fruit for me.
The hippo has plenty green grass with grasshoppers for the snake,
And as many fat rabbits as the hungry lion can take.

[...] Read more

poem by Albert Price
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The Shepherd's Week : Monday; or the Squabble

Lobbin Clout, Cuddy, Cloddipole

Lobbin Clout.
Thy younglings, Cuddy, are but just awake,
No thrustles shrill the bramble-bush forsake
No chirping lark the welkin sheen invokes,
No damsel yet the swelling udder strokes;
O'er yonder hill does scant the dawn appear,
Then why does Cuddy leave his cott so rear?

Cuddy.
Ah Lobbin Clout! I ween, my plight is guest,
'For he that loves, a stranger is to rest;'
If swains belye not, thou hast prov'd the smart
And Blouzelinda's mistress of thy heart.
This rising rear betokeneth well thy mind,
Those arms are folded for thy Blouzelind.
And well, I trow, our piteous plights agree,
Thee Blouzelinda smiles, Buxoma me.

[...] Read more

poem by John Gay
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What Was Important

A bike
a dog
a friend

Apples
rain
and ringworm

Chilblains and
throwing stones

Fishing
buttermilk and
hitting things

Pubic hair
Football boots, and
a railroad without rails

Toffee

[...] Read more

poem by Sean Joyce
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Unattended!

you speak of love with an absent voice,
stumbling numbly down the stairway
to the basement where desire rumored lurks.
the man on the screen trills of wars,
and crimes committed beneath white shirts.
and the sweet Jesus prayers of the unemployed,
cut crack rocks on bare tables.
even the dog mourns the heated silence,
while turnips boil in a touch-me-not pot.
death taunts the branch against your window,
the broom stands unattended!

poem by Eric Cockrell
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You Are

you are...
the swollen tongue of destiny,
spilling from the mouth.
the lips of hunger,
swallowing the sword.
the rose petal fallen,
shaking the ground like thunder.
the beating sound of wings,
shaking the skies.
you are...
the block wall laid,
with skill and precision.
the smell of turnips,
boiling on the stove.
the cupboard door open,
a full bag of sugar.
clothes worn to revival,
drenched with redemption.
you are...
the bridge between, I and thou...

poem by Eric Cockrell
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Guard Us

Guard us from wrong in the way
People dismay and do away with justice.
Special logs are rolling for talk of immortality
Then utmost, always in order to achieve
The biggest reward, a sentence is written
For the work and I have also meaning attached.
Guard us from the inaccuracy of spelling,
How this turns into right, not wrong.
We faster grow our turnips in the garden
Of our triumphs, triumphant being is ours.
The wrong of dear people is forced upon the strange,
Inside them is a disease though, thought to be mindless.

poem by Naveed Akram
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