An update, and a poem by the daughter

And slowly, the work at home is winding up. The carpenters, painters and plumbers are out, and the electricians are currently working on the fixtures. We're not doing any major changes, just replacing the tired old white tubelights with warm, yellow light. The builders have been much remiss in their wiring work, too, as we discovered on finding that many of the 'outlets' provided had no electric current, and that called for a major revamp. We've already had the cleaners in, who did an excellent job of cleaning up the major spills of glue / paint / polish, etc., that the workers had left behind. Now it is up to us to sort through all our stuff. The stuff collected over more than 20 years of marriage, and 12+ years as parents.

pic courtesy bookgivingday.com

And of course, the books - that is going to be a project in itself. It was International Book Giving Day on the 14th of February 2014. I have been putting books that we no longer need, to give away.

While all this has been happening in the background, there is much else on the writing front, though not of any great consequence. No, that book still has to wait.

Articles and book reviews on Women's Web.

Book reviews on Goodbooks. Two of my reviews feature on the current slider - do take a look.

Articles for The Alternative.

And someone really thought I would do as a panel member for a writing contest in which I shared space with published authors. A participated in the contest, making sure there she did not show me her entry until after the contest was judged, or even tell me anything about it, as she knew I was one of the judges, and shouldn't carry any bias. Here is her entry. Feeling very proud of her.

Here's her entry. Do go to the site for the judges' comments.

WHEN SANTA CAME HOME

He came in the dead of the night
When the blue of the sky was deep
He sailed so silently over our world
When every person was asleep

He floated through the starry sky
Past the gleaming moon
He must hurry, for he was running late
The sun would be rising soon

Ours was the last town he visited
And mine was the very last house
So he began climbing down the chimney,
Quickly, but as quietly as a mouse

After visiting so many children
And eating their cookies and cakes,
Santa was rather full, and hadn't realized
How much effort chimney climbing takes

He sucked in his belly as much as he could
And began to wriggle down
But he was stuck, well and truly jammed
Yes, that is what Santa found

But here is what Santa did not know –
Our house was enchanted
Our house was home to a number of elves
A number that cannot be counted

They found poor Santa in a soup
They told him he needn't worry
They set about their elfish work
And soon they ceased to scurry

They had dug the sides of the chimney
Till Santa Claus could go through
But where they went after that
Santa wished he knew

He climbed down; it was easy now
He soon reached the ground
He tip-toed towards my stocking
Without making a sound

He stuffed in the presents
Oh, and what presents they were
Then, he was finally done with his job
He exited through the front door

Those elves loved snow more than any else
But they could find none here
And our guests were just temporary,
For they stayed out of fear

Of the wicked, oh, so wicked
Froozotapplegadeese
Who would search for and feast on
Just such elves as these

Santa, of course, was grateful to them
He owed them a major debt
He knew that quick workers like these
Were difficult to get

So he sought out the elves and said to them,
"Come with me to the North Pole
You'll find plenty of snow there
For it is freezing, and that is mighty cold"

You will be safe and sound from the
Froozotapplegadeese
For, if he comes to look for you,
I can tell you for sure that he will freeze

I would like you to do me
Another tremendous favour
And in exchange for I will give you
Snow cream of any flavour

Could you help me with the presents –
Could you make them and then wrap them?
For I know that elfish craft
Is certainly a gem

The elves were delighted – this deal was great!
They all jumped into the sleigh
Santa was pleased, and he smiled and said,
"Up, up, and away!"

That is how Santa got his trusty elves
They make each and every toy
For Santa to give as gifts for Christmas
To every little girl and boy

I wonder what became of the
Froozotapplegadeese
Did he go looking for the elves?
Tell me, did he freeze?

*******************************

My reading, in the mean-time, is going along in spurts. Will post about a challenge I feel the need to participate in, soon.

Happy Birthday, A !

She'll be 11 today.

When I see her, I remember the first time I saw her. Just a small speck going 'twinkle-twinkle' on the ultrasound screen, and I fell in love with her. At that point, I did not even know if it was a she or a he. All I knew, was that she was my miracle, one that had come to me after whole 7 years of marriage. I was overjoyed, yet worried. It was a tough world that I was going to get her into. I almost lost her along the way, and it was again a miracle when I had her in my arms, whole and healthy, after an excruciating 9 months.

She is today 11, emerging slowly onto the cusp of womanhood. My daughter, I am dedicating this poem by Sarah McMane, (one that I read at this post by Peggy Orenstein) to you today. My wish for you.


For My Daughter

Never play the princess when you can
be the queen:
rule the kingdom, swing a scepter,
wear a crown of gold.
Don’t dance in glass slippers,
crystal carving up your toes—
be a barefoot Amazon instead,
for those shoes will surely shatter on your feet.


Never wear only pink
when you can strut in crimson red,
sweat in heather grey, and
shimmer in sky blue,
claim the golden sun upon your hair.
Colors are for everyone,
boys and girls, men and women—
be a verdant garden, the landscape of Versailles,
not a pale primrose blindly pushed aside.


Chase green dragons and one-eyed zombies,
fierce and fiery toothy monsters,
not merely lazy butterflies,
sweet and slow on summer days.
For you can tame the most brutish beasts
with your wily wits and charm,
and lizard scales feel just as smooth
as gossamer insect wings.


Tramp muddy through the house in
a purple tutu and cowboy boots.
Have a tea party in your overalls.
Build a fort of birch branches,
a zoo of Legos, a rocketship of
Queen Anne chairs and coverlets,
first stop on the moon.


Dream of dinosaurs and baby dolls,
bold brontosaurus and bookish Belle,
not Barbie on the runway or
Disney damsels in distress—
you are much too strong to play
the simpering waif.


Don a baseball cap, dance with Daddy,
paint your toenails, climb a cottonwood.
Learn to speak with both your mind and heart.
For the ground beneath will hold you, dear—
know that you are free.
And never grow a wishbone, daughter,
where your backbone ought to be.

Life is tough, my lovely A, yet it can be so beautiful. My hope and wish for you is to find your own happiness, in your own special way.

Happy Birthday!


***********************************************


My thanks to Ms McMane for graciously permitting me to reproduce her poem here.

A Kick in the Head: An everyday guide to poetic forms

Pic courtesy flipkart.com

A Kick in the Head:
An everyday guide to poetic forms
Selected by Paul B Janeczko
Illustrated by Chris Raschka
Published by Candlewick Press
Ages: 8+

Do you know what a couplet is? A quatrain? A haiku? A sonnet? A limerick? A ballad? An elegy? An ode? You do? Great!

Now, do you know what a clerihew is? A roundel? A triolet? A villanelle? A senryu? An aubade? An acrostic? A pantoum? A cinquain? No? Do all those words sound as if they were a set of carpenter's / goldsmith's tools? Or some kind of flowers or herbs? (That is what A thought they were.) Well, they're not. They're forms of poetry, which follow certain rules.

Let's take a senryu, for example. Our book explains a senryu thus: "I like to call senryu a 'haiku with an attitude.' A senryu follows the same pattern as a haiku -- three lines of 5-7-5 syllables -- but it is about human nature rather than the natural world around us."

Intrigued? Let's take the senryu in our book to illustrate the point.

First day, new school year,
backpack harbours a fossil...
last June's cheese sandwich.

Or let's take an acrostic- one of the simplest way for a child to write poetry. "Descriptive poems- when read downward, the first letter of each line must form a word or phrase, usually the subject of the poem." It is a form that any enterprising child can experiment with, using any word that they may. Even their own or their friends' names. And it can be so much fun!

Santa Claus will come out tonight
And deliver presents
Near the
Time of midnight you can hear him
And what you will hear are the words ho ho ho

OR

Father
And
Mother
I
Love
You!

All these poetic forms have certain rules that have to be followed, for them to fit in the particular category. Doesn't that make it more difficult in a way? Why not write in free verse?

Free verse does have its merits, especially in modern poetry, which often is an unfettered expression of thought and feelings, a way of writing prose with a cadence, if you may.

Having specific rules for poetry does make it that much more fun to write, though, as well as making it fun to enjoy and appreciate it. As Paul Janeczko explains in his foreword, "Knowing the rules makes poetry -- like sports -- more fun, for players and spectators alike."

Beautifully illustrated in quirky watercolours by Chris Raschka, the book can be read as a picture book for younger children too, as the lilt and rhythm will appeal to the little ones too. Older children can appreciate the poems better, the form, the themes and the beauty of them. High school kids? The details of each poetry form will make much sense to the student with a literary bent of mind. Adults too can take a lot away from the book. Great for learning a particular form at a time, researching it, dabbling in it. Or just to keep it on the shelf to dip into a bit of poetic joy from time to time!

Acrostics, opposites, riddles, limericks, tanka, haiku...A and I have tried our hand a little bit at each. Here's a site which makes it easy for children. Why don't you try it?

A multiple award winning book, this is a poetry anthology with a difference. A must read for anyone appreciative of fine poetry.

I will be entering this book for the Reading the World Challenge over at Papertigers for A, under US of A, poetry.

Rhymes- by a mother for her son

Pic courtesy flipkart.com

Rhymes for Ranga
Written by Freda Bedi
Illustrated by Anna Bhushan
Published by Random House India
Ages: 6+

Remember Winnie-the Pooh? That bear who was a result of the wonderful tales A.A.Milne spun for his son Christopher Robin around his toy bear? Which parent has not told a bedtime story of their own making to a child who wanted to be told a story with elements and characters familiar to it? We all do it as parents sometimes. These stories may be loved by the child long after outgrowing them.

Freda Bedi, the writer of the book Rhymes for Ranga, did something similar. She was a British woman married to an Indian. When her first son Ranga was a baby, she realised that she did not know any rhymes for him which incorporated the surroundings familiar to him, activities and festivals. So she simply set about writing her own for him. This was in the pre-independence era- around the 1930s-40s, and these remained as a collection within the family. They were recently published by her second son, the actor Kabir Bedi, and here they are for everyone to enjoy. A mother's labour of love.

This is what she has to say in a letter to her son, which is published at the end of the book. "These rhymes grew up with you, Ranga, and they grew out of you, because it was sometimes the little words you said, and the nonsense songs you sang, that quickened something in me and gave them birth."

The rhymes are very simple, and speak of the family, the land, the familiar birds, animals and trees around, and common festivals like Diwali and Eid. They show how completely she had made this country and its people her own. She had joined in the freedom movement against the British, a fact that is reflected in her rhymes about Gandhiji, freedom and the tricolour. Towards the end of her life, she had embraced Buddhism and renounced everything to become a nun, and these leanings too are seen in some rhymes.

The dated feel of the rhymes adds to their appeal, for the India of the 1940s that they depict is very different from the India of today, yet very familiar- not very far from how rural India is even today.

The book is beautifully illustrated by Anna Bhushan, a multiple award winning UK based illustrator of Indian lineage. Very charming watercolours, in full colour, sometimes full page.

Here is one of the rhymes that will give a foretaste of the book.

One is a peasant, working with the plough.
Two is the milkman, milking a cow.
Three is a shopkeeper, selling his eggs.
Four is a gentleman, crossing his legs.
Five is a driver, his hands on the wheel.
Six is a housewife, cooking a meal.
Seven is a teacher, stern and tall.
Eight is a merchant, fat as a ball.
Nine is a dhobi, with a bundle on his head.
Ten is a thin man, with his wife well fed.

Can you imagine the figures?

Crossposted at Saffrontree.

I am entering this book for the Reading the World Challenge 2011 over at Papertigers.

Review: A Poem for CRY

Pic courtesy infibeam

A Poem for CRY
Favourite poems of famous Indians
Compiled and edited by Avanti Maluste and Sudeep Doshi
Published by Viking: Penguin Group
Foreword by Amartya Sen

I borrowed this book from a friend. A perfect book for dipping into. A perfect book for a rainy day. Thanks P!

Human emotion can be a tricky thing. At once overwhelming and finely nuanced, it is a slippery being. It becomes difficult, sometimes impossible, to express what one wants to say, what one is feeling. Sometimes one does not want to express one's feelings, but just clarify, validate, what something nebulous that one feels is. Sometmes one is in search of that perfect punch line that is just there...at the tip of one's tongue, but elusive.

Poetry is the refuge of all such souls. Sometimes a few lines express so well what one has not even admitted to oneself that it makes us wonder - how did the poet know so well? And then one has one's favourite poet, favourite poems.

Amartya Sen says in his foreword - "If one can find the right poem, quoting someone else can be as much an expression of one's deeper self as anything one can write oneself. This is a remarkable collection not only for the beauty and reach of the poems themselves, but also for what it tells us about many people who have been active in one walk of life or another, since the selections allow us to have a quick peek into their minds." 

A Poem for Cry is an anthology of favourite poems by what sounds like the Who's Who of India. Adi Godrej, Rahul Dravid, Gulzar, Sachin Tendulkar, Jyotiraditya Scindia, Indira Hinduja, Anjolie Ela Menon, Sri Sri Ravishankar, Nandan Nilekani, Aparna Sen, Kiran Bedi, Shah Rukh Khan, Amartya Sen, Lata Mangeshkar, Tarun Tahliani, Vikram Seth, Zubin Mehta, Jayant Narlikar, Kiran Majumdar Shaw, Dom Moraes, Rahul Bajaj, Amitabh Bachchan, Pandit Bhimsen Joshi, Medha Patkar, Mulk Raj Anand, Derek O'Brien, Atal Bihari Vajpayee, Justice Y. V. Chandrachud, Fareed Zakaria, Sonia Gandhi, Shyam Benegal, Pandit Ravi Shankar, Azim Premji ... You get the picture?

Some of the poems in this anthology?

Daffodils by William Wordsworth. Mulk Raj Anand, Vishwanathan Anand. Karan Johar.
If (If you can keep your head when all about you) by Rudyard Kipling. Lord Bagri. Farzana Contractor. Rahul Dravid. Adi Godrej. Parameshwar Godrej.
The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost. Manvinder Singh Banga. Harsh Goenka. Uday Kotak. Azim Premji.
Epitaph on a Tyrant by W.H.Auden. Shyam Benegal.
Footprints In The Sand by Mary Stevenson.  Dr Indira Hinduja. Jyotiraditya Scindia.
Abraham Lincoln's letter to his son's teacher. Shah Rukh Khan.
And Still I Rise by Maya Angelou. Malavika Sangghvi.
The Pied Piper of Hamelin by Robert Browning. Naseeruddin Shah.
Speak Gently by David Bates. Brinda Somaya.
Where The Mind Is Without Fear by Rabindranath Tagore. Tariq Ansari. Rahul Bajaj. Nana Chudasama. Aamir Khan. Anand Patwardhan. Aruna Roy. Prannoy Roy. Mallika Sarabhai. Viren Shah. Kiran Majumdar Shaw. Kavitha Krishnamurthy Subramaniam.

And many more.

The anthology does not limit itself to poems from English. There are poems in Hindi, Marathi, Urdu, Gujarati, Bangla, Tamil, Sanskrit. I was thrilled to find the Gayatri Mantra recommended by Nandan Nilekani. These poems are printed in the original followed by an English translation.

Quite a few poems were not known to me, as were a few poets. Some intrigued me enough for me to do a search for more poetry by that poet. A learning experience.

For A too. I read Abraham Lincoln's letter to his son's teacher to her, and I could sense her paying very close attention. Why? Let me reproduce the poem here.

He will have to learn, I know
that all men are not just,
all men are not true.
But teach him also that
for ever scoundrel there is a hero;
that for every selfish politician,
there is a dedicated leader.
Teach him that for every enemy there is a friend.
Teach him to learn to lose...
and also to enjoy winning.
It will take time, I know;
but teach him, if you can,
that a dollar earned is of far more value
than five found...
Steer him away from envy,
if you can,
teach him the secret of
quiet laughter.
Let him learn early that
the bullies are the easiest to lick...
Teach him, if you can,
the wonder of books...
But also give him quiet time
to ponder over the eternal mystery of birds in the sky,
bees in the sun,
and flowers on a green hillside.
In school teach him
it is far more honourable to fail
than to cheat...
Teach him to have faith
in his own ideas,
even if every one tells him
they are wrong...
Teach him to be gentle
with gentle people,
and tough with the tough.
Try to give my son
the strength not to follow the crowd
when every one is getting on the bandwagon.
Teach him to listen to all men...
but teach him also to filter
all he hears on a screen of truth,
and take only the good
that comes through.
Teach him, if you can,
how to laugh when he is sad...
Teach him there is no shame in tears,
Teach him to scoff at cynics
and to beware of too much sweetness...
Teach him to sell his brawn
and brain to the highest bidders
but never to put a price tag
on his heart and soul.
Teach him to close his ears
to a howling mob
and to stand and fight
if he thinks he’s right.
Treat him gently;
but do not cuddle him,
because only the test of fire
makes fine steel.
Let him have the courage
to be impatient...
let him have the patience to be brave.
Teach him always
to have sublime faith in himself,
because then he will always have
sublime faith in mankind.
This is a big order;
but see what you can do...
He is such a fine little fellow,
my son!

As are our daughters! A was listening wide-eyed, and smiling as I ended it. As soon as I finished reading it, she got up and hugged me tight. Probably recognising the love behind all the scoldings I seem to be giving her currently. Pre-teens!

This is certainly a book I'll want to buy for my own collection. The copyright is held by CRY :Child Rights and You. All profits will go to them.

Crossposted at Bookreviews.

I am entering this book for the 2011 South Asian Challenge and the Reading the World Challenge 2011 at Papertigers. India. Non-fiction. Poetry. 

An elegy for Diana

Strange, isn't it, how some things remain in memory?

I was a schoolgirl when Prince Charles and Lady Diana married. It was at a stage in life when everything was seen through rose coloured lenses, and the wedding was like the ultimate fairy tale.

The wedding was broadcast live on television. We did not have a one then, but our neighbours did. It was a novelty in our building, and all children would regularly gather there for occasions like cricket matches. It was like an event, and was something taken in their stride by our neighbours. It is something that is unbelievable by today's standards, but back then it was considered a part of community living. The royal wedding was something not to be missed, and I remember watching it in black-and-white glory.

It was a fairy tale that I was saddened to see go the way it did. It was, in a way, the loss of an innocent belief in "and they lived happily ever after." I was in the US with the husband when Lady Diana died, announced in headlines splashed across newspapers one warm morning towards the end of summer in 1997. In a way it felt like a personal loss. There was sadness for a life so full of promise, wasted and lost.

I remembered Lady Diana...ill-fated, a fascinating personality, complete with her faults...when I saw the Prince of Wales and the Duchess of Cornwall today on TV during the inauguration ceremony of the 2010 Commonwealth Games, so close in their obvious camarederie. Why, why did he have to marry Diana in the first place?

Dedicated to Lady Diana. And no, I was never a fan in the sense the word is used. Just feel sad about a woman's wasted life.

Pic courtesy this link 

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.

From MACBETH, Shakespeare.

And here's praying for peace to her soul:

'TIS moonlight, summer moonlight,

All soft and still and fair;

The solemn hour of midnight

Breathes sweet thoughts everywhere,

But most where trees are sending

Their breezy boughs on high,

Or stooping low are lending

A shelter from the sky.

And there in those wild bowers

A lovely form is laid;

Green grass and dew-steeped flowers

Wave gently round her head.

By EMILY BRONTE. 

Behind every woman is...her maid

"I'm nobody, Who are you?
Are you — Nobody, — too? 
Then there's a pair of us. "  
Emily Dickinson.
 
My day begins early. I'm up by 5 and ready to face the world by 6. On a school day, I wake up A, and then begins the routine of getting ready for school, cooking lunchboxes for her and the husband, getting breakfast ready. A has to be out of the house at 7.45 to catch the bus, so we try to sit down for breakfast by 7.30. Most days it is a race against time. Then, the storm suddenly ends, as both father and daughter head out, breakfast done, bags in hand. The husband sees A off in her bus, and goes on to his office.

Just as they head out, I go to the kitchen and put on water to boil for tea. Tea for two. The second cup is for Amma, without whom I never have the morning cuppa.

Now tea is something only I drink in the house. Amma was a coffee drinker before she started working at my house. Over the years, she has switched loyalties to tea. So much so that if she does not come to work for a day or more, she sorely misses it. So, as soon as my morning rushing around is done, I make that tea, pour a cup for each of us, and sit down for a peaceful few minutes. Amma sits by me with her cup and we have a few social moments.

After tea Amma begins her work and I sit down to browse online/read the paper/read a book I want to/just chill. Rarely do I have to oversee any of her work. After so many years, she knows the routine and goes about it impeccably even when I am not around. She knows where I keep everything, and when I need her to do, for eg. washing the balconies or removing the curtains for washing. On days when I am low or distracted for some reason, she senses it and works around me, comforting me with her very presence. She reminds me if I have something to be done that I have spoken to her of, in case I forget it. She literally frees me to do my own thing. I look forward to her coming in the morning, and I am somehow lost on days when she is not in for work. It is not just about the work. She is like a friend who just comforts you by being there.

Married at an early age, she was a mother at 18 and thrown out of her husband's house with her infant daughter. She went to stay with her mother and brother, who fully support her decision not to go back to her husband's house where she was abused, beaten and kept without sufficient food. She has since worked as a housemaid, and last week, her daughter started school. She wants to educate her enough so that she can stand on her own two feet. Her dream is of seeing her daughter 'work in an office or teach in a school.' She does not want her to be getting into the grind of early marriage, household drudgery and the ignominy of financial dependence. No, Ma'am.

Let me make it clear here that I have never had a full-time or live-in maid. Amma comes only for a few hours in the morning. She has been working at my house for the past four years. We have the tea in the morning and then breakfast together later. She toils so that I am free to pursue my interests. She is not just my maid, she is a member of the family in my mind, and is treated as one.

"Behind every successful man," it is said, "is a woman."
"Behind every woman...her maid"? Maybe so.

Emily Dickinson, the poetess I quoted at the beginning, owed a lot to her household help. I came across this article about a book written on her life by Aife Murray, 'MAID AS MUSE-How servants changed Emily Dickinson's life and language'
Published by New Hampshire publications.
Image: Courtesy Amazon.

An excerpt from the article:
The “invisible” kitchen was headquarters for people mostly lost from the public record—and it was her interactions with them that changed and helped define who Emily Dickinson was as a person and a poet.

Another article  about this book says:
"...Murray looks behind the "volume" of Dickinson's work to the lives of the women and men who made that amplification possible and who extended the poet's literary range and human sympathies. Aífe Murray's scholarly research reveals a meaningful relationship between the presence of servants and the volume and nature of Dickinson's literary work."

I would certainly credit Amma for the comfort I enjoy in terms of getting the daily chores off my back. And she goes about it with such affection and commitment. I can depend on her to take days off only if it is really necessary. The affection is amply returned, and in no small measure. I acknowledge my debt to her.

I love the poetry of Dickinson. She says it all for women, who, whatever anyone else may say, think differently from the other half of humanity. Here are some inspiring lines. I read them sometimes when the going gets tough.

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me

It would be treat for me to read this book. I shall be keeping an eye open for it.



  

Nostalgia, and some poems.

The other day, I got quite nostalgic about my school days.

I subscribe to the Readers' Digest, and was reading the latest issue. A was reading her book beside me. She kept stealing glances at me. Finally, she asked, "Why do you always read this?" The obvious answer was that I enjoyed reading it. However, I took a moment to think about it. The reason was that old habits die hard. I told her that when I was a child in school, we had a library class every week. On the 1st such class each month, we were issued out a back copy of the digest. We were supposed to read it and write a review on any one full-length article that interested us. I have been addicted to the magazine ever since.

We went on to talk about other things I had done at school. Knowing that she loved poetry in any form, I told her about some of the poems I had done at school. I did not remember them completely, so we googled them. Here they are, a few of those poems which invoke nostalgia in me.

THE BIRDIE POEM
What does the little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother, let me fly away.
Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger.
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.
What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
Let me rise and fly away.
Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till the little limbs are stronger.
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby, too, shall fly away.

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

We spoke about the time when A took her first steps. How she wanted to explore anything with her newfound ability. This was followed by:

THE TWINS
In form and feature, face and limb,
I grew so like my brother,
That folk got taking me for him,
And each for one another.
It puzzled all our kith and kin,
It reached an awful pitch;
For one of us was born a twin,
Yet not a soul knew which.

One day ( to make the matter worse),
Before our names were fixed,
As we were being bathed by nurse
We got completely mixed;
And thus, you see, by Fate's decree,
(Or rather nurse's whim),
My brother John got christened me,
And I got christened him.

This total likeness even dogged
My footsteps when at school,
And I was always getting flogged,
For John turned out a fool.
I put this question hopelessly
To everyone I knew...
What would you do, if you were me,
To prove that you were you?

Our close resemblence turned the tide
Of my domestic life,
For somehow my intended bride
Became my brother's wife.
In short year after year the same
Absurd mistakes went on;
And when I died...the neighbours came
And buried brother John!


By Henry S. Leigh.


Had a good laugh over the twins. And then we had:


SOMEONE

Someone came knocking
At my wee, small door,
Someone came knocking,
I'm sure-sur-sure.
I listened, I opened.
I looked to left and right.
But nought there was a stirring
In the still, dark night.
Only the busy beetle
Tap-tapping in the wall
Only from the forest
The screech-owl's call,
Only the cricket whistling
While the dewdrops fall,
So I know not who came knocking,
At all, at all, at all.


By Walter de la Mare.

A could relate to this one very well, as she had already been through some Enid Blyton mystery stories and Harry Potter I.

Had a lot of fun.