Living Offa the Fatta the Lan'

The rumours circulated the playing field;

the lectures bounced around assembly -

 

some kid got caught

eating flowers at playtime.

We mustn’t do this; it is wrong.

Harmful. Poisonous.

 

I started wondering whether I was missing out;

 

they seemed so keen to keep us away,

and it wasn’t this kid’s first time.

 

So while the boys stole fistfuls

from grass nests – aggressively gathered,

garnished and guarded by girls -

to stuff down each others’ jumpers

 

and the hay-fever sufferers

sat at a distance

on the wall surrounded by a gravel moat,

bored out of their minds,

 

I stole up to a shadowy garden fence

and plucked a juicy head from its stem.

Yum. No, yuck.

 

Had I selected the wrong range

of plant confectionary? Ever optimistic,

I sampled a few petals at random.

No better.

 

Sloping disappointedly away

from the fridge-like gloom,

I returned to the chaotic heat of

shrieking, laughing civilisation.

 

“It’s boiling today,” said one dinner lady

to another.

 

And then it hit me:

 

the sun – illuminating the field;

boiling dinner ladies; toasting faces; frying grass –

hell, MICROWAVING the daisies,

which lay helplessly scattered

 

throughout our green desert, designed

for endless PE afternoons of Rounders.

Daisies; fully-cooked with an enticing

buttery centre; the friendliest flower –

 

surely egg-coloured for a reason.

Eat me, one said. So I did;

grinding bland, fuzzy mush between teeth,

repulsed tongue wishing it could recoil.

 

Abrupt bell signalled that the hay feverish

could escape; the grass-fight victors troop

back to their classrooms, backs incessantly itchy

like they’d just been at the hairdressers; 

 

and I, spitting pollen,

decided the flower-scoffing kid was insane -

and put an end to one experimental phase.

 

Author's Note

Inspired after reading Ziggy Zagmyer's poem Buttercups. Cheers Ziggy.

Yikes, might have overdone the semi-colons haha.
Other than that, there's something about this poem that stops it flowing nicely - if anyone can help me figure it out, I'd appreciate it. Thanks.

Reviews

[John Morris]

Have you every read 'Of Mice And Men' by John Steinbeck as this poem seems to be inspired by it or at least reminded me a lot of it.

The title probably did not help as 'livin of the fatta the land' is what George and Lenny say to each other during the book.

A good poem; just curious if you have read 'Of Mice And Men'

[Emily B]

I like it. Tried some kind of pansy at a tea house once. I wasn't impressed much. Anna tried chicory leaves once. Somebody said it makes a nice salad. Too bitter for me. Though I do love the pretty blue flowers. Never thought to try that. . .

I thought it flowed pretty well. Though I might come back later and read it again. . .

[Raef C. Boylan]

The rumours circulated the playing field; the lectures bounced around assembly:

some kid got caught eating flowers at playtime.

We mustn't do this, it is wrong.
Harmful. Poisonous.

I started wondering whether I was missing out;

they seemed so keen to keep us away, and it wasn't this kid's first time.

So while the boys stole fistfuls from grass nests � aggressively gathered, garnished
and guarded by girls - to stuff down each others' jumpers

and the hay-fever sufferers sat at a distance on the wall surrounded by a gravel moat,
bored out of their minds,

I stole up to a shadowy garden fence and plucked a juicy head from its stem.
Yum. No, yuck.

Had I selected the wrong range of plant confectionary?
Ever optimistic, I sampled a few petals at random.
No better.

Sloping disappointedly away from the fridge-like gloom,
I returned to the chaotic heat of shrieking, laughing civilisation.

"It's boiling today," said one dinner lady to another.

And then it hit me:

the sun � illuminating the field; boiling dinner ladies; toasting faces; frying grass �
hell, MICROWAVING the daisies, which lay helplessly scattered
throughout our green desert, designed for endless PE afternoons of Rounders.

Daisies were the way forward: fully-cooked with an enticing
buttery centre; the friendliest flower�surely egg-coloured for a reason.

Eat me, one said.

So I did; grinding bland, fuzzy mush between teeth,
repulsed tongue wishing it could recoil.

Abrupt bell signalled that the hay feverish could escape; the grass-fight victors troop
back to their classrooms, backs incessantly itchy
like they were coming from the hairdressers;

and I, spitting pollen, decided the flower-scoffing kid was insane -
and put an end to one experimental phase.

[Raef C. Boylan]

[Is this layout any better suited?]

The rumours circulated the playing field.
The lectures bounced around assembly.

Some kid got caught eating flowers at playtime.
We mustn't do this, it is wrong.
Harmful. Poisonous.

I started wondering whether I was missing out;

they seemed so keen to keep us away, and it wasn't this kid's first time.

So while the boys stole fistfuls from grass nests � aggressively gathered, garnished
and guarded by girls - to stuff down each others' jumpers

and the hay-fever sufferers sat at a distance on the wall surrounded by a gravel moat,
bored out of their minds,

I stole up to a shadowy garden fence and plucked a juicy head from its stem.
Yum. No, yuck.

Had I selected the wrong range of plant confectionary?
Ever optimistic, I sampled a few petals at random.
No better.

Sloping disappointedly away from the fridge-like gloom,
I returned to the chaotic heat of shrieking, laughing civilisation.

"It's boiling today," said one dinner lady to another.

And then it hit me:

the sun � illuminating the field; boiling dinner ladies; toasting faces; frying grass �
hell, MICROWAVING the daisies, which lay helplessly scattered
throughout our green desert, designed for endless PE afternoons of Rounders.

Daisies were the way forward: fully-cooked with an enticing
buttery centre; the friendliest flower�surely egg-coloured for a reason.

Eat me, one said.

So I did; grinding bland, fuzzy mush between teeth,
repulsed tongue wishing it could recoil.

Abrupt bell signalled that the hay feverish could escape; the grass-fight victors troop
back to their classrooms, backs incessantly itchy
like they were coming from the hairdressers;

and I, spitting pollen, decided the flower-scoffing kid was insane -
and put an end to one experimental phase.

[mick weller]

ha ha, we were so gullible as kids... some kid once peeled a conker and convinced me it was a chesnut...
it made me hoarse all right!
nice one