COMPETITION

Haughty-culture

Jaspistos

IN COMPETITION NO. 1831 you were invited to write a poem dealing with the U and non-U in the gardener's world.

I possess a garden but I can't abide gardening, which makes it easy for me to escape vulgarity, since according to a recent article one of the marks of a U garden is "'natural areas" left untended for wildflowers and butterflies'. Yes, my wilderness is a real class act of inaction. You all revelled in this comp., the standard was as high as an old-time station master's hollyhock, and I'm sorry I can't include Mary Holtby and Stanley J. Sharpless among the prizewinners printed below, who take £20 each. The bonus bottle of Drummond's Pure Malt Scotch whisky goes to Watson Weeks for a surprise piece written (pardon my French) de bas en haut.

I've not been to Sissinghurst Castle; To me Sackville-West's just a name; I can picture the sight of a garden all white, But up 'ere we've a serious game.

Where I live we've got nowt but allotments; What we grow's 'orticultural freaks; What's U and non-U, it 'as mainly to do With the size of yer onions and leeks.

There's folks as'll kill for a marrow Like a Barnes Wallis invention, Or mortgage the 'ouse (plus the kids and the spouse) For a parsnip that gets Special Mention.

No, we're not in Great Gardens of Britain, No more we're a Nat Trust shrine; But though she were clever, I'll bet Vita never Grew carrots as gradely as mine!

(Watson Weeks) Hoover the astro-turf, Agnes, The rubber plant's needing a dust, The begonias arc out of alignment And a bonny display is a must.

Put the daffs where the Joneses can see them, What a pity the lupins aren't out; Will that window-box full of geraniums Detract from the bcrberis' clout?

I can't put my hand on the pansies, And what did I do with the rake? Now where is the hose for the roses Will they spot that the tulips are fake?

Azaleas are lovely in springtime, Forget-me-nots make a brave show; We can capture the cup for Best Garden If only the gladdies will grow. (Ian Dunlop) The Boom had our garden before us; They were frightfully, frightfully twee; They never said 'flowers', but chatted for hours About things that meant nothing to me.

It was leaves that they seemed to be after; They adored shades of green, that's for sure; And whatever bloomed they simply assumed Should be foreign, and white, and obscure.

They were mad about Harold and Vita, And vistas, and cover, and tone; The turned up their noses at hybrid tea roses And talked about types of their own.

We very soon dug up their rubbish And put in a pool for the boy; Then we made, out of hedges and annuals and veggies, A garden for us to enjoy. (Paul Griffin) Oh, the pampas grass looks lovely Beside the moulded pool With that little wotsit fishing From his little fishing stool.

And the lawn is so much trimmer Now that edging has been sunk, And we've got tea roses growing From our lacquered hollow trunk.

And what a show those 'mums make With their fluffy rounded heads — 1 like the multi-toned ones best, All purples, pinks and reds.

But the feature that I crave most, And I think you might agree, Is a quarter-sized pagoda

With a matching willow tree. (W.J. Webster) Pass me the paint-brush, Norman. That gnome is in need of a dab. His poor little hat looks quite dingy, And his jacket is ever so drab. Does pillar-box red really suit him? I think I prefer navy blue.

He was 'made by John Major's father, So he cost us a shilling or two.

Look there! That's our miniature golf course. We've managed to squeeze in three holes. Ah! You've spotted the bumps on the fairway, I could cheerfully murder those moles.

And what do you think of my bird-bath?

Look! There, by the old rustic bench.

You must see my tits in the water.

Whoops! Dearie me! Pardon my French!

(Keith Norman)