The poet contemplates the inescapable nature of the class system

A Richter moment of tectonic rock came
when I heard the voice of smug middle class
speaking through me. A mythic, conceited Volvo
blonde used me as her blank-eyed dummy,
stuck lovely manicure up me and made me say
‘The guinea pigs don’t like asparagus!’.
My ears could not believe my mouth’s betrayal,
the change marked by that simple recipe.
The seesaw tipped, sudden rodeo bucking,
swung away from student furniture of bricks,
stray cushions and ideas, towards clogging
superannuation of risotto and good red.
Class catches us like butterflies, or half-frozen slugs,
which we pick, so carefully, from our organic greens.

P.S. Cottier

No telling who that poet might be, but I used to have guinea pigs…And how’s that for a catchy title, by the way?

Muffet cc licence 2.0 (Wiki Commons)

The asparagus fields of Peru are visible from space

Little green rockets
counting down pushing up
tips pierce the moon

Ballistic veggies
spears thrown up to satelleyes
sparrowgrass has landed

Green fingers reaching out
Romero horror film
Night of the single crop

P.S. Cottier

The Victorians sometimes referred to asparagus as sparrowgrass:
“‘It’s a stew of tripe,’ said the landlord smacking his lips, ‘and cow-heel,’ smacking them again, ‘and bacon,’ smacking them once more, ‘and steak,’ smacking them for the fourth time, ‘and peas, cauliflowers, new potatoes, and sparrow-grass, all working up together in one delicious gravy.'”

(Dickens The Old Curiosity Shop Chapter 18)

My brain being what it is, I now picture thousands of guinea pigs lost in the vast fields of asparagus…pretty fat guinea pigs.

Whether there is any other poetry of an eco-poetic slant at Tuesday Poem this week, I know not. Read the works of the other Tuesday Poets around the world by pressing here.

photo by Muffet (cc licence attribution generic 2.0 Wikimedia Commons)