From the very depths of my inner being I cherish Poetry Soup,
without the written verse I’d be impoverished as a person,
literary projects spur me on to otherworldy epic peaks,
an open channel with furtherance from lexicons endowed,
golden opportunity for human pathos rich and fair,
stomach-wrenching pain, joyous peals of laughter, mental stimulus,
visions I adhere to have a wider world impetus,
the comity of fellow authors and their honest feedback,
diplomatic goodwill hint at barren lapse within my canon,
and gracious honeyed Bon Mot of peer group kudos on occasions,
that angst-ridden moment before a contest sponsor judgement,
bold gasp of relief at higher placement than expected,
or just as likely glum expression at the baleful NA,
in support a staunch muse Jay A Pallen sheds her light,
loyal and demonstrative sister, whose sparkling eyes ooze warmth,
sagacious councillor supreme, bestowing love on this bard and their ardent stanza,
who brought to my attention bewitching vistas waiting to be captured,
influencer of my first ever piece “Downward Plod,”
where this writer’s magic life-enhancing odyssey began,
how I cherish every moment spent on Poetry Soup
From the very depths of my inner being I cherish poetry,
without the written verse I’d be impoverished as a person,
literary projects spur me on to otherworldy epic peaks,
an open channel with furtherance from lexicons endowed,
golden opportunity for human pathos rich and fair,
stomach-wrenching pain, joyous peals of laughter, mental stimulus,
visions I adhere to have a wider world impetus,
the comity of fellow authors and their honest feedback,
diplomatic goodwill hint at barren lapse within my canon,
and gracious honeyed Bon Mot of peer group kudos on occasions,
that angst-ridden moment before a contest sponsor judgement,
bold gasp of relief at higher placement than expected,
or just as likely glum expression at the baleful NA,
in support a staunch muse Jay A Pallen shed her light,
loyal and demonstrative sister, whose sparkling eyes ooze warmth,
sagacious councillor supreme, bestowing love on this bard and their ardent stanza,
who brought to my attention bewitching vistas waiting to be captured,
influencer of my first ever piece “Downward Plod,”
shortlisted for Creative Writing Ink poet challenge,
where this writer’s magic life-enhancing odyssey began
Each bon mot melts with
Nuanced, age-old symbolic flavors --
Growing, changing, challenging me.
Language arts baffle me.
Institutional norms perplex me.
Slowly, I listen for that precise sound.
History’s echoes bounce off my walls,
Heaving meanings like so many dock workers.
Overhead, cargoes glide by glistening in the sun.
Movers eye the carts going forward.
Only I stand still.
Purposefully, I dream of…
Houses filled with treasures – elegant libraries!
Open-hearted, I find and survey my grotto.
Nothing seems impossible as I
Enter into a new dwelling and
Seek to be transformed.
Coal face
disgrace
Bad vibes
from tribes
Dark art
at heart
Big deal
surreal
Uptight
yeah right
Sky high
my eye
Who knew
boohoo
My god
that’s odd
not half
a laugh
High five
alive
Stock phrase
daft craze
Buzz word
absurd
Smart tek
brain wreck
Sour pus
missed bus
High horse
off-course
Slow coach
cockroach
Big cheese
feels squeeze
Sore thumb
by gum
Hells bells
death knells
Fast lane
Insane
Bored stiff
with gif
Calm down
you clown
Joe soap
might cope
John dough
skid row
Jackpot
great scott
Long run
such fun
Clean sweep
knee deep
Bon mot
for show
Quick quip
takes dip
False dawn
a yawn
Created and posted : 10th October 2022 for Brian Strand contest
footle
Monet
ok ?
Abstract art footle
begin
within
POP ART
bean tin
kitsch bin
BEATNIKS
long locks
no socks
WELCOME TO MY WORLD
Come in
Big Jim
CLUELESS
Oh no
Clouseau
STILL LIFE
tableau
stage show
LIFE CLASS
dress down
no gown
DER RING
on song
too long
footle-NOT FIT FOR PURPOSE
Useless
I guess
f
footle-OLD STRAP LINE
stop press
no less
bon mot
footle-TAIZE
rondeau
sung low
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2009
Elephantine
Slow motion measures
out of time
in pace
Great go-between
grows notions
in lines
and space
Eglantine
embows fragrant pleasure
springtime's
embrace
Mezzanine
bon mot for half measure
lying low
in place
Intervene
plover distraction
displeasure
paradigm
about face
Serene
glow sensate pleasure
time felt
with grace
Written 16 May 2020
posted 19 July 2020
''Eglantine'' - a wild rose.
NOVELTIES
by Thomas Campion
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Booksellers laud authors for novel editions
as pimps praise their whores for exotic positions.
Original Latin text:
IN LIBRARIOS
Impressionum plurium librum laudat
Librarius; scortum nec non minus leno.
Keywords/Tags: Campion, Latin, translation, epigram, literature, novels, novelties, books, write, writing, writings, booksellers, publishers, authors, pimps, whores, prostitutes, prostitution, exotic, positions, praise, trade, career, analogy, quote, quotation, saying, witticism, bon mot, words
Zip Zap Zoop Zup
You can dine; I will sup
Hip Hap Hoop Hop
You like jazz; I'll take be-bop
Rik Rak Ruk Rok
You're a poet; I'm a jock
Git Gat Gut Got
Eat Poetry Soup, a real bon mot!
lifted
my words just barely dried
a poem appears in Spring
draws breath from a widow
close at hand, open to new
worlds across the land.
gently are these bon mot
teased into the silken air
escape capture on white
sheets fly to the magnolia
in full bloom. birdlike they preen,
cavort as do all new things in Spring.
There is a city somewhere,
not close by, but not far,
a place where poems live,
untold millions of poems.
Most of the poems live quiet,
ordinary lives, known only to
a few, while a few are famous,
renowned for grace and beauty.
For the most part, the poems live
in harmony with one another--
stuffy Sonnets sharing a tenement
with willowy Haiku, and the odd,
cranky but endearing old Ode.
In the grand mansions atop the
exclusive Bon Mot Hill live the
Epics, most of ancient lineage
as few are given birth nowadays.
But mostly the city teems with
myriads of unsung, unknown
beings, each a soul in words,
loved by its creator-- and
that is truly enough....
When we drink, we get drunk.
When we get drunk, we fall
Asleep. When we fall a—
sleep, we commit no sin—
When we commit no sin,
we go to heaven. So—
Adapted from a bon mot of
George Bernard Shaw
6x6 square, math/poetry
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.