04-12-2017, 03:02 PM
An inspired soup
Ivan flayed the dragon
before it died.
His sword had lost its temper
in the fat. From its side
Ivan rolled it to its back,
and with his teeth he peeled its hide.
With mangling claws he split its breast.
Glinting eyed, from his pocket, he untied
his mess kit. "Borscht!" he said, "sit, sit."
He motioned to its tit. I almost died.
Dainty, like a prince, with a knife he slit
its heart, and from it with a ladle filled a bowl.
“Try,” he said. I tried. And shocked was I
to find it cold!
Ha!
And so, my children, tip your borscht
to warm your heart for Ivan of old!
Ivan flayed the dragon
before it died.
His sword had lost its temper
in the fat. From its side
Ivan rolled it to its back,
and with his teeth he peeled its hide.
With mangling claws he split its breast.
Glinting eyed, from his pocket, he untied
his mess kit. "Borscht!" he said, "sit, sit."
He motioned to its tit. I almost died.
Dainty, like a prince, with a knife he slit
its heart, and from it with a ladle filled a bowl.
“Try,” he said. I tried. And shocked was I
to find it cold!
Ha!
And so, my children, tip your borscht
to warm your heart for Ivan of old!
(04-12-2017, 05:17 AM)burrealist Wrote: I got lost somewhere. This is not the creation story I thought.Well, I quite enjoyed it. Your comment brought to mind this poem.
Quote:Poetics - A. R. Ammons
I look for the way
things will turn
out spiralling from a center,
the shape
things will take to come forth in
so that the birch tree white
touched black at branches
will stand out
wind-glittering
totally its apparent self:
I look for the forms
things want to come as
from what black wells of possibility,
how a thing will
unfold:
not the shape on paper -- though
that, too -- but the
uninterfering means on paper:
not so much looking for the shape
as being available
to any shape that may be
summoning itself
through me
from the self not mine but ours.