Kira Bey Wallace – Age 8

Artichoke photo: artichoke artichoke-fairy.jpg


“The Artichoke Man”


When I was eating dinner last night, I got served an artichoke.

I don’t like artichokes so I started playing with it.

I had other vegetables that I did like

and I started playing with them, too.

My mommy said, “Don’t play with your vegetables, sweetie.”

but I didn’t listen so I used my artichoke as a man,

my peas as eyes, my carrots as arms and legs,

my corn was off the cob so I used it as a mouth,

 seeds from my tomatoes as nostrils,

 finally I used a red pepper as a scarf,

a green pepper as a hat

 and a piece of tomato as a feather in the hat.


Kira Bey Wallace

Age 8  

“Ode To an Artichoke” by Pablo Neruda

The artichoke
of delicate heart
in its battle-dress, builds
its minimal cupola;
in its scallop of
Around it,
demoniac vegetables
bristle their thicknesses,
tendrils and belfries,
the bulb’s agitations;
while under the subsoil
the carrot
sleeps sound in its
rusty mustaches.
Runner and filaments
bleach in the vineyards,
whereon rise the vines.
The sedulous cabbage
arranges its petticoats;
sweetens a world;
and the artichoke
dulcetly there in a gardenplot,
armed for a skirmish,
goes proud
in its pomegranate
Till, on a day,
each by the other,
the artichoke moves
to its dream
of a market place
in the big willow
a battle formation.
Most warlike
of defilades-
with men
in the market stalls,
white shirts
in the soup-greens,
artichoke field marshals,
close-order conclaves,
commands, detonations,
and voices,
a crashing of crate staves.And
with her hamper
make trial
of an artichoke:
she reflects, she examines,
she candles them up to the light like an egg,
never flinching;
she bargains,
she tumbles her prize
in a market bag
among shoes and a
cabbage head,
a bottle
of vinegar; is back
in her kitchen.
The artichoke drowns in a pot.So you have it:
a vegetable, armed,
a profession
(call it an artichoke)
whose end
is millennial.
We taste of that
dismembering scale after scale.
We eat of a halcyon paste:
it is green at the artichoke heart.Pablo Neruda