Quotes about cabbage, page 8
Reasonable Interest
I want to know how Bernard Shaw
Likes beefsteak—fairly done, or raw?
I want to know what kinds of shoes
M. Maeterlinck and Howells use.
I have great curiosity
Regarding George Ade’s new boot tree.
Has Carolyn Wells of late employed
Hairpins of wire or celluliod?
What kind of soap does London like?
Does Robert Chambers ever 'hike'?
Or did he ever? Or, if not,
Does he like cabbage, cheese, or what?
I want to know the size of gloves
Oppenheim wears, and if he loves
Olives, and how his clothes are made.
What does he eat? How is he paid?
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poem by Ellis Parker Butler
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Butterflies
Eyes aloft, over dangerous places,
The children follow the butterflies,
And, in the sweat of their upturned faces,
Slash with a net at the empty skies.
So it goes they fall amid brambles,
And sting their toes on the nettle-tops,
Till, after a thousand scratches and scrambles,
They wipe their brows and the hunting stops.
Then to quiet them comes their father
And stills the riot of pain and grief,
Saying, "Little ones, go and gather
Out of my garden a cabbage-leaf.
"You will find on it whorls and clots of
Dull grey eggs that, properly fed,
Turn, by way of the worm, to lots of
Glorious butterflies raised from the dead." . . .
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poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Albert's Allotment
Albert loved being on his allotment
he'd be on his plot everyday of the week
growing Cauliflower, Parsnip, Cabbage,
and winning awards for his Carrots, and Leek.
He spent so much time on his allotment
his wife thought he was having an affair
but Albert was more interested in his Potatoes
than any curvy woman with long Blonde hair.
When it rained Albert sat in his shed
reading Gardening books and having a cuppa
then he'd be out again digging for hours
till his wife called him in for his supper.
Albert liked growing all sorts of vegetables
but his favourite of the lot was the Marrow
he could grow them so big and so large
that some wouldn't fit into his Wheelbarrow.
Albert is buried down on his beloved allotment
as that was to be his final dying wish
when tearfully his wife asked him why he replied:
'So I can keep an eye on my Runner Beans and Radish! '
poem by Kevin Halls
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Bleak Coast
Bleak Coast
On a sea that is a clear green mirror the ship sails past
sandy shore on a day the fierce wind that always rules
this shore has taken has taken a day off. Harmony and
silence the sun has taken on an African hue, burning
Nordic skin brown; a day dream perhaps, can a land so
cold and remote be so sultry beautiful, dress up like
a Mediterranean tart attracting tourists by the scores
to swim in her tepid embrace?
A sudden shadow casts a net the unseen’s rest is over,
the sea’s skin cringes, heaves and slaps the shore in
a triple salty spray. Freedom, a dream; endless wind is
back the cruel ruler of land and sea, the shoreline is
misery as are the round shouldered, windblown people
who makes a living tilling unwilling soil to produce pale
carrots, small potatoes and white, hard cabbage which
they eat with sour milk and many prayers.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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The Space Coast
Florida
An Airedale rolling through green frost,
cabbage palms pointing their accusing leaves
at whom, petulant waves breaking at my feet.
I ran from them. Nights, yellow lights
scoured sand. What was ever found
but women in skirts folded around the men
they loved that Friday? No one found me.
And how could that have been, here, where
even botanical names were recorded
and small roads mapped in red?
Night, the sky is black paper pecked with pinholes.
Tortoises push eggs into warm sand.
Was it too late to have come here?
Everything's discovered. Everything's spoken for.
The air smells of salt. My lover's body.
Perhaps it is too late. I want to run
the beach's length, because it never ends.
The barren beach. Airedales grow
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poem by Deborah Ager
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Viewpoint
some people said I was crazy
And some people said I was lazy
And some people said I was on course
For a fully fledged 'divorce'
Until I said 'listen, I'm not married'
Some people said I was always carried
By other people with as much emotional baggage
Some people said I looked like a cabbage
And some people said I was as BIG AS A HOUSE
Some people said I was as quiet as a mouse
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poem by Yvette Smith
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Sunday Morn...
Balcony birds eye view
Of tiny gardens as tin soldiers
Tight in a row
Some as spoilt cherished children
Desired domains
Some have dinked boxes
Former relished
Remains....yet still standing
One seems a foxes
Potential secret den
Wildflower prolific
Non specific
Design on the eye
Nor ideas of grandest
Grace
Just good honest wildflowers
Bursting over and out
Of their space....
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poem by Karen Sinclair
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Meandering
Meandering
The moon tonight looks like a golden gondola sailing on a black sea
only casting anchor at dawn. I remember a gondola trip in Venice
grey water, cabbage, onions and apple peels, I wished the gondolier
had been quieter. I sailed across the Black Sea once, from Georgia
To the Dardanelles, and sea was frosty white.
We anchored just outside Istanbul waiting for clearance, small boats
came sold us sweet wine and liqueurs. After an endless journey on
an old ship we drank too much and got sick, but for a few hours we
forgot about the poverty of our wretched life.
An endless voyage to Reykjavik, Iceland, the sea around the island
was dark blue. But the beer there was so insipid that we had no chance
to forget our misery. Moon, it has no business looking like a gondola,
it is a balloon. So bring in the empty horses; suave was David Niven
you couldn’t see he was acting his socks off.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Wistful
Oh how I'd be gay and glad
If a little house I had,
Snuggled in a shady lot,
With behind a garden plot;
Simple grub, old duds to wear,
A book, a pipe, a rocking-chair . . .
You would never hear me grouse
If I had a little house.
Oh if I had just enough
Dough to buy the needful stuff;
Milk and porridge, toast and tea,
How contented I would be!
You could have your cake and wine,
I on cabbage soup would dine,
Joking to the journey's end -
Had I just enough to spend.
Oh had I no boss to please
I'd give thanks on bended knees;
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poem by Robert William Service
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0243 The Second Coming
This first August week, the geraniums
are flowering their second flush:
they braved last winter, huddled like cabbage stalks
so as to be inconspicuous
to the meddlesome and sterile fingers of frost,
then burst into abundant life, as did the pelargoniums,
with a blatant generosity or hymn of praise as if
to prove some point we'd overlooked
about Creation.
Last week, dead-headed like a battlefield,
they fell back into themselves, exhausted,
as if they wanted a long summer holiday,
to last right through to autumn's fall;
only, this week, to bear a second coming:
yet changed: their petals paler, exquisite,
water-coloured like shells fresh from the waves,
or the most delicate painted porcelain or
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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