APROPOS OF POETIC SOUPING…
Sitting here
On the riverbank
Of the riverbed
Of poetic creation
May the flow
Of my words
Stream joy
To the thirsty eyes
Drinking them
Hydrating weary souls
And may these leaking
Allegorical words
Drip into the saucers
Of minds
To be sipped
With deciphered awareness
In becoming liberating beings
Oh may God of creation
Fill my poetic cistern with
With words of divine wisdom
And guidance
To be poured out
To those in search thereof
As I likewise
In love and gratitude
Give thanks to you
My fellow blessed scribes
Who continue
To do likewise
For my own
Mind and spirit
As we collectively
Sip God given
Poetry Soup:-
This will be a false Haiku
because I don't have time
to finish up
Xmas tree obliges
Anyhow
why not write Neo-Grunge
jazzmataz music song poeme
In a rather quickie style
let's finish here,
I only have 12 minutes
precisely:
dirty clean grandpa
souping through the night
Plop! Hiroshima bloat
Did you ever read the greats?
Whitman, Browning, Frost, Fitzgerald, Kilmer, Wilde, McKuen, St. Vincent Millay just to name a few.
You know the well known names and the lesser ones as well I'm sure, spanning down the regalia of history, the list of names renowned and almost worshiped as the standards of writing poetry that set the method and patterns for those of us to follow and imitate. The ones taught in school. Upon rereading what I thought were once my favorites, I sighed and suddenly realized, ah, that's nice, yeah, that's okay, but, no, that's not me.
Just look over to the right of the soup page and some newer ones are listed, go ahead, scroll over with the mouse or your finger on the pad or whatever that little square is called and inch down to see a list of names that changes. With some luck, you'll see present day soupers who are changing the patterns, setting new strides and methods, some old and well tempered, tending the old and conditioning the new, soon to be, the list of historical poets of the futures yet to be.
Keep on souping poets and poetesses.
Have I got clean socks on?
I really must be sure
I wouldn't want my souping buds
To smell the green manure
That pile I trod in earlier
It really was a stinker
It's crucial that
My new compadres
think that I'm a thinker.
(And NOT a heavy drinker)
Off the market I dashed
In search of ingredients
To soup my poetry.
To all kiosk and stall I went
Yet I find none of it.
Fagged out on my fro home
Lost in thought of how
To soup my poetry.
There I stumbled on it
Ingredients of my soup.
On my way I paused
For the first stanza
My thinking personified
With a poetic licence.
I smiled with an imagery of simile
All over me was a pun of metaphor.
Only in consonance with an
Hyperbole of alliteration.
Paradox became my ordeal
With an echo of onomatopoeia
Still in an irony of oxymoron
Dancing with a metonym.
I got home with more
Ingredients from my mind
Then and there, I began to
Soup my poetry in poetrysoup.
Alayande Stephen.T
12.45pm
17th August 2006
On my way to Apagbon in Lagos on the behest of
IPC Chairman,Lanre Arogundade.
Specially packaged for www.poetrysoup.com, as a wonderful family.