Children’s poetry

I sit to Play

I sit to play Piano in the Key of C

It sounds awfully off to me.

I Look inside with peering eyes,

and there a lone shoe lies.


To the Mother of the Toddler my Toddler Hit

My two year old hit your twenty- five month old babe.

Whilst holding my infant and shooing my brood

I lost track of one little one (tall for her age)

Her actions unfounded, impulsive and rude-


I’m sorry my child, just pushing through life,

Went wild it seems- not how she was raised,

But it looks your  tot has survived the strife.

Yes, despite the raucous  your babe seems unphased.


Now when you see me walk in the door: a child

on hip, in hand and in tow, there’s no need

For alarm.  She’s gentle, charming and mild

Violence rather uncommon to her. Indeed,


Our children both dear  yet immature

Could be friends  if we let them, I am sure!


Baby’s Head

I go to kiss my baby’s head.

To breathe that sweet baby scent

My senses are abrupted instead

By cherry pungency unmeant

for such a perfect crown as this,

I find my darling’s hair amess

with balm intended to soothe dry lips.



Tasha Tudor

“I enjoy doing housework, ironing, washing, cooking, dishwashing. Whenever I get one of those questionaires and they ask what is your profession, I always put down housewife. It’s an admirable profession, why apologize for it. You aren’t stupid because you’re a housewife. When you’re stirring the jam you can read Shakespeare. “

Tasha Tudor








Reading T.S. Eliot to my Children


This month I’ve been reading Eliot’s cat poems to my children. They love Growltiger’s Last Stand.

The Illustrations in this edition are rather compelling:

EPSON scanner image


EPSON scanner image





Milosz, Precision and Storybooks.


First, plain speech in the mother tongue.
Hearing it, you should be able to see
Apple trees, a river, the bend of a road,
As if in a flash of summer lightning.

And it should contain more than images.
It has been lured by singsong,
A daydream, melody. Defenseless,
It was bypassed by the sharp, dry world.

You often ask yourself why you feel shame
Whenever you look through a book of poetry.
As if the author, for reasons unclear to you,
Addressed the worse side of your nature,
Pushing aside thought, cheating thought.

Seasoned with jokes, clowning, satire,
Poetry still knows how to please.
Then its excellence is much admired.
But the grave combats where life is at stake
Are fought in prose. It was not always so.

And our regret has remained unconfessed.
Novels and essays serve but will not last.
One clear stanza can take more weight
Than a whole wagon of elaborate prose.

Czeslaw Milosz
There is a lot going on within this poem-  I especially love the last stanza. The importance of precision seems to be a reoccurring theme of his and as a mother, who is preoccupied with diapers, children, laundry and storybooks, I began to relate this theme to Children’s Literature.
    Lack of precision irritates me and seems to be a problem in children’s story books. When I read to my children, some books just D-R-A-G on.  The reader shouldn’t be muttering to himself, “how much longer?”  A poem or story should move forward without being too wordy; Quick and crisp details carrying it forward. The reader should desire to read on.
I am guilty of abridging poorly written storybooks just to get it over with. When I find myself doing this, I look at the book and think, ‘why do I have this on my shelf?’ And if it doesn’t have excellent illustrations that stand on its own-out it goes.
At times, when I am pressed for time and don’t feel like reading a lengthy book, I get Beatrix Potter’s little tale, “The Story of the Fierce Bad Rabbit.” It’s very concise, minimalistic even and my children love it.
Another problem of children’s literature, which Tolkien touches on in some of his writings, is “sniggering” tones. But, of course, that’s another story entirely.

Baby Dear III


Baby Dear. my tender child,

My love, you are to me,

A heart melted and beguiled,

A bird’s new melody.


Baby Dear II


Baby dear, my tender child,

My love, you are to me,

A cabbage rose in the garden mild,

Sweet telling leaves in my tea.


Baby Dear

Baby dear, my tender child,

My love, you are to me,

A round pearl in the ocean wild,

A sweet apple among the leaves.