Poetry competition CLOSED 17th July 2023 4:21pm
WINNER
Razzerleaf
Razzerleaf
RUNNER-UP:
Betty
Page:
Mama’s Herbery
Anonymous
Poetry Contest Description
Use the prompt of herbs to weave into a free-form poem.
Imagine any herb that you can find nestling in your kitchen or growing in your garden.
What smells does it evoke?
What memories does it bring forth?
Where does the prompt take you?
Use the prompt of herbs to craft a free-form poem of your choosing.
Guidelines
• Cannabis will not be accepted for this comp.
• Free-form poems. Any length. Just don’t go mad.
• New writes only
• Spoken word allowed
• Image poems allowed
• Up to 3 entries per human
• Comp judged by host
• Two weeks
Anonymous
Deleted.
I would like to join in but my head keeps going back to this poem I wrote sometime ago so I just post it as an example and hope for some inspiration.
Mint from another Tyme
We thought they had died off,
like the Sunday lunch invites
spooned into gravy, smeared over lamb,
relaxing after with a good red
while the dog cried for leftovers.
There are parts of our garden
I haven't visited in a while,
too much work, too many weeds
but today there's a southerly breeze
that takes me back to that table.
Just for a moment you are with me
and I hear the kitchen clatter,
see your faces, each in its own place.
I follow that path and find you
not gone at all, just out of sight.
I shout to the house
"Guess what? they came back"
crush a handful and inhale
as if to store more moments. "Thank you"
I whispered as if the leaves could hear me.
Mint from another Tyme
We thought they had died off,
like the Sunday lunch invites
spooned into gravy, smeared over lamb,
relaxing after with a good red
while the dog cried for leftovers.
There are parts of our garden
I haven't visited in a while,
too much work, too many weeds
but today there's a southerly breeze
that takes me back to that table.
Just for a moment you are with me
and I hear the kitchen clatter,
see your faces, each in its own place.
I follow that path and find you
not gone at all, just out of sight.
I shout to the house
"Guess what? they came back"
crush a handful and inhale
as if to store more moments. "Thank you"
I whispered as if the leaves could hear me.
Anonymous
Thanks Razzerleaf. I can’t take it as an entry because it’s not new, but it’s a brilliant piece I’m happy to take as an example non-entry.
Thank you. 🙂
Thank you. 🙂
Parson's nose, Rose, Mary and some Time
I find it difficult remembering stuff
and my brain developed a way to cope
for example Basil could be found
in Faulty Towers and Coriander
found in Coronation street...
Parsley could be teased from Song
which I'd sift through to also find
Sage, Rosemary and Thyme.
Sorrel could be found in Cowboy Films
just don't ask me why. In the same vein
Chervil was hid in the Three Musketeers.
Tarragon has great virtue.
Dill developed into something Risque.
Mint can be found in the evening time
or at least After Eight and as for Marjoram,
Marjorie, is my lovely Mum...
and my brain developed a way to cope
for example Basil could be found
in Faulty Towers and Coriander
found in Coronation street...
Parsley could be teased from Song
which I'd sift through to also find
Sage, Rosemary and Thyme.
Sorrel could be found in Cowboy Films
just don't ask me why. In the same vein
Chervil was hid in the Three Musketeers.
Tarragon has great virtue.
Dill developed into something Risque.
Mint can be found in the evening time
or at least After Eight and as for Marjoram,
Marjorie, is my lovely Mum...
Written by Rew
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Addictive tendencies and the art of not avoiding dog piss
I.
He was too fucked up to be the Best man
and just to prove her right,
he was late as an usher.
His head digested council estate chloroform's
hands trapped in the till, credit cards turned over in court,
slept on a bar stool, everyone's fool.
He wore a banana yellow suit to the after church bit,
borrowed a tenner then split.
Bought us an 1980's Schwarts spice rack
kept in the cupboard, she told him it was tat.
In the 90's the monkey on his back
pointed out it was a fucking herb rack.
II.
I hated Sundays
nothing to do, shite all on tele
had to stay in and tidy
until we'd had dinner.
On the odd occasion we had lamb
Mam always sent me out
to pick the mint for the sauce.
My prick of a brother followed up with
"I order you to go and fetch mint
make sure you get the high leaves".
I didn't eat mint sauce,
but my brother did.
He was too fucked up to be the Best man
and just to prove her right,
he was late as an usher.
His head digested council estate chloroform's
hands trapped in the till, credit cards turned over in court,
slept on a bar stool, everyone's fool.
He wore a banana yellow suit to the after church bit,
borrowed a tenner then split.
Bought us an 1980's Schwarts spice rack
kept in the cupboard, she told him it was tat.
In the 90's the monkey on his back
pointed out it was a fucking herb rack.
II.
I hated Sundays
nothing to do, shite all on tele
had to stay in and tidy
until we'd had dinner.
On the odd occasion we had lamb
Mam always sent me out
to pick the mint for the sauce.
My prick of a brother followed up with
"I order you to go and fetch mint
make sure you get the high leaves".
I didn't eat mint sauce,
but my brother did.
Written by Razzerleaf
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Bouquet garni
For alchemy lies in leaf or root
all bound together like a family
together held, seemingly so innocuous
but to the chef or cook it is a triumph
as a conductor holds the notes
for their assembly of individuality
each bringing a personality
like a close harmony group
each flavour and essence blending to enrich
our life, it is the same, a pick and mix
depending on the seasons as they turn
a bouquet garni, the harvest from the herbery
that agreement warms the inner being
for food and love are intertwined
there powers are hidden, the subtlety combined
Written by slipalong
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Tomato vines, and her tanned, wrinkled shoulders
Her silver hair hanging
in a braid down her
thin, strong back,
made me ache to
be like her as
we picked
green tomatoes
to put on the
windowsill.
The smell of the tomato vine
was menthol to my
queer little mind,
something like soul salve
with its elusive
tang of green
and spice
and pure.
Her planter boxes held
snapdragons,
and petunias,
and pansies,
and the box nearest
to the kitchen
always gave a few
tomatoes, peppers and eggplant
during the hot Florida summer.
She wore gloves to keep her
nails nice,
and lipstick, because a lady does;
her skin a modern nightmare
of wrinkles and color,
and she,
a suede goddess of things that grow,
like plants and granddaughters,
would sigh as her hands sank into
the good ground,
and the sun made
sweat droplets
dance among
the baby hairs
at her temples.
She crossed an ocean,
lost her only
child to a dragon’s kiss,
and in an era when
women didn’t,
she did.
She had a god,
a garden,
a granddaughter
to comfort her
in her beautiful
aging,
and while I never
heard her cuss,
she embodied
the art of
zero fucks.
In those brief years
I had a mother;
in those years
I still believed I could
empty the ocean
with a paper cup,
and have an unbent back
with a good heart.
In those days,
she put my hair
in a braid
so that I could
I could
be like her;
she put my hands
in the earth
so that I’d
remember
to be
like me
and until I smelled
the tomato vine
in your planter box
I’d forgotten
how to be either
in a braid down her
thin, strong back,
made me ache to
be like her as
we picked
green tomatoes
to put on the
windowsill.
The smell of the tomato vine
was menthol to my
queer little mind,
something like soul salve
with its elusive
tang of green
and spice
and pure.
Her planter boxes held
snapdragons,
and petunias,
and pansies,
and the box nearest
to the kitchen
always gave a few
tomatoes, peppers and eggplant
during the hot Florida summer.
She wore gloves to keep her
nails nice,
and lipstick, because a lady does;
her skin a modern nightmare
of wrinkles and color,
and she,
a suede goddess of things that grow,
like plants and granddaughters,
would sigh as her hands sank into
the good ground,
and the sun made
sweat droplets
dance among
the baby hairs
at her temples.
She crossed an ocean,
lost her only
child to a dragon’s kiss,
and in an era when
women didn’t,
she did.
She had a god,
a garden,
a granddaughter
to comfort her
in her beautiful
aging,
and while I never
heard her cuss,
she embodied
the art of
zero fucks.
In those brief years
I had a mother;
in those years
I still believed I could
empty the ocean
with a paper cup,
and have an unbent back
with a good heart.
In those days,
she put my hair
in a braid
so that I could
I could
be like her;
she put my hands
in the earth
so that I’d
remember
to be
like me
and until I smelled
the tomato vine
in your planter box
I’d forgotten
how to be either
Written by Betty
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The Blood
a pinch of nutmeg
on top of your thoughts
intimate and unruly mixing
a touch of cardamom
on top of the most hidden parts
of your animal instincts
a scent of star anise
in your armpits and on your fingertips
in the sweat of your knees
smoked paprika salt
to sweeten your vital liquids
running through your open cracks
fresh turmeric and chamomile
to flavor your saliva
and thin the blood, the blood
you turn the blood into water
the water turns into wine
and the wine mixes with the blood.
PAR
on top of your thoughts
intimate and unruly mixing
a touch of cardamom
on top of the most hidden parts
of your animal instincts
a scent of star anise
in your armpits and on your fingertips
in the sweat of your knees
smoked paprika salt
to sweeten your vital liquids
running through your open cracks
fresh turmeric and chamomile
to flavor your saliva
and thin the blood, the blood
you turn the blood into water
the water turns into wine
and the wine mixes with the blood.
PAR
Written by PAR
(PAULO ACACIO RAMOS)
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