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12 YEAR OLD COMPETITION

SCOTCH WHISKY

1..11117AS 12 YEAR OLD SCOTCH WHISKY

Garden of verses

Jaspistos

In Competition No. 1675 you were in- vited to write a poem, suited to our own day, inspired by Kipling's opinion: 'Our England is a garden'.

Kipling's bracing poem beginning with those words always makes me feel a guilty wimp:

'There's not a pair of legs so thin, there's not a head so thick, There's not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick,

But it can find some needful iob that's crying to vv uv11C. . .

The view you took of England qua garden was almost unanimously derisory:

'The garden that was England has largely gone to seed; Where once was kind of weed'

or, worse still:

'Ubiquitous used condoms are ungallant in the grass, And broken, stained syringes crunch as little children pass' (Jenny Morris)

I hurry to the winners, printed below, who get £18 each, and I present the bonus

thrift is panic grass and every (W. Rodgers)

bottle of Chivas Regal 12-year-old de luxe blended whisky to Philip Dacre.

Take a walk through England's garden, a gratifying sight, Where nature and man's handiwork wreak visual delight, Where the boring woods and pastures in which sheep once used to graze Have been neatly excavated for dual carriage- ways, And instead of static hedgerows full of useless haws and hips We can watch the speeding van-loads of oven- ready chips.

Walk along the humming wayside, where sprout the works of man: The gaily-coloured pizza-box, the shining lager can, The sturdy plastic glove, the fluttering fertiliser- bag, The well-disposed-of nappy, the winking girlie mag; Then jump into your car yourself, and join the bustling scene,

Seek out the garden's confines, the fast-receding green,

And, several gallons later, take a break where there's a view, When it's time for Dad to have a nap and Rex to do a poo.

What's that you say? No room to stop? A shambles! A disgrace!

They should cover up those green bits, and make some parking space!

(Philip Dacre) Before the Germans came to Slough and Japanese to Wales The British businessman made Spode and steel and Chippendales; He packed his goods in honest wood and all the fields were green Before the wicked scientists invented polythene. We saw it heaped in mountains that would not rot away The day we drove to Manchester by way of Colwyn Bay.

The modern English tradesman uses plastic in the shops, The farmer from his chopper sprinkles poison on his crops, The trout lies belly upwards in contaminated streams And the Englishman sees nightmares where he dreamt his rural dreams.

We heard the cows complaining in the factory farming sheds The day we drove to Blackpool Bay by way of Dumping Beds.

(Richard Blomfield) Sun-warmed magnolia, Rose rubrifolia, Stately acanthus And hellebores rare Bloom in the balmier Air where the smarmier Soft-centred southerners Garden with care.

Gritty ground elder, Bug-blighted guelder, Mildews and cankers And red-clay-clogged boots Make northern gardening

Hand-callus-hardening,

Hard graft that brings nowt But stunted, starved roots.

(D. A. Prince) How many fruits and flowers used to grow In our English country garden! England, as those well versed in verse will know, Was guaranteed to turn a bard on When our green and pleasant plot Was a lovesome thing, God wot!

Maud, pass the Woodbines! (Beg pardon?) Eve and Eden are a myth Loosely based on Granny Smith And our English country garden.

Now we're a global greenhouse, not a lawn, And our yellowing green's in danger - We'll have to grow baked beans instead of corn, As the palms displace hydrangea.

Native plants give way to new Foreign fugitives from Kew, See how our garden grows stranger.

Might as well join the fun - Plant a Triffid '91!

(Please forgive me, Percy Grainger.) (Steve Bremner)