Soup poetry . . . a work in progress

Here is Act I of a play about making poetry. Act II will follow after Nadia's birthday party when we put this play in action (and see if Nonny's new soup really works!)
Cast of characters: [endless possibilities, depending on your party!]

Narrator
Cleo . . . age 8
Nonny . . . age Grandmother
Nadia . . . age 6, soon to be 7





Soup, Soup
ACT I

Narrator: One day, Nonny was cooking up some soup. But for some reason, she was simmering it in a huge pot, big as a cauldron--the kind of cauldron you'd find in a fairy tale.
Enter Cleo.

Cleo: Nonny is making soup. What kind of soup can it be? Hey, Nonny, Nonny . . . what you got cooking? I’m a coming and I’m a looking! Wow, I made a rhyme.

Narrator: Cleo stood on tiptoe and could just see into the pot.

Cleo: Hum. Problem . . . I know what to do. I’ll stand on this footstool. Where did this footstool come from, anyway? We never had a footstool here before. Hum . . . mighty handy that it’s here now.

Narrator: And so she peered into the pot.

Cleo: Why, this is odd soup. There’s not a single dumpling or piece of chicken . . . not a vegetable in sight, not even a carrot! Let me see . . . Yeow!

Narrator: Those of you who have heard other stories about Cleo will recognize a pattern here. What do you think happened? Yep. She fell right smack into the pot. And yes, it was large enough to hold a eight-year-old girl.

Cleo: Yikes! Hum . . . This soup should be hot but instead it feels . . . like a warm bath. Hum . . . it’s really rather nice. Ahem.

Narrator: “Ahem” came out of her mouth after she accidentally swallowed some of the broth. It sounded, well . . . odd.

Cleo: Ahem. It appears that I have been mistaken in my initial assumption. This is no more a pot of chicken soup than I am myself a chicken. Just as it is plain to see that I am a eight-year-old girl, I hereby state for all and sundry to note that that this is no ordinary soup but indeed, it is a pot of word soup. A soup with a slight nineteenth century flavor. The chef must be somewhat literary.

Narrator: Cleo felt a strong urge to recite a poem.

Cleo: I am simply beyond myself with inspiration of a garden variety. I would hasten outdoors but I cannot get out of this cauldron.

Narrator: She pulled herself up to her full height in the cauldron and began.

Cleo: Oh! Sunflower!
How large thy leaves appear
To these nearly nine-year-old eyes!
How coversome and protective
When the beamish sun
Pours forth her hot July rays
Especially last week—-today is not so bad.
I like you, Sunflower.

Enter Nonny, who had been hiding behind a chair all this time.

Nonny: [clapping] Lovely, Cleo! And best of all, my recipe worked!

Cleo: Top of the morning to you, Grandmother Dearest. And what, may I ask, is the nature of the concoction you’ve brewed up this time?

Nonny: I’ve finally perfected-- I think and I hope-- my word soup. Shall we test it on Nadia? Here she comes. Can you get her to fall in too? Here, let me lift you out. Take this towel and dry off quickly so Nadia won’t suspect anything. By the way, how does it taste?

Cleo: It presents an intense violet colour, plums, black cherries, licorice, and dried herbs aroma in the nose. Sweet, round and ample in the mouth with a lingering finish.

Nonny: Good. Sounds like I’m almost there. Quick. Here comes Nadia.
Lifts Cleo out of the cauldron.

Narrator: Quite unsuspecting, Nadia entered through the back door.

Nadia: Yoo hoo, Nonny! Anybody home?

Cleo: Nadia! Look at the grape vine growing out the soup Nonny is cooking! Hum . . . I sound like myself again.

Nadia: You always sound like yourself. What are you talking about?

Cleo: Stand up on this footstool and look!

Nadia: Ok, ok!

Narrator: And so Nadia did. And Cleo pushed her right into the soup.

Nadia: Wha!!!

Cleo: Now take a sip.

Nonny: Wait! Let’s try something different.
Sprinkles something into the soup.

Nadia: Nonny, look what Cleo did to me! [Gulp] But I’m not afraid.
Pulling herself up to her full height.

I may be a young girl but I know life is hard
For those not so lucky as I am. I'm aware.
I’ve got sprite, I’ve got chutzpah, I got spunk, I got guts.
With some luck, I will help them. Need me? I'll be there.

Narrator, Nonny, Cleo: [clapping] Well done, Nadia!
Nadia takes a bow.

Cleo: That was a beautiful poem, Nadia. And such big words!

Nonny: It worked! I sprinkled in heroic words and she spoke a heroic poem!

Nadia: Anybody need rescuing?

Nonny: Here. Let me lift you out. I’m perfecting my word soup. I sprinkle in words and whoever stands in the cauldron or better yet, swallows some of the soup, finds they can’t resist reciting poetry in the language of the words! It’s my best invention yet.

Cleo: Ohhh. Let’s try it on the Narrator.

Nadia: Yes! We’ll put in some music words for him. OK, Larry?
Our narrator’s name is Larry and he’s a pianist when he isn’t narrating.

Narrator: Well, Ok. Why not?

Nonny: Girls, go find some music words for him. Meanwhile, we’ll try to fit him into the cauldron. Sorry, Narrator, it is the largest cauldron I could find.

Narrator: Well, I hardly need much prompting about words. I am a narrator after all. But let’s see what they come up with. Oh, yes, speaking of narrating. [Clears his throat.] So Cleo and Nadia scoured Nonny’s books for words about music. Luckily, Nonny has a lot of books. The Narrator, well, that’s me so I might as well just say “I.” I stepped into the pot and waited. And waited. And waited. I must say that I felt heroic and rather nineteenth century-ish at the same time. I barely suppressed a strange prompting to speak along the lines of David Copperfield when Cleo and Nadia suddenly appeared with a handful of music words.

Cleo and Nadia: Here you go. Into the pot.
They throw in the words.

Narrator: Oh, my.
Standing up to his full height.

The Rite of Spring does not elicit pity.
Stravinsky leaves no room for our lament.
She dances and she dies and it’s expected.
And so, how starkly modern can you get.

Nonny: Oh, my goodness. Modernism in a nutshell.

Cleo and Nadia: We don’t get it.

Narrator: That’s all right, my dears, I’m not sure I do either.

Cleo: I have a great idea! Let’s have a party and invite everyone we know and let them all stand in the pot and recite poems about what they love!

Nadia: Yes, let’s do. When is the next cele . . . celebration?

Nonny: I believe it’s Nadia's birthday, in thirty-one days. We’ll do it then. And you learned some big words when you were in the soup. Celebration is a big word.

Cleo and Nadia: Yay! Celebration!

End of Act I. Stay tuned.