Spectator competition winners: odes to unglamorous vegetables

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.