lobster bisque belgique

Many of you are undoubtedly familiar with Maurice Sendak's unforgettable 1962 masterpiece of postmodern verse, "Chicken Soup with Rice." The piece spoke to an American people living with the threat of imminent nuclear disaster, confronting the paranoia of the Cold War, reeling from the understanding that the "jungle music" known as "rock 'n roll" was not a fad, but an institution. This America needed reassurance; this America needed to know that the simple life would not be destroyed by bombs, absorbed into some communist conformist sensibility or subverted by Elvis' hips or the Beatles' moptops.

Sendak provided just that reassurance. His folksy, down-home recipe for the simple goodness of life spoke to the hearts and minds of our insecure countrymen. The problems of Sendak's world are modest: drooping roses, August heat, hosting a Halloween party, and so on. And all problems can be solved modestly: with soup.

We live in a different time. We know different things. We lack the insecurity of our parents and grandparents. Should a nuclear disaster grow imminent, Hollywood has taught us that Bruce Willis or Steven Seagal or Nicolas Cage will find the bomb, defuse it and kick the ass of the would-be bombers. In the unlikely event that they fail and plunge us into war and nuclear winter, Hollywood has taught us that time-travelling robots will return to a point prior to detonation and rewrite our future. Communism has proven to be as big a threat to American life as Esperanto. As for rock 'n roll, we have learned that our fear of this music stemmed from our inability to confront our shame. And as we all know, 21st-century America has no shame, so we're happy to let the music of our culture put our rampant gun violence, irresponsible sexual habits and tacit acceptance of illegal drug use to a funky, danceable rhythm.

A different time calls for a different poetic voice. Our children are the children of privilege and ambition. No longer content to tend flowers or host Halloween parties, they become clandestine pot-growers inspired by television and hope one day to crash the Vanity Fair post-Oscar party. Sendak's sentiments have no meaning for them and they drift aimlessly in a world without verse.

Children, drift no longer. I have arrived with the verse for your world. At least for the next six months.

Lobster Bisque Belgique

by Chris McColl (mostly)

a chicken soup for the privileged soul
with much gratitude and a smug sense of entitlement (from whence derives this almost piratical appropriation) to Maurice Sendak

On our January
ski holiday in Gstaad,
Fritz booked us in at Gildo's—well, MY GOD.
Wintering in Suisse? Give it the nod.
Eat one meal.
Eat all week.
Eat their lobster bisque belgique.

In February, I'll be there
for Jean-Paul G's anniversaire
with Puck catering the whole affair--
tres tres fou
tres tres chic
tres tres lobster bisque belgique

In March, Spring Break means that we're dismissed
To Brunei and all its hedonists.
Only ten-figure incomes make the list.
Swim at the Sultan's club.
Swim with the Sultan's clique.
Swim in lobster bisque belgique.

"April is the cruelest month."
T. S. Eliot's said to've said this onth.
Leth cruel? The Fat Duck for Easter lunth.
Heston's bubble
and Heston's squeak
Heston's lobster bisque belgique.

In May, of course we'll go to Cannes,
Enjoy Coco Chanel and coq au vin.
Join George C. at Casino Lucien.
With his winning smile
and my winning streak
We'll be winning lobster bisque belgique.

Divorcees in June say “I re-do”
(in a dress by Wang and shoes by Choo).
Paparazzi fight to get a view.
The couple’s presents? Gorgeous.
The couple’s future? Bleak.
The couple’s passed on lobster bisque belgique.