Not Pam placed first last time we poem-ed and challenged entrants to write a sonnet about soup. At long last, let’s see who served up the winning poem:
SOUP DU JOUR
Vichyssoise is the soup du jour today
cranberry, pineapple, pine nuts and peas
potato and leaks and cream take-away
thats not soup, that is garbige if you please
mushrooms,more mushrooms, more mushrooms for me
withsome cream and salt and pepper to taste
cant forgot the crootons and sharp, cheese
seriously kid that sounds, like; such a waste
you have yours and I have mind now shove off
fighting words to, me just you weight and see
oh yeah? PUNCH to the gut I, make you cough
peas, leeks, ghee dumped! In your bowl with great glee.
I hate you grandma with all of my heart!
Oh billy, just eat your damned soup which you know in your heart will give you incredibly stinky smelly nasty mushroom farty farts. Kids, today.
Congratulations, Matt! You are the most terrible poet! I’ll be contacting you about your grand prize!
As usual, the poets in this kitchen were too clever to be terrible. Of those who served a questionable bowl, judging the best recipe proved difficult. M’s won for his cringe-worthy misspells, his “mushrooms, more mushrooms, more mushrooms” bit, and for that truly terrible final line.
The rest of the menu’s worth perusing, although I’d leave your appetite for dessert:
A soup of a sonnet
by Bruce Goodman
This soup tastes like you got it out of a can
And by “can” I don’t mean like Andy Warhol painted.
This soup should come under a ban.
I just about fainted.
Has anyone ever told you that you can’t cook?
So not only are you fat and ugly you are also a fake.
Some faults are possible to overlook,
But your soup-making incompetence takes the cake.
One sip of this undesirable brew
And I was under the table in the throes of death.
If I was Johnny Depp I would sue;
The smell is enough to make me hold my breath.
And yet you claim soup-making to be your forte.
If you’re going to cook stuffed cow’s udder stick to sauté.
Here is mine in eight lines. The title is In my Bowl
by John W. Howell
Shall I compare you to a summer’s day,
or sit guessing as to your content way.
The window to your soul so darkly kept,
A hint of substance will stay hidden yet.
To dip a careful spoon below the scum,
May help unmask a hint of nature done.
To all who wonder what happened next,
The spoon was eaten by an unknown beast.
Scottish Soup: A Sonnet
My Scottish senses love the cooking smell
Of soup that starts with deeply smoked ham hock
Boiled up with split red lentils, seasoned well
Traditional good food from fresh-made stock
Or leek and tatties make the perfect base
With chicken bouillon, carrots, onions too
Add herbs and salt and pepper judged to taste
A little milk to finish – that’ll do!
Pearl barley thickens broth like fattened rice
With cheap-cut beef and root veg simmered low
Soup fills you up at such a decent price
Well-blended flavours make your tastebuds glow
A bowl of love with thick-sliced bread to eat
Now that’s a hearty dinner hard to beat ♥
by Frank Hubeny
Today I fear they’ll feed me silly soup
to help my nightmares scare up some disease.
With windows open breathing summer’s breeze
I dream the ground is dizzy, in a loop.
I dream of ropes and jumping through a hoop.
I’m doing more or less just as I please.
My nose as well’s deciding should it sneeze.
While waiting in the chair I start to droop.
The soup contains assorted sorts of beans,
some once-white rice and onions, too, I guess.
There’s stuff in it I can’t identify
to add some color to the grassy greens.
I spilled the soup. Oh, my. I made a mess.
I’m force fed now with silly soup. Goodbye.
by Richmond Road
Soup – a bit like food
A bit of a waste
Like dressing up in the nude
It’s lacking in taste
Broth – a bit like a meal
But from food an estrangement
Nothing to feel
But a rearrangement
And now that you’ve looked
It’s a bit undercooked
So much less than a stew
When there’s nothing to chew.
by Not Pam
My thoughts turn as the winter’s chill descends
To mushroom soup, on what joy it does bring
It is lush, it is rich, it makes amends
Just thinking about it makes my heart sing
Into the kitchen I merrily go
Thrilling a sing to cull my appetite
To search my cupboard but what do you know
There isn’t any mushrooms, oh what a blight
To venture out, and join the endless queue
The idea certainly doesn’t appeal
Perhaps another flavour soup will do
Wait, what about asparagus and veal
Bother, its only mushroom soup I crave
I’m going to bed, stomach just behave.
There was a ship named Tilly
Rumour was spread around town Kelly
The gore news tightened their Belly
A ghost from Kelly sells soup in Tilly
Wonder What is so silly about a soup?
Whoever sells the soup it’s a coup
Free marketing, let’s buy a Scoop
Said the man in blazers named snoop
It’s a religious town people are scared
No man gets in the ship to stay sacred
For the people, I’ll go alone. He dared.
People stared, he glared, he cared.
Dared, he ordered a soup named Silly
Waiting for order is not so long. Chilly
Was the soup commented by Billy
He was the protector of town Kelly
What is so gore about it? That rumour?
Billy said, the soup menu is a Humour
Eat your own tongue, stay Calmer
Just the name of the soup, is that Rumour.
Think it sounds silly?
Why don’t you Visit Tilly
Read review from Billy
Fill your belly.
The Naming of Soups
There’s a type of soup called Vichyssoise
Sounding posher than mulligatawny,
Hinting perhaps of a little French class
With a touch of something porny.
That’s how it is with those old soup names,
They’re weird and a little bit freaky:
There’s one that recalls this old man’s shame
When it speaks of his cock-a-leekie.
And, truth be told, I’ve sampled broths
That are nearer piss than porridge
As well as ones that stop all coughs
Even though they’re downright horrid.
Let’s cut the crap; no more this soupish snobbery
Accept the truth: both yours and mine’s a strone.
The joy of mash and chicken soup-
Won’t that warm my dark cold soul!
‘Yes’m, soggy spuds, gimme a scoop,
Slop up my plate and fill that bowl.’
‘Look lady, I come here for the food,
Your sole job is just to fill my cup-
Say, Sister, you can call me drunk’n’rude
But if you just prayed for me, back it up.’
‘You see another broken down bum
But I see a Miss priss with a ladle,
I’ll say ‘thanks’ but I don’t welcome
Your airs and graces at my table.’
‘I’ll take your free tray and gladly eat it
But spare me mealy words- now beat it.’
What is Soup?
The sorcerer’s mirepoix, the witches roux,
with bone and water forge a mystic blend,
add salt and spice, merely a pinch or two,
elements together, combine, transcend.
Cast iron cauldron yields to fiery kiss,
stir and simmer, cooking slowly in time,
bubbling, boiling, with wisps of steaming bliss,
filling the fragrant air with spells sublime.
Chick’n noodle, chowder, gazpacho on ice,
mullugatawny, bisque and gumbo too,
potatoes, pasta, or a spot of rice,
some so thick they’re more akin to stew.
What is soup? You’ll find you have to conclude,
soup is the liquid version of solid food.
by Shauni-Michelle Chadburn
Mushroom recipe, for total catastrophe, lockdown curiosity turned into insanity. A Hallucination interpretation with a twisted sense of humour, exploitation an observation a naieve, unsuspecting consumer. Not a substantial bliss, psychosis a diagnosis that’s ferocious, somewhat precocious totally atrocious like being inflicted with some hellish hypnosis. Digesting the fungi when did the fun die, out in the garden it grows, or in the haystacks it’s time I face facts this was not how it was supposed to go! Totally mad, slightly insane, revisiting and reliving all the emotional pain, it is trauma it has engrained, it would have been safer to, do, cocaine.
by Richmond Road
that I scoop out of the entrails of our love
the little bits of pre-digested nourishment
that fall like manna from above
our love that travelled the universe like a comet
with all the colours of a parrot
oh, wait. that’s vomit
and I think I see a bit of carrot
floating around in there
with the noodles and oodles of emotion
I have the notion
like milk from the breast
all the best, to us
Ode to a hammock (sorry) ham hock
by Doug Jacquier
Oh, soup of green split pea and ham
(no, never, thrice never to Spam)
shall I compare thee to a cabernet,
cellared long in boiling heat in the loading bay?
Do I dare take a sup
from the pig-leg supping cup (or the ladle)
after gorging full well of peach melba
on a rolled-up ragged-trousered beach?
Or should I await the tourist bus
filled with them (and not with us)
disgorging ag-ed crones of Japanese
desperate for their afternoon peas?
Nay, fie, upon the soup-less have-nots!
I will gluttonise the whole damn lot
and leave them gasping in my tomorrow’s wind.
Thank you, everyone! It’s been a blast for me; I hope you’ve had fun as well.
M: Here’s your badge you can post as proof of your poetic mastery. You’ve got quite the collection now:
©2022 The poets, and their respective poems.