<html><head><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body dir="auto"><div><span></span></div><div><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8">Beet Poetry<div><br><blockquote class="webkit-indent-blockquote" style="margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; border: none; padding: 0px;"><p style="margin: 0px 0px 6px;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">I have seen the best veg of my germination destroyed by cooking:<br>carrots, beetroot, swedes; mashed with butter by angry chefs at dusk,<br>or grated and juiced by the illuminated machinery of kitchens<br>purple-headed onions burning in forgotten pans in neon-lit takeaways<br>and lettuce, turning, turning:<br>caught in the starry dynamo of the machinery of saladspinner.<br>Carrots, who curled, abandoned, on chopping boards; and leeks<br>who ran through streets in mad dreams screaming “celeriac! celeriac!”.<br>who rotted down on compost heaps<br>who sprouted in the supernatural dark of larders,<br>who were lost, beneath mouse-grey mould on ectoplasmic fridge-door shelves</span></p><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">who were rooted in the shadow of Didcot smokestacks<br>who cowered in terror under September squash-leaves<br>who tasted radiant cool flesh, of early-morning marrows<br>and who wept onion-tears as they contemplated<br>knifesteel, from hessian sacks and box-scheme crates:<br></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">who faced the peeler and the grater in insane fear of casserole<br>and nightmares of spilt beetrootblood, and gouged potato-eyes</span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">who were macerated, blended, chopped; or marinated overnight with wine:<br>who leached their flavours into stock, or roasted crisp around the body of a duck<br>who dreamed of honey-glaze. Chillies,<br>who spilled their hot seed carelessly on formica worktops, and parsnips<br>too obscene for supermarket shelves: who were diced and boiled<br>for pasties and trapped inside the crescents of crusts, or<br>who found their place in cold cottage-pies</span></div><div style="margin: 0px; min-height: 13px;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">who were gently peeled, and chopped and sliced<br>with beetroot in the quiet of Oxford kitchens<br>who were dressed in oil in soft wooden spoonfuls:<br>who were served in bowls in cornerless rooms,<br>haunted by the echoes of verse and song<br>who shared their hearts with loving people,<br>who dream of broccoli forests and<br>who understand the power and the poetry<br>in these thin green stems.</span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div style="margin: 0px;"><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> - Jack Prichard</span></div></blockquote><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; border-spacing: 0px;"><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline"><br></span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><br></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; orphans: 2; text-align: -webkit-auto; widows: 2; border-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="text-align: center;"><div><br></div></span></span></div></div></span></div><br>All the suffering in the world comes from seeking pleasure for oneself. All the happiness in the world comes from seeking happiness for others.<div> - Shantideva </div></div></div></body></html>