CHIME TIME, RHYME TIME IN THE BUCKET

THINKING ABOUT A CHILDREN'S POETRY FESTIVAL

One of the thoughts that have come to me since the Galway Kinnell Poetry Festival is that it would be  great to have more participation of younger people. I think really young--like grade school. One of the things that we do know is that children love chiming words, and they are charmed by nursery rhymes at a very early age. 
Think of calming a baby with a repeated  rhyme and a lullaby. The children of my era  knew many rhymes used in games. "London Bridge is Falling Down" and "Old MacDonald had a Farm" to name just two that we played circle  games to.
Also think of the Mother Goose Nursery Rhymes-- they have 362 on the internet  Do you remember singing?

THE BUNCH OF BLUE RIBBONS
Oh, dear, what can the matter be?
Oh, dear, what can the matter be?
Oh, dear, what can the matter be?
Johnny’s so long at the fair.

He promised he’d buy me a bunch of blue ribbons,
He promised he’d buy me a bunch of blue ribbons,
He promised he’d buy me a bunch of blue ribbons,
To tie up my bonny brown hair.
So many and kids could chime in and add what ones they know.

Some famous novelists have also written verse collections for  children . For example, from  the Child's Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson
One of my favorites is MY SHADOW:

MY SHADOW

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,And what can be the use of him is more than I can see.He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed.

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow—Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.

He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.He stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;I'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!

And many children have been lulled into good moods and sleep with the tale of  "THE OWL AND THE PUSSYCAT" by Edward Lear.

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea In a beautiful pea-green boat: They took some honey, and plenty of money Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!"	Contemporary Illustrator: Donna L. Derstine

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl, How charmingly sweet you sing! Oh! let us be married; too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?" They sailed away, for a year and a day, To the land where the bong-tree grows; And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood, With a ring at the end of his nose, His nose, His nose, With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will." So they took it away, and were married next day By the Turkey who lives on the hill. They dined on mince and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon;

And hand in hand on the edge of the sand They danced by the light of the moon, The moon, The moon, They danced by the light of the moon.

More recently there was  the Broadway Musical Hit made from poet TS Eliot's Old Possums Book of Cats. Here is my favorite about the MYSTERY CAT

Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw

For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law. 

He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair: 

For when they reach the scene of crime — Macavity’s not there! 


Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity, 

He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity. 

His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare, 

And when you reach the scene of crime — Macavity’s not there! 

You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air —

But I tell you once and once again, 

Macavity’s not there! 


Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin; 

You would know him if you saw him, for

his eyes are sunken in. 

His brow is deeply lined with thought, his

head is highly domed; 


His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed. 

He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake; 

And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake. 


Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity, 

For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity. 

You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square —

But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there! 

we could be playing the  score from CATS  to inspire us.  Maybe we could use  face paint to make every child look like a cat and we could have tails they could pin on and encourage  loud and soft MEOWS and some PURRRRRRRRRRRRRing too.

We could include the more recent verses of Shel Silverstein.

Where the Sidewalk Ends There is a place where the sidewalk ends And before the street begins, And there the grass grows soft and white, And there the sun burns crimson bright, And there the moon-bird rests from his flight To cool in the peppermint wind. Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black And the dark street winds and bends. Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And watch where the chalk-white arrows go To the place where the sidewalk ends. Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow, And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go, For the children, they mark, and the children, they know The place where the sidewalk ends.

Written by Shel Silverstein |

Whatif Last night, while I lay thinking here, some Whatifs crawled inside my ear and pranced and partied all night long and sang their same old Whatif song: Whatif I'm dumb in school? Whatif they've closed the swimming pool? Whatif I get beat up? Whatif there's poison in my cup? Whatif I start to cry? Whatif I get sick and die? Whatif I flunk that test? Whatif green hair grows on my chest? Whatif nobody likes me? Whatif a bolt of lightning strikes me? Whatif I don't grow taller? Whatif my head starts getting smaller? Whatif the fish won't bite? Whatif the wind tears up my kite? Whatif they start a war? Whatif my parents get divorced? Whatif the bus is late? Whatif my teeth don't grow in straight? Whatif I tear my pants? Whatif I never learn to dance? Everything seems well, and then the nighttime Whatifs strike again!

THIS IS MY VISION FOR POETRY'S  FUTURE IN THE BUCKET
WHAT IF THE POETRY KINNELL FESTIVAL SPONSORED  A workshop for  kids at the Pawtucket Public Library 
WHAT IF we  found the time to share these poems 
WHATIF we learned what poems they already know by heart and WHATIF We share the fact that they can use these poems and chime rhymes  to comfort themselves, or to remember something,
WHATIF we explained that remembered poems and  rhymes are a kind of mantra against sadness, loneliness and  harm. 
WHATIF WE considered that remembered  verses are a kind of spiritual bank account and can be drawn upon as an inner resource for the inner child and will help us through life.

WHAT IF  we admitted that some poems are spooky and scary and shared those too

THIS IS THE POEM THAT HAS DISTURBED ME THE MOST WHEN  I FIRST READ IT AS A CHILD:

THE LISTENERS

BY WALTER DE LA MARE

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,   

   Knocking on the moonlit door; 

And his horse in the silence champed the grasses   

   Of the forest’s ferny floor: 

And a bird flew up out of the turret,   

   Above the Traveller’s head: 

And he smote upon the door again a second time;   

   ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said. 

But no one descended to the Traveller;   

   No head from the leaf-fringed sill 

Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,   

   Where he stood perplexed and still. 

But only a host of phantom listeners   

   That dwelt in the lone house then 

Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight   

   To that voice from the world of men: 

Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,   

   That goes down to the empty hall, 

Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken   

   By the lonely Traveller’s call. 

And he felt in his heart their strangeness,   

   Their stillness answering his cry, 

While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,   

   ’Neath the starred and leafy sky; 

For he suddenly smote on the door, even   

   Louder, and lifted his head:— 

‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,   

   That I kept my word,’ he said. 

Never the least stir made the listeners,   

   Though every word he spake 

Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house   

   From the one man left awake: 

Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,   

   And the sound of iron on stone, 

And how the silence surged softly backward,   

   When the plunging hoofs were gone.

WHAT DO YOU THINK THIS POEM MEANS? DOES IT SCARE YOU, TOO?