Tuesday, April 24, 2007

The Sonnet Thread

This is the place to post your Shakespearean sonnet involving the word "soup"! Contest prizes will be as previously announced, although I still reserve the right to make substitutions, if necessary. If you are posting anonymously, please either sign your name or give a "handle", so I know who to contact, if you win. I'll be checking the comments periodically throughout the day, so do not worry if your sonnet does not appear immediately. Submissions are open from 6:45 am EDT on April 24th until 6:45 am EDT on April 25th. After that, I'll close the comments for the post.

So, show me your writing skills, people. =)


December Quinn said...

My love doth make me tasty soup
She has so many tricks
I know that she will never stoop
To using instant mix
Carefully she chops the veg
Lonely in her kitchen
That yummy little carrot wedge
Those dumplings are so bitchen’
My love doth treat me tenderly
As tender as her beef
I eat my soup with open glee
So easy on my teeth
My love’s soup is always hot
It’s too bad that her bed is not

Sam said...

A Writer's Plight

From time to time I look closely at life,
I add my gains and subtract my sorrows.
My pain for sure, cannot be called strife
For others haven't even tomorrows
To comfort them. Their pain is real while mine,
Though I suffer keenly and it seems real,
Is nothing but injured pride and benign.
Shall I tell you now how I came to feel
The sting of rejection? It never fades.
And even if the words are kind, they cut.
"Dear author, though good, your work fails the grades."
I write, polish, query - and still get 'but'.
Perhaps an agent could help me recoup?
I surfed on the web, and I found Lit Soup.

Anonymous said...

Lit-wit Sonnet (a non-fiction poem)
(-- signifies line ending)

Sonnets tout love doubtless. I have written--
thousands. Iambs move most. Trochees drive mine.--
Good taste verbs make soup. Hot, it feeds action.--
Epic Soup serves groups feasts of intense times.--

I like paraphrase soups. Homer Soup feeds--
fates and glory. C. S. Lewis Soups spell--
fun, while Tolkien Soup serves, and sells, buddies.--
Greenhouse Soup moves readers to be frugal.--

Science changes how we see soup. Atom--
groups explain taste. Save the poor with soup is--
a brand-new-old-thing.... The best soup's freedom.--
Women want more. News-soup schools all students.--

Once, tact yelled, "Let hot-soup bathe the King's shoes!"--
In hot water, we move Greenhouse Issues.--

Total is 14 lines of pentamter
by WilliamEpic.

LadyBronco said...

What place so nice can make our day complete?
For if we read it with ensuing cheer
Can satisfy down to our dainty feet?
How shall we end our day, no Agent near?
Please, can you forgive us our merry chase?
As we sneak peeks at little Zoe cat
Who knew this blog was such a lovely place?
Free tips for us, can you imagine that?
And now, as we have found a place to look,
An agent here on the web at Lit Soup.
We all want an Agent to love our book.
Most writers belong to a steadfast group
Pushing ahead with many a query,
Hoping that our Agent will be Ms. Jenny.

Patrick McNamara said...

Family Recipe
By Patrick McNamara

Start the soup with water heated over
grandma's stove, until it comes to a boil.
Into the pot add onions fried in oil,
carrots, peppers and celery. Cover

and let boil. After ten minutes, about
how long it take to read sister a tale,
add into the pot lentils soaked with kale
for a couple hours while you went out

with your family to do some hiking.
After it has boiled for yet another
fifteen minutes, add salt to your mother's
taste and pepper to your father's liking.

Stir it to blend the bottom to above,
then ladel into bowls and serve with love.

trixierocks said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Scott said...

What, soup, art thou yet by none consumed?
Thy trough still clean, thou waitest to be sipped.
Unseasoned vestal flesh, of late full bloomed,
Prepare, repast, to finally be lipped.
The parsnip, firm, for moisty comfort yearns
To slowly these crisp cabbage leaves unpeel;
Hot 'twixt my twigs alights a spark and burns,
For in sweet heat our fruits shall blended feel.
Whilst hung'ring flame doth tongue this warme'd pot,
My hands behind the barn do pluck the field;
Thy cauldron simm'reth, boileth, overwrought,
Persist must I, insist that chill doth yield.
When in thy broth my ladle dips with glee,
Then soup once supped no longer soup shall be.

trixierocks said...

Oops, sorry! In my last comment, the third stanza got cut off--please post this one instead.

Today when I sat down to write
My mind was thick as soup
My verbs had given up the fight
My adjectives, they drooped
Adverbs angrily did riot
“That” romped everywhere
My protagonist was far too quiet
The plot felt rather bare
Exciting words escaped me
They slipped right through my grasp
My hooks were not so pointy
The tense was in the past
So I got up—I had no choice
Tomorrow may I find my voice!

tse said...

Birthday Soup

If soup is what you want, then soup you'll get.
I still recall my mom's indifferent voice
When I announced my mind was firmly set
On shunning cake, the normal birthday choice.
Iconoclast, I thought as I chose soup,
Like Joan of Arc (a heretic to some).
I'd force the baker's army to regroup;
The soup-day revolution had begun!
But looking back I see my fatal flaw;
I see what made my friends all laugh and mock.
It must have been the end my mom foresaw
As she prepared that fateful birthday stock.
A wish-less birthday soup was all I got
As all the candles sank into the pot.

Rae said...

With apologies to Shakespeare...

Shall I compare thee to a lobster bisque?
Thou art more tasty and more literate
That creamy base doth put a maid at risk
Of growing stout from all the soup she ate
Sometime too hot the seasoned mixture boils
And often is its pink complexion singed
And at dessert the fragile stomach roils
Regret for having on the first course binged
But thy rich broth doth naught but satisfy
Though succulent, 'tis light of calorie
And spiced with sage advice to justify
The way we spoon and slurp so greedily
So long as fate and blogspot shall permit
Come sip, o writer! Sip the Soup that's Lit!

Anonymous said...

Our windless August day and cool May night
Seasoned mellow heat and fair maid’s slumber
Our worlds are far apart and yet join right
Hearts entwine in patterns light and umber

Some look upon our life but do not see
The rightness of the combination made
Like lofty burning sun and spreading tree
Where they conjoin to form sweet dappled shade

So should the world conspire to tear we two
And send us hurt’ling down swift rivers twain
If it should seem that what they say is true
And you begin to doubt we can remain

Remember, if you will, de temps en temps
The love I hold for you, no mere soupcon.

-- Anon007

Anonymous said...

Soup Revelation
by JLB
contact: podmostem (at) yahoo (dot) com

The soup it was I tried that night
It was almost good.
I paid the bill with such a fright
Spend no more I could.

Back to the dreary streets I went,
No money in my purse.
“On queries have I too much spent,”
I began to curse.

At once I knew I had to choose
The direction of my life.
In truth I had no more to lose
Than the sharpness of a knife.

The writer’s life had made me poor—
A soup nazi I’d be forevermore!

Jillian said...

Literary Soup
A Sonnet by Jillian Boehme

‘Tis difficult these days to write a tome
The likes of which will capture someone’s eye,
And though I sweat and weep and toil and try,
My manuscript has yet to find a home.

“I love it,” says one agent, “Send me more!”
“Not executed well,” another shrieks,
And so it goes. The passing of the weeks
Erodes resolve, like waves upon the shore.

But then I stretch and sigh and breathe anew,
And, sitting at my desk, begin again.
The clicking keys, the scratching of the pen
Envelop me in hope, like morning dew.

And so, once dry, once drowning, I regroup;
My life’s a bowl of literary soup.

Anonymous said...

Eternity sonnet

The soup skin thickens and grows stony cold
Rich roasted scents fade along with the light
Cream softens and stills, in the heart shape mold
Only candle flame will eat this dark night

As vain hope lingers forlorn in the gloom
I curl up tightly, clutching your pillow
Dread fear creeps in; a nightmare takes bloom
The call comes ringing its message of woe

While others may keen, lament, grieve and mourn
My true heart listens for you to come home
Doubt shall not sway me or peoples sharp scorn
For our love goes beyond blood flesh and bone

An eternity I’ll wait, if need be
For eternity I’ll wait, just for thee

Kylie Seluka

Anonymous said...

Yea, Soup!

Not twice, for all his skill be not remiss,
Has any cook two soups alike assayed.
For soup is chief among all foods in this:
It never tastes the same, however made.
For if thy recipe shall call for such
However finely chopped, or by the cup,
Too little is as easy as too much,
And half again may not be half enough.
Though some despise it for the faith it breaks,
Curse not the knave who sets it by thy place.
But take thy joy in taste that fluctuates,
And in inconstant flavor find solace.
Yea, when I sup this is the choice I make:
To seize the soup tureen, and spurn the steak!

Mint Witch said...

Our Daily Bread

Every day, around about noon,
I head up to the Virginia Inn
(A most delightful cafe and saloon)
To find an empty stool on which to spin.

On a chalkboard, behind the bar,
Is writ the daily fare: what shall I choose?
They have quiche, green salad, the soup du jour-
What will satisfy? What will most amuse?

I prefer the soup, I confess, I do.
I like lentil, black bean, potato-leek;
I like salmon chowder very much, too.
But my favorite soup, the soup unique,

Is the clear and refreshing consomme'
Of agent: Rappaport ala Jenny.

Bridget Medora said...

Extra Credit
by Bridget Medora

The froggy hopped between the desks and chairs
Phil scrambled in between the students' feet
Some girls yelled "ew!", recoil'd with icky stares
But Phil just scuttled after Hydro Pete.

The teacher said, "I thought your project was
Primord'ial soup. You said you'd bring the bogs."
"That changed!" Phil said, and bumped his head. "Because
I switched it to biology of frogs."

Then Hydro Pete went bouncing off again
Phil sped up too, despite the girls' alarm.
"I got him!" Held the frog up high, but then --
A hot and drippy river down his arm.

It splashed the floor. Phil asked, "Is that enough
to get some extra credit, Mr. Duff?"

Gregg Lipschik said...

Novel Thoughts on Soup

If soup is a broth or a stew
If writing is somewhat mixed too
If poetry’s mantric
Short stories are frantic

Epic poetry’s lengthy
But haiku is breathy.
It seems that each form is taboo.
May I ask, what’s a writer to do?

So with thinking caps donned,
Let’s push off and push on:
What form is a stockpot, a chowder, a stew?
A mulligan, bouillon, mélange, or ragout?

Dear agent, the answer will force us to grovel
But we know the most perfect form is: the novel.

Cara King said...


by Cara King

If Heinlein’s men eat soup with lots of meat,
And save the universe with brawn and brain,
Then Scalzi’s men (who follow Heinlein’s) eat
Gazpacho, not as macho, but more sane.

Galactica is rife with angst and loss,
So Jamie Bamber eats his soup and sighs.
But Stargate’s men are happier because
When Browder has some chowder no one dies.

The Kzinti like to eat their prey alive,
So Niven’s cats have soup with lots of crunch;
Be wary if they smile when you arrive:
Their smiling is beguiling, when you’re lunch.

A spaceman’s soup reveals the truth inside.
(The artificial gravity’s implied.)

PJ said...

I hope the Bard isn't spinning too hard in his grave...

When loving leaves true lovers all undone,
Their senses stirred quite beyond recoup,
Breath unwinding, minds completely stunned,
It could be said their hearts are in the soup.
Yet love itself is more than recompense—
Amour a dish most savory and fair,
So do they sup on soup or tenderness
Good nourishment will be their daily fare.
Unless some poltroon throws into the pot
A dash of envy, spite, or jealousy.
Then shall their indigestion be most hot,
More like a chowder then a nice puree.
So then true lovers all should be advised:
Keep all soup simple, love and be wise.

Anonymous said...

Today’s Special
by anon no 0

Sitting after a day's end
Back home in a comfy chair
Sipping soup, being fed
Just add water, no extra care

Mixing ashes with gold
Conjured up excuses
Packaged and sold
Then claiming no one loses

But the soup, you know
Gets cold by the minute
And soon enough the law
Shall reveal its true spirit

Oh, the sorrow they shall scream through their silent tears
What can we do, now that we have conquered our fears?

ulysses said...


As some high-walled town embrac'd by War,
Thy fortress heart I undertook to take
With my forces few fed by my hunger sore,
Sans soup, wine, meat, sans any bread to break.
By desperate dis-ease alone nourished,
Gambling all on that final grim attack,
Ladders lain to thy parapets with dread,
Climbed thee I then to be thrown down and back.
Yet, as Henry Fourth permitted was to pass
Into Paris, open'd thee unto me thy gates.
Homage humble, since thou art worth a Mass,
Knelt I in worship of the threefold Fates.
Although thee to thy foundation shaken,
T'was I, the conquerer, who was taken.

Anonymous said...

Thank you for correcting an error in the early-posted formatting of my Lit-wit sonnet.

Polly Phonic said...

Do you remember when you rescued me
By leaving bones to simmer on my stove?
You said, Forget aromatherapy
And books about the treachery of love;
You need a carcass, lots of garlic, plus
A steady pair of hands to wield the knife.
The last of these you offered without fuss,
Detaching limbs like cloves of garlic. Life
With me was not for you. How kind to tell
Me straightaway, before the dullest part –
The endless cutting down to size, the smell
That lingers in the hall, the foolish heart
That warms its fingers on the bowl. Alone,
I’m like the myth: my soup is made of stone.

Sten Düring said...

A soup, a meal made up of things we taught
spiced with the concept of a a human mind.
There simmers one, and fleshy food for thought
besides a new idea we want to find.

As we grow older it boils to a stew
so full in body but nothing to drink.
Still food for all but for the lonesome few
who lost their voice and self and need to think.

Into the cauldron go herbs of a type
that taste of wisdom and maturity.
We stir the pot until the smell is ripe
with all we know; behold infinity

But know an end to this and every meal
awaits us all, and then we pass the veil.

LVP said...

In honor of one year of great Lit Soup,
I write a poem meant to make you smile.
To sonnet contests I will gladly stoop.
(My YA partial waits within your pile.)
Because my search for agents yielded you,
I e-mailed right away about my book.
It's hard to write a query that is new,
But bless your heart, you said you'd take a look!
Remove first "R" from "writer," plug in "A,"
And that is what we authors really are.
We draft and hone; we send our words away.
We cross our fingers, wish upon a star.
It's great to be inside your info loop.
Here's to another year of tasty "Soup"!

Anonymous said...

(Mayhap he tweaketh overmuch,
made desperate in revise?)

Yea, Soup!

Not twice, for all his skill be not remiss,
Has any cook two soups alike assayed.
For soup is chief among all foods in this:
It never tastes the same, however made.
For if thy recipe shall call for such
However finely chopped, or by the cup,
Too little is as easy as too much,
And half again may not be half enough.
Though some despise it for the faith it breaks,
Curse not the knave who sets it by thy place.
But take thy joy in taste that fluctuates,
And in capricious flavor find solace.
Yea, when I sup this is the choice I make:
To sate my Soul with soup, and spurn the steak!

poetsforpeanuts said...

A Sonnet of Soup

She spoke not softly of what she had loved,
But showed love, when soft, is like a warm soup,
And the essence of soup is what we all find beloved,
A mixture of flavors, of patience, of truth.

She showed the richness such water retains
When boiled with carrots, or lemon, or tears,
And a drop of sugar can be felt like rain
On a long damaged heart full of long barren years.

'Love tenderly' she said, for the heart is a spoon,
And it must be used daily, or else it will rust,
And love is a deep-running terrine of soup,
And its passionate flavors lead passionate lust.

And she said in the end that warm soup heals the soul,
All the wisdoms of soup - if we love, then we'll know.

Brian said...

Dear Agent Rappaport: My novel's done,
A science fiction masterpiece! It's called
The Rendezvous With Ramen, Volume One.
When Paul A-tray-deez finds his father mauled
By giant vicious spoonworms, he must lead
A chowder-headed Betty Crocker troop
Against the Campbell's Empire and its greed.
The thrilling end: "My God! It's full of soup!"

Though readers may not grasp its genius wit
Mistaking its allusions for cliche
I know you'll understand; thus I submit
Synopsis, partial, and my resume.

I thank you for your time. Sincerely, Me.
(Attached: frank_herbert_weeps dot JPG)

Steve Zillwood said...

Home is where the soup is...

Long hours spent at keyboard, pen and page,
While dreams of published manuscripts I weave,
And though I read the dailies – what’s the rage? –
I know not when to give up or believe.
It isn’t that I have a lack of faith,
Nor how-to books and weblog banter praise;
It is that other lack I feel – no wraith
Am I, but flesh who seeks the perfect phrase.
Yet searching through those books that fill my room,
And reading all the posts at Making Light,
With reading friends who help my stories bloom,
I still need more to help me get it right;
And while I really like my critique group,
I’d rather come back home to my Lit Soup.

Anonymous said...

Hurricane Wake

Soup is cold now. Sign says, 'Closed tomorrow.
Last time was a six. Too many died. Take
Wake to Higher Ground. Avoid the sorrow.'
Whistle blows. Crowd leaves. This ends their lunch break.

Outside, winds howl. Faces soon look mist-kissed.
Skin drenched, most join loud parade. Rain soaks street.
Grownups exit alleys. They're trailed by kids.
One asks, "Where we headed?" "Down the levee."

Band leads all. They pass by caskets. Kids sing,
"Take The Wake To Higher Ground." Dark woman
says, "We should have done this last time." Turning,
facing winds, all march down levee, weak dammed.

Storm-surge hurricane floods city. No one
dies. In rooms near building tops, most sing songs.

by WilliamEpic
(Are multiple entries nixed? If so, my Lit-wit sonnet is the official poem.)

JDuncan said...

well, crap. forgot about this til just now and I wrote it last night. If too late, no problem.

Lit Soup

There is within the black cauldron of thought
A witch’s brew of words of books and talk
The swirling spoon of imagination
In the mind’s furious eye of conflagration.

Oh joy! What is this soup which tastes of life?
Tis full of love, laughter, hatred and strife.
Could I hunger for something more than this?
Is not this fullness of soul heaven’s bliss?

This Lit Soup, with its stories unfolding
It fills my heart with worlds neverending.
That I may pluck this delight from my mind
And lay it on yon shelf for you to find.

May all of the world and you, my good friend
Feast til the glorious and bitter end.