Hi Christina,
Sorry I've been missing for a week and a bit. Work - and no internet cafes
anywhere near Bury St. Edmunds! Rats!
Anyway, yr pome!
Light - and tasty enough to make me smile! (Like India Pale Ale... ?).
I've wondered about eh repetition at the start and the finish - but, in the
end, I like that!
But I've had a week of rhubarb puddings, no fresh fruit, and muslie even a
mouse would complain about!
The mouth-music chant of this is delish after that!
Bob



>From: Christina Fletcher <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New sub: Ding Dong Bell
>Date: Thu, 22 May 2003 11:19:45 EDT
>
>A half-hearted attempt at a pome from a grumpy moaner;-)
>bw
>c
>
>
>
>             Ding Dong Bell
>
>             In the kitchen mother lies on a bed of shrivelled plums -
>             pitted olives are her eyes and her breasts are papadoms.
>             Wishbones have replaced her hips, swollen pizza dough her
>thighs,
>             broken Twiglet fingertips sieve and sift, let fall and rise...
>
>             Shredded cabbage - red and raw; pine nuts, rosemary and rue;
>             marrow bone and apple core; bitten biscuits, knuckle stew,
>             peel and pith with bitter pips.  Hull and husk, a floury well,
>             skin and gristle sliced in strips, dead-eyed shrimp's
>discarded
>shell...
>
>             Riblets rumba in the pot, seared and sprayed with citrus zest:
>             sweet and sour and scalding hot for the blind-baked pastry
>nest.
>             Stir the gravy, warm the plate, fill the air with scented
>sighs,
>             let the steam evaporate.  In the kitchen mother lies...
>
>
>
>
>
>
>
>             christina fletcher
>
>
>
>
>
>

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