Week 23 – Photograph by Chris Sims
Sorry for the delay in announcing the winner this week. I have been unwell. However I am delighted to announce that the winner is Sarah Miles with Forbidden Fruit. Congratulations to Sarah and many thanks to everyone who submitted and voted.
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Poem 1
The Unsaid
‘There’ll be no dancing tonight!’
She said with a knowing look
as he flounced out the room,
not able to slam the door
because she was there.
She was French,
our lodger,
to make ends meet,
while the children were small,
a favour for a friend.
She had a way
with words,
at looking at things,
of saying truths-
us Brits would leave unsaid.
Thirty years on,
we look at other couples
She would have said
‘There’ll be no dancing tonight!’
But we say..
‘Are we having lunch?’
…and fruit!
Angie Butler
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Poem 2
Rum Punch
Did you ever, plan a party?
Invites dispatched, meal choices, taut anticipation.
Did you ever, select the playlist?
Pounding start, mellower choices, later on.
Did you ever, prepare the delicacies?
Fine food, ripe fruits, divine chocolate.
Did you ever, host a party?
Catching up, funny stories, wines flowing
Did you ever, taste the punch?
Sliced fruits, warming nip, delicious flavour.
Did you ever, stop and see?
People smiling, Erin’s beauty, life’s moments.
Did you ever, stop and hear?
People laughing, punch-bowl clinking, Julie singing.
Did you ever, stop and feel?
Effort rewarded, selfless pleasure, the party’s charm.
Did you ever stop and wonder?
Never end, passed quickly, punch-bowl empty.
Did you ever?
Maybe a bit?
Kevin Eagles
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Poem 3
Nan
Wipe the flour from your hands, sit down
here, I will pull up your stool,
let me put the kettle on.
Small gold band, tight unmovable
hearing aid tucked in blouse pocket
she begins to deftly prepare the fruit
white haired, thin limbed
peering through horn rimmed specs.
Soon from nothing
creations appear
trifles, pies and crumbles
stewing fruit smells
through the kitchen of the big white house.
All that I have left is the wedding ring, tiny,
a metal pan with a burn on the base
and a cracked terracotta handle.
So I put away the stool
and bid farewell once more
to the little lady from Lancashire
who came to Leicester and loved us.
Andy Scotson
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Poem 4
Apple Pie
You see me peeling apples,
I am not.
I am a world away;
Reeling
wrapped in a past
You’re long forgotten there…
I’m scraping layer after layer
the last time we met –
Coming away in pieces,
he kissed my throat,
choking on our words
we placed a thousand dreams
in each other’s hearts.
You take my picture with a smile
Later, we will slice it –
this pie;
our wedding knife through the centre.
All I will remember is him
taking a bite from my apple
before he left.
Hannah Teasdale
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Poem 5
Sublime
“How can I get you ‘a-loan’?”
Sings the satsuma on the TV,
While the apple being sliced
Aint a’peeling to me!
Fruitful, married hands
Creating a dish;
Oblique and opaque,
A trifle much fruit for a cake?
…Although, I assume, will be nourishly delish.
It’s late, has been fun.
Bit of rhyming here,
And there the odd pun.
On this culinary front’ere,
Once all have been fed,
I surmise that little red
Longs to ripen in the sun.
Robert Mandefield
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Poem 6
Forbidden Fruit
She is apple:
Smooth, taut, sweet taste
Look closely and she will lure you
Until you pluck her from the tree.
She is orange:
Thick-skinned, soft beneath
Neroli flesh leaks acid tears
If you squeeze her hard.
She can be cut, stripped, bruised and split
Left too long and she will rot
Spread her decay to all who touch her.
Consume her now, fresh and vibrant
Crystallise her heart and preserve her soul.
Sarah Miles
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Poem 7
Specks of Blue
On Sundays, the kitchen always smelled of fruit orchards.
You’d been to the markets late, to see what was left
A bargain you said, a wooden crate rotten with fruit.
After roast beef, it was apple pie or fruit cocktail
The glass bowls would come out, from Woolworths
Patterned dappled with blue, plates brimming
With burnt crusts, carnation cream, lumpy custard
Dripping on to the white linen tablecloth,
My fingers never had it so well! Later, still stuffed
You’d get old newspaper and kneeling down
All the apples and oranges spread out on the papers
Blue mould, maggots squirming and bruised apples
I realised, my stomach sick, blue dots in the fruit cocktail.
Johanna Boal
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