Can you write without using the letter e?

I read, re-read and read again, and dicovered that both of my poems (previously posted in this thread) had one e each... Here are the final revised versions of both: You and I You and I could marry, if I could hold your hand. Upon your dainty digit I'd slip a thin gold band. You say I'm not romantic - What can I say to that? I think that you should know this - I'm just a pussy-cat! Alas, my words don't touch you, although you know I try. So what's a man to do, I ask? And you, aloud, just cry: "You know I cannot marry you. Look at you on this floor! I'm only two - and what of you? too old a kid at four! Copyright David Taub, August 2001 Lasting Kiss. No man could wish as much as I for you. Though many wish upon night's far flung stars, and call out vainly hoping, through and through, for calming air to cool such wounds and scars, that burn within from long, past tragic days. Days far away, and nights of passion, cold as autumn moon with palid, fading rays. So who am I to wish for things so bold, as having you for always, as I find my wantings such that this is all I pray? Around and round such thoughts play in my mind consuming thoughts that haunt my night and day. Of this, I know, that I shall always miss What was our last and final parting kiss. Copyright David Taub, August 2001

Nice one, Mark, I liked your poem, and i thought the 'schwar' was clever, stevo. 'E' 'A' has almost sang its song and a curl of 'S' will not last long 'L' looks as if it's only an 'i', but you ran away long ago, my ... my hands will tap, and touch, anon, my hot digits stripping bonds that stuck you on. 'A', 'S', 'L' buttons - you'll go away too; but, my only ..., I will always miss you.

hmmm. sang or sung? ... it's sung, isn't it?

In the above piece OD on XTC, read "waiting for music" and strike the 'the' from the strand. Maybe the next competition could be concerned with writing sentences where the same word can be repeated three times and still remain sensible. Looked up 'schwar' too as it sounds like sound uber-letter Lord i.e. The letter Schwar rounds on Estelle's diction. It is defined in my Chambers as an indistinct vowel sound shown in Hebrew by two dots ( : ). Makes the Lord somewhat Jewish too. Bed? Moi? How very Passe. The couch is the new bed, preferably with the babysitter, Or should that be BABEsitter.

Too old - You and I could marry, if I could hold your hand. Upon your dainty digit I'd slip a thin gold band. You say I'm not romantic - What can I say to that? I think that you should know this - I'm just a pussy-cat! Alas, my words don't touch you, although you know I try. So what's a man to do, I ask? And you begin to cry: "You know I cannot marry you. Look at you on this floor! I'm only two - and what of you? too old a kid at four! David Taub, August 2001

I must try and sink this notion of conformity, your smiling lips confound all trials and now I can swim. luck is not an option in the fog of all this triumph. I may lust but your soul stung my longing for this bitter , tragic joy. Will you spit on my passion, or try to crush it's complicity, I can only shun the illusion of not bringing my clinging faith in your body, mind and that organ that will not bliss this occasion.

I don't believe it, I did it AGAIN!!! Took loads of `e`'s out left one in. KILL ME!!!

e-less writing smells a bit of keenness to me. excess effort engenders meager reward.

Ed, Both are acceptable, however 'sung' is the more antiquated version and used less so these days in the past perfect tense, but can be used as a participle e.g. "He often sang the frequently sung ballard." "The sung version is better than the instrumental." I hope I've been some help here! There was also a Sung dynasty in China.

Oooh, and I thought it was Ming...

Um...why is this thr'd all funny and wid? P'raps it's m'old, i's? Or t'PC?

David Your little gem made my daughter's school calss, year 4, laguh! Thank you Jozef

I n*v*r writ* with th* l*tt*r (*) I always us* a p*n

Excellent poem, David.

your skin, your chin, arms, hips, bits, living is a joy today as I wrap my soul in the bliss of all of you

I am determined to do this confounded thing, "Slugs" I must try to sing you a truth about slugs, salt is not popular with such a liquid animal. But as my passion for you , a slug will stain rugs and various focal points in a room. Should you kill my fish in horror of slugs, I will play sad, but not distraught. A violin may contain strings to unlock you, but play to a slug, and you will attain no satisfaction, but that of still anonymity, of a moist kind. Not if my soul was yours. I may moist your curtains on occasions, but always will I catch a fatal thrill, your gritty stuff, your vibrant hill, Of mammaric proportions. And still slugs crawl through my mind. and stick to our foolish couplings, why no dry harbour for our lust?

Milly Molly Mandy, sat on a rustic hill, biting on an anchovy, from a tin bought in Brazil. Fish it was and salty, it thirst a stirring mouth, a song thrust from this naughty food, was drifting in and out. Milly Molly Mandy, a song so wild with joy, spat out this fishy mouthfull, and sung about a boy, who had torn a body asunder, had wrung out a mortal sound, Milly Molly Mandy, now about to drown. lift your song, oh mandy, lift it to a sky, gold and lilac sparkling, the boy has lost his mind.

Does assunder have an ¬E`, it does oh!

ABC of blissfull things born out of wounding, And my loving Slavic soul is split as you turn to a vision of hot dough. Your hot body, your words, your aroma thrown into catholic inferno, are you my spirit, my Vodka, my slivovica (plumbrandy), my Sin? Your odors as sharp as my guilt. It is our virginity that starts unknown rain-drops Was it morn or twilight ... who knows? Oh God?! On God's door you and I knock, drop, knock. Laughing, puffing, sighing; You wild, I raw Your odor grows and grows But, aroma and words cannot do what our souls can inflict glorious pain as we pass through Satan's gift of sympathy Tomb abstract: 'Our mortality boils down to trust and loving immorality.' J IMRICH 23 August 2001, MMI, Two thousand and (half plus half) AD

drink? drink i say ... i find you don't suit as you drink ... it isn't suiting .. this drinking lark ... spirits in you ... alcohol ... no no ... turn you to this drunk ... no vision ... dribbling ... without sight your saliva drips ... you start shaking ... no clarity in what you say ... i wish for clarity ... to look into a pupil without cloud ... want smooth undulations of your talking without slur ... your firm hand ... not this ... i am not coping ... pass that gin ...

Girl with black hair, I worship you. It isn't that I am mad, But I might allow it if you told it. Just infatuation you say. It isn't so. It's too natural. It's a part of my soul. Insanity is part of my transformation. Bring it on. I sink in it. Send back a solution.

Hi, W*ll, w*'v* pick*d a winn*r and although it was a tough d*cision, w* had to go with David Taub's 'You and I' b*caus* it was sw**t and a lov*ly r*ad. Ch**rs *mily

All this talk of romantic illusion is bruising, fight with our stomachs and call it profanity, but do not lust, passion is not always a virtuous thing.

"You WILL" You are a sunny day in Croydon. Your mouth stops the rain. My lungs long for your air, I want you now to stop, and fill your mind with my longing. Suck and shift this window of soul stuff, and simply sigh away mortality. I am not only a gift to you, taking what is sacrosanct WILL lift malignant tumours that consists of all you think lost. Bring my soul softly to its conclusion in your lips, your thighs WILL cling to a sound that spins worlds and mighty warriors WILL crush kingdoms in anguish. whilst you sting with anticipation for a more willing soul. All is not lost in the sand of our rubbing, Sounds, such bliss to this shadow, that always sought your kind, natural radiant, you.

I took 15 `e`'s out and still left one in, BLASt!

OOOPS as we pass through Satan's gift of sympathy ^

As I look at you I know I could not luv any body as much as I luv you.

What is it Not your hair Or your skin Nor worn fantasy No blossoms spill from your lips No moons light you from within It's just you That split instant as you touch my arm And your shadow as i fall

Chirpy birds fly around my woodland cabin. I thirst for you, and sing, sounds akin to a soft violin in play. I sit as sun warms my body and wildwood aromas drift past. A knock. Dry throat; body too hot. Two souls contort, loving. Your touch is magic. Moist lips touch as a light rain starts.

Thou art an Adonis and nothing can approach your bllom most fair. My almond in sugar - milky skin and flashing grin - You hold amagic password that starts my ignition, my darling spark plug. I carry a torch for you, burning bright within my bosom.

Wow, and 'Oops.' I am full of worry now, you guys and girls cannot wait for a man of my background to fail, can you? (grin) "as [we] you my bundle of sunrays pass through Satan's gift of sympathy" Now, all I want is a pardon, absolution, or just compassion ...

What a strange comment! I didn't find that it required a great deal of effort (What exactly is "excess effort???"). As for a 'reward', as cliched as it might sound, the 'reward' was the sense of satisfaction in completing the challenge.

Just thinking of a replacement letter for the 'e' in my user name... any suggestions? Too much coffee has got no tea in it, not 'e'!

Lasting Kiss. No man could wish as much as I for you. Though many wish upon night's far flung stars, and call out vainly hoping, through and through, for calming air to cool such wounds and scars, that burn within from long, past tragic days. Days far away, and nights of passion, cold as autumn moon with palid, fading rays. So who am I to wish for things so bold, as having you for always, as I find my wants are such that this is all I pray? Around and round such thoughts play in my mind, consuming thoughts that haunt my night and day. Of this, I know, that I shall always miss What was our last and final parting kiss. Copyright David Taub, August 2001

Midland This city has a root It holds, anchors Limits my motion Within a grip tight radius It builds a wall to dim my vision Knots it roads Scowls as I crawl at its boundary But my mind... ...strays... Could it burst this horizon? I could watch it float out from its sight... It would follow natural paths Fly in your orbit And if you call, drop to your coastal town Swim with you

OD to Xtasy My mood is up for it today As crowds slowly form in this warm sunny park. A growing public subsists On hot days such as this Busy transforming A work worn spirit, waiting for the music To lift limbs, mind and souls. It starts, in-flowing, gradual at first working it’s frank magic on our sporting blood. My sympathy burns for it. My compassion turns on you. You fill my want and couch my Pain. You find my switch and cloud my brain With your fantastic fog. Is this all you can do? Do you want a touch in addition? Quick. Find us swiftly A quantity of moist shadows In this canopy of bliss. Quick. Drink. Drink again. As the music pounds to summits And stops You abruptly vanish into Still thrilling air. I start to doubt and look about For backing or support. I turn, drink again. Blank looks spring back, Cut off From many glorious hot arms Dunking in fluid air As disco biscuits, Flailing. Surviving a happy trip. Why do I, as always, fall short Of your wants? Will you again fill up my blood- My finality? Go On! As my guts burn in this ongoing Bus towards your aching motion Your uniform concoction, Music, notwithstanding is still pounding a roadway To binding lawns of stitching, As many bright lights astound. I fly along to our all night casualty.

For David Taub. “Pink Ambassadors.” I want to show a mind so fraught with thoughts of you, It has lost a will to fight, a will to think, I want to sing a symphony; this courtly bunch will do, Look! Old ambassadors clad in stylish pink. And will a cousin that you kiss on this occasion find, You half as pliant as you sought to paint, Whilst all around soft lighting grins upon soft minds, And skittish lads in stockings cling and stain. In Spanish corridors a sign is sadly cut, Cringingly you sift through all past shady thoughts, To him that adds a poison to your cup, And still holds your soul in trials that gold has bought. And will I a foil play clown so this sad lady can but fly? But why should man not sing and claim his only right to sigh?

I am truly humbl'd... And gobsmack'd. And flabb'rgast'd Sp'shly by Jo Imrich.

bugger. do i get disqualified for missing off an "s"? knots its roads

O my luscious darling Mary Juanita I roll with you in long, tall grass My mind grows hazy My lungs burn daily And ivory clouds of your soul drift past But I still flash back to a sordid affair My mind boards a slow train to infancy Small and round And only six pounds Our night, it was bliss, it was X-T-C

Actually, it wasnt me who noticed this, it was my sharp-eyed friend, Lisa.but, although the poem is great, Jozef:Inferno has an 'e' in it.I can't write when I'm restricted, so I'm not gonna bother.

Passion Wanting, fulfilling, animal attraction Trusting, humorous, caring, kind Loving I want you

To misquot' wildly, to gain 1 e, aka ', Ms Dian' Bird, may b' r'gard'd as a misfortun'; to gain two looks lik' car'l'ssn'ss. I shouldn't willfully and sham'l'ssly submit to ABC!

See Above

Aboriginal song You and your happy song which outlasts my loss of my old country You sing and sing as you go in and out of our aromatic pantry You know all about that cold arch of curtain, you know all about my survival To boot I know little about things aboriginal; But, still you do not mind my arrival It is only you who knows how to show a map of singing Not so long ago I did not know what it was to talk your kind of slang And today I am in a position to mark my hand with your loving ring my lucky day of January 1982, a day you took a migrant to show how aboriginals sang PS: May many, many, boat or air migrants find happy song in a Lucky Country

Aboriginal song You and your happy song which outlasts my loss of my old country You sing and sing as you go in and out of our aromatic pantry You know all about that cold arch of curtain, you know all about my survival To boot I know little about things aboriginal; But, still you do not mind my arrival It is only you who knows how to show a map of singing Not so long ago I did not know what it was to talk your kind of slang And today I am in a position to mark my hand with your loving ring my lucky day of January 1982, a day you took a migrant to show how aboriginals sang PS: May many, many, boat or air migrants find happy song in a Lucky Country

Aboriginal song You and your happy song which outlasts my loss of my old country You sing and sing as you go in and out of our aromatic pantry You know all about that cold arch of curtain, you know all about my survival To boot I know little about things aboriginal; But, still you do not mind my arrival It is only you who knows how to show a map of singing Not so long ago I did not know what it was to talk your kind of slang And today I am in a position to mark my hand with your loving ring my lucky day of January 1982, a day you took a migrant to show how aboriginals sang PS: May many, many, boat or air migrants find happy song in a Lucky Country

I am sorry ... I clickety clicked too many times once the phone company signed me off

Vanish omission is my last laugh if you won't catch my curling words I shall furnish you with the sound of no hands clapping so I go and take that common spiral, our tryst a swirl folding in, just as that mark, (the spinning milk in a hot drink,) I am flipped up, empty as a schwar

respect to dave angel by the way. Did he even go to bed? (or is that bd?) ps what is a schwar stevo?