Jon Harvey, who recently let me publish his poem entitled Ten Poets, has also submitted this to the blog. I share it because I like it
Crumble surprise
Don't be fooled
Blackberries are tasty fruits
To be enjoyed but a few weeks each year
But meanwhile for the rest of the time
The brambles are spreading and growing
Their thorns multiplying
Harsh hedges of hate
Becoming ever larger
Flattening all other plants in their wake
Faster faster
Wider wider
Taller taller
Stronger stronger
The barbs pierce, protrude and penetrate
There will blood
There will be blindness
There will be blight
Beware those who promise sweet fruit and succulent crumbles
Look through and past these promises
To see the matted mesh of pointed pain and spiteful spikes
And keep your secateurs and pencils close¡No Passaran!
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Thank you Jon Harvey, I’ve recently been cutting brambles in my new garden and a rueful smile came over me. I like the fruit of the bramble, but not on my patch. Much of what I enjoy in life likely causes thorny problems elsewhere, despite trying to be an educated consumer. Your bramble is a metaphor for broader ills, many secateurs needed. Thank you RJM for publishing.
This poem is a politely barbed (pun intended) attack on political idiocy and economic illiteracy in the UK—wrapped in the deliciously deceptive packaging of a fruit crumble. The “blackberries” are a stand-in for sugary soundbites and populist promises, while the brambles represent the unchecked growth of bad policy, ideological thuggery, and wilful ignorance that chokes out reason and truth.
The crescendo of “Faster faster / Wider wider / Taller taller / Stronger stronger” mocks the hollow momentum of such movements, all thorns and no substance, until we arrive at the poetic equivalent of a national faceplant: “There will blood / There will be blindness / There will be blight.” That’s not just horticulture—it’s political horticarnage.
Now, am I perhaps over-pruning the metaphor here, projecting too much of one’s own bias onto the poem? Probably. But that’s the fun of satire—it thrives on exaggeration, like a hedge left to grow wild. And besides, anyone who tells you politics and pudding don’t mix clearly hasn’t read Orwell.
As for the ending—¡No Pasarán!—absolutely, 100% agree. Sometimes, a line just lands, full stop. But how about a home-grown variant with just as much spine and secateurs-ready spirit:
“Not on our patch.”
Much to agree with, which is why I published it.