Conduct a correspondence in verse.
Any subject, provided it's entertaining.

Examples:
http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtm...ML/000460.html

http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtm...ML/000874.html

Well first of all, I'd like to ask, if by a word like 'verse',
you are inferring we should use strict metre to converse?


[This message has been edited by Luigi Coppola (edited May 29, 2004).]

Here's a little scrap of verse
...to pass an idle hour
written earlier today
...as I stood in the shower.
It's certainly not good enough
...to cause much delectation,
but maybe there's a topic here
...for rhyming conversation:


FOOD FOR THOUGHT

I once saw
a lobster claw
...against a lobster trap

and I have seen
a farm machine
... make a cow’s neck snap

so I don’t eat
those kinds of meat
... lest my stomach sicken.

Thank goodness I
saw no bird die
... so I can still eat chicken.

Bob, I've killed bird and beast alike,
and creatures marine —
and must confess that nonetheless
my appetite's still keen.

In truth, I take great satisfaction
from doing the deed myself;
I'd rather compete to get my meat
than buy it off the shelf.

(robt)

You and I are different, Ward.
When I feast on a pullet,
I enjoy the stuffing more
if I can't taste the bullet.

Whacking a pullet with a bullet
would be pure overkill:
a pellet is enough to fell it,
and takes a lot less skill.

We didn’t have no chickens where I grew up in the Bronx.
We didn’t have no Peking ducks making Peking honks.
We didn’t have no abbatoirs where cows would have been slain.
We didn’t have no lobster traps to cause crustacean pain.

We didn’t have real butcher shops with pig heads hanging high.
The meat aisle at the A&P is where we’d have to buy
our Easter lambsy-divey and our rump roast and our ham
not to mention New York steaks and cans of bright pink spam.

But mother made a ritual of mourning for our beasts.
“Poor chick, poor lamb, poor clam, poor pig”—she’d moan at all our feasts.
And then we’d take a moment to lament the beasty’s fate
and didn’t take for granted what was piled upon the plate.

And though I’m not a vegan or a macro-bio geek
And could not live on bread alone or bean or nut or leek,
I do not think’s it’s going to extremely haughty heights
to honor sentient creatures and cede them basic rights.

Let them graze and let them range and let them not be crammed
or fed a hormone-laden feed, and let no ram be rammed.
Yea, let the cows low cowily and let the pigs oink free.
Kill them kindly when you kill them; until then, let them be.

Kate, I think you said it all in your amazing ode.
If everybody were like you, no chicken would cross the road
to escape the squalid coops so common on a farm.
Instead they'd stay at home, lay eggs, content and safe from harm...

until one day some butcher man would sneak up with an ax
and make like Lizzie Borden when she gave out forty whacks.
The end would be so sudden that the chickens would not cluck.
They'd die before they realized they had run out of luck.

(Kate, your contribution to this thread was more than clever.
I'll write something just as good... if you can wait till never.
I'm proud my little ditty that began this conversation
might have served to trigger yours by way of inspiration.)

Robt, how long were you filleting
that humungous tuna?
If you'd bought it sliced and packed
you'd have eaten sooner.

We cooked a pot of lobsters yesterday,
entombing them with onion, broth and corn.
The looked indignant sprinkled with Old Bay,
and cursed the day that they and we were born.
(I know they’re hatched. I need a rhyme – OK?)
Thus they died, despairing and forlorn.
The dinner guests seemed suitably upset,
as they inquired, “aren't they finished yet?"



[This message has been edited by Stephen Scaer (edited May 31, 2004).]

I do survive on bread and bean
and leek, and anything that's green.
My pastas, soups, and pizzas are
as good as any, near or far.
The secrets stuffed in my burrito
easily compete with meat, so
don't think I don't cook gourmet--
I do it all the veggie way.
Tasty burgers on my grill
do not require that someone kill
a creature who just wants to graze
and live in peace throughout its days.
Cows and pigs and gentle lambs
will likely wind up steaks and hams,
and every day I mourn their fate.
You'll never see them on my plate.

Roman-Jewish artichokes surpass
a slice of any bloody bullock’s arse.
Carciofi alla giudia represent
the peak of sensuous accomplishment.
The crisp and golden outer petals hide
the creamy paradise that lurks inside.
Beauty and gastronomic bliss combine
to enliven history and intertwine
two ancient peoples who unite to say
When in Rome do it the Jewish way.

[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited June 01, 2004).]

A Roman-Jewish artichoke?
That must be some kind of joke.
Jews came up with Genesis...
but never anything like this.
Moses, famous as the Giver
of the Bible and chopped liver,
and who stuttered when he spoke,
was never fond of artichoke.
How could Jews collaborate
with Romans? Please elaborate.
I maintain it’s all a fiction
rooted in the Crucifixion.
Next you’ll tell me, you’re so dotty,
Jews invented manicotti!

Is eating meat so truly awful?
Everyday I seem to waffle.
It must be better than falafel,
and as for beets, I’ve had my craw full.
True, I am roused to acts unlawful
by seeing creatures chained in coffle.
Still, liver and lights, though they sound awful,
aren’t bad at all, for bits of offal.

Who knew there was a rhyme for offal?
But Jody seems to have a drawerful.

*

I am a vegetarian
by outlook and belief.
Only a barbarian
would turn from fruit and leaf
to fill his craw with carrion,
and yet, since life is brief
and I'm no seminarian,
at times I dine on beef.

Roger,
I speak not of Topinambour.
Jerusalem artichoke mis-called
from Girasole, a sunflower
in cockney parlance badly mauled.
That tuber caused intense confusion--
far from carciofo, mixed somehow--
since each links in daisy-chain’s profusion.
The tuber hides its evil power.
Was that the dog or was it me?
Nobody moves a muscle but
since every diner well may be
the culprit, they all blame the mut.
________
*Helianthus Tuberosus
Topinambour
related to sunflower and wrongly called
Jerusalem artichoke because its flavour was
perceived by some to resemble the
Cynara Scolymus
carciofo= globe artichoke used for carciofi alla giudia.
Girasol is Spanish for “turn to the sun”
sunflower. Jerusalem is a corruption of girasol.
________

I cannot tell the history of Rome.
For centuries the city was the home
of many Jewish people, though dissension
and persecution grew with mounting tension.
Their gift to gastronomic poetry
is praised by Romans with sincerity.
Belli, the Roman people’s sonneteer
wrote of the dish all Romans hold most dear.
There’s not a single christian king or prince
who hasn’t always loved carciofi since
carciofi alla giudia came to be
a symbol to all of Rome’s sublimity.
Nun c’e principe o re, cristiano che sia
che nun magni carciofi alla giudia.


[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited June 01, 2004).]

OK my showing off caused indigestion.
Who’s going to wake things up now? That’s the question.
A little flummery or spice may save
this series from a desultory grave.
A bit of how's your father, or some sauce
may steer this shambles back upon its course.

I say, I say, was that your wife I saw
spread out unconscious on the bar room floor?

Come on you others even up the score.

A Kid's Eye View of Vegetables


Spinach, you can save for Popeye;
Carrots, give 'em to Bugs Bunny;
If you would serve me veggies--stop!
I lust for treats as sweet as honey.

So have your veggies cooked in soups,
Or steamed or boiled--that's just dandy.
But give to me the five food groups:
Cookies, ice cream, pie, cake, candy!

You kids will eat your broccoli right now.
I’ve had it with your tantrums. I have stood
over a hot stove just for you. It’s rude
to play with food. Popeye got power
from cans of spinach and I will strike KAPOW!*@#
if you don’t eat your broccoli. Look out,
if you don’t eat it you’ll be a politician.
They don’t eat broccoli. I keep on dishin’
the greens each day to save you from a fate
much worse than death. So eat what’s on your plate.

I will not eat my broccoli, Ms. Kenny,
regardless of how wittily cajoled.
You can't kapow remotely, and you're many
kilometers from me - so you can scold,

but I refuse to swallow bonsai trees.
I might express myself a bit less cockily
if you were here, not safely overseas--
but as it is, the devil take your broccoli!

Dearest Sphere,

If by correspondence we would mean
communication, true association,
I would wonder why we haven’t seen
one single word on how we carry on.

Not who we are, as in what we eat,
but how we be while standing side by side,
while holding hands, while walking down the street,
while thinking what to say and what to hide.

Not who we play we are by force of habit,
as in, I am timid, truth be told…
but how we use our voice, how we declare it.
We’d make a declaration to be bold;

“How are you, really?” We would dare to ask.
“How are you being and what is your wish?”
Would we find ourselves up to the task?
Would we share more than our most-loved dish?

“Where is your presence and how is your path?”
Could we have a glowing aftermath?




------------------

Zita Z.

An interesting proposal, Zita Z.,
replacing fluffy cant with honesty.
But I'll be honest, I prefer the fluff--
arm's length, in other words, is close enough.
Reality is heavy - give me Lite,
a little laugh to get me through the night.
So all in all, my answer must be no.
(The "glowing aftermath" sounds tempting, though!)


[This message has been edited by Rose Kelleher (edited June 03, 2004).]

Yes, tell the truth! Let me be first to go:
My real name's Seamus Heaney, doncha know.

If you are Seamus Heaney I’m the pope.
Wash your mouth with strong carbolic soap.
Only conmen talk about the truth.
We lie, in bed and up, from our first youth.
And what the hell is truth I’d like to know?
Rashomon’s characters all tried to show
themselves in the best light. Each person told
a story of their heroism. Lies
are truth unless we learn to analyse
the guilty gestures of the plausible liar.
We each narrate the story we desire.
Truth is a fiction bruited about
by theologian bullies who fear doubt
of dogma that they preach. They rage at free
spirits who regard with levity
the pompous self aggrandisement of those
who try to lead the people by the nose.


A bit of fluff for Rose, a kitten played
with dandelion seeds. The kitten strayed
entranced by thistledown till it was lost
in grass so long that all the paths it crossed
were hidden and the kitten was afraid
of everything it saw and so it made
a high-pitched squeaking mew which moved a mouse
to bring the kitten home into its house.
It fed the kitten on organic wheat
and all the dandelions it could eat.
The kitten and the mouse became attached
and any time another feline watched
the mouse the kitten boxed its ears and sent
it scampering. And thus they were content
in symbiotic bliss. The kitten grew
and dreamed that by mistake one night it slew
the mouse and so regretfully it left
and wandered through the world, a cat bereft
of love and happiness until a bird
consoled it with a friendly peck. Absurd
to think a cat befriended mouse and fowl.
The mouse alas was eaten by an owl.
The bird fell victim to a hunter’s gun.
The cat became the cat who walks alone.

So Rose, the fluff became a tale of growth.
You have the fluff and truth--a bit of both.

[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited June 04, 2004).]

Rose, my darling, what a pretty name.
Thank you for your interest, and your claim,
though keeping at arm’s length should be your shame.
Reality enlights and cant’s inane.
When, really we want love, we aim to feign
that no one’s needed. Thus, we live in vain.


Janet’s bit of fluff, disguised as such,
reveals the hidden lesson turned to crutch:
Letting in attachment hurts too much.




[This message has been edited by zbaby (edited June 04, 2004).]

To Janet Kenny and to Marion Shore,
I have just one word. It's French. Encore!

But some of us are who we seem to be:
no more, no less, and this truth leaves us free
to speak in here just as we speak out there.
I've never posted one word I'd not dare
to speak to you, or you, or anyone,
in the harsh light of the unforgiving sun.

I'm who I am; I make no bones of that.
I'm what I am; witty, a bit too fat,
afraid of little, perhaps too easily pleased,
and not inclined to anger when I'm teased.
I don't quite understand a lot of you,
who seem to see deception peeping through
the windows of these fora, and presume
to judge not what's been said, but said by whom.

A heavy topic, surely, and perhaps
not a subject I should lead you chaps
(and gals as well) into discussion of;
so let's all just get naked and make love!

(robt)

[This message has been edited by Robt_Ward (edited June 04, 2004).]

Monsieur Roger--
Mon nom rimé
en français!
You made my day!

Now there's an image - Sphereans X-rated! -
to treasure when I feel intimidated
by brilliant brains who populate the Sphere,
who point out what I've missed and say, "It's clear..."
and crank out metered, rhyming verse so well:
I'll just imagine y'all au naturel.

The truth is not within a kitten’s tale
but lies within ourselves, to no avail.
Only conmen say they speak the truth.
It takes so little to be your own sleuth
and slayer. Every time we lie we kill
ourselves.

I never meant to call you all a liar!
I didn’t want this topic to be dire...
But I’m with Robt! I’m not for leading by
the nose. I’m all for taking off my clothes!


[This message has been edited by zbaby (edited June 04, 2004).]

I may be, and I hope I am, mistaken,
but I find my confidence a little shaken;
if only conmen say they don't speak lies,
am I a grifter in zbaby's eyes?
If so, I must confess it's quite perturbing —
as if I'm some rude beast that needs harsh curbing.
In truth, I'm very noble (as bears go);
believe or not — your choice — but it is so.

(r.)

Don't be rude!
The subject was food.
Now let's get back
on track...


*


HEALTH FOOD

My mother likes to talk a lot
... about a “healthful diet.”
“Dip vegetables in chocolate!”
... I told her. “Why not try it!”

She said, “Why that’s a fine idea!
... A perfect compromise!
I think the world may never see a
... young man quite so wise

as you, my son, who thought of it,
... a way to blend the sweet
appealing taste of chocolate
... with what a boy should eat!”

And so she took a chocolate bar
... and melted it till she
could dip a bunch of green beans far
... into a chocolate sea,

and then she let them cool a while
... so they would not be soft.
She watched me eat, but did not smile
... as I licked the chocolate off!




[This message has been edited by Roger Slater (edited June 04, 2004).]

Roger, you bravo at Kate's sterling ode,
but I smell a rat, and it's shoddy.
You claim to be awed by her body of work,
but I think you're after her body.

I think its disgraceful, besides, she's a Mod.
And don't start with half-truths and fibs
So back off, you hound, or I'll get you, by God -
You know fully well, I've got dibs!

- Bugsy

Bugsy, I'm a married man, but if we should compete
for Kate's affections I believe you'd go down in defeat,
for any woman would regard your chosen name as frightening
if she contemplated why you've named yourself for lightning.

Food and sex are intertwined.
Seduction is the reason
we cook, and those who’ve wined and dined
are often rather brazen.
Have a madeira my dear’s a line
that works for wicked uncles
who’ve been around for quite some time
and studied all the wrinkles.
Steak tartare will take you far
if vigor’s your intention
and I’ve been told that oysters are
part of the same convention.
A ripe peach in a brandy glass
is more refined and subtle
when aiming for a higher class
you won’t meet a rebuttal.

Janet,

Sometimes the reverse is true.
...I hear that Julia Child
when between the sheets did not
...drive the young men wild,

but they would show up just the same
...and gamely thrust within her
knowing the reward would be
...a splendid, tasty dinner.


[This message has been edited by Roger Slater (edited June 05, 2004).]

(Not to change the subject, but)

I'm in the Mood for Truth, Simply Because You're Bleary


The Idiot, a moral sleuth
suffering his lot,
is damned by his unvarnished truth
and crossed by counterplot.

Dostoevsky’s Idiot
is not about payola;
it was mostly grief he got,
much like Savanarola.

Your aim to mock, or get a rise
from me will fail you, Slater.
I'm sure that Kate will recognize
a would-be master baiter.

- Bugsy


[This message has been edited by Lightning Bug (edited June 05, 2004).]

(insert utterly non-poetic groan at bugsy's pun)

Roger, that rings true to me,
for many's the hungry wooer;
and as for Julia's strategy,
I say more power to 'er.

Food and sex are intertwined,
but don't take things too far;
you wouldn't want your bedsheets lined
with cheese and caviar.