So. This turned up in the post yesterday: I Bet I Can Make You Laugh, poems by Joshua Seigal and friends. Turns out I must be one of Joshua’s friends, as my poem Things Could Be Worse is in there (page 103, in case your looking). The book is available from 9th August from all good bookshops (as they used to say), and on-line from Bloomsbury.
I’m grateful to Joshua Seigal for including the poem in the anthology and I am, inevitably, slightly smug. (Just for today though: don’t worry, I’ll be back to normal writer’s despair tomorrow.)
Things Could Be Worse is part of a growing collection of (mainly) animal poems which needs to see the light of day at some point soon. But I have another children’s poetry book finished, ready and needing a publisher: The Night Elephant, a story told through poems.
Sophie is an eight-year old girl with a knack for mending things and a backpack full of tools. She is taken by her friend the Night Elephant to a jungle, where the animals are in trouble because the Old Thing has stolen the water from their drinking fountain. Sophie, together with the Night Elephant and seven enthusiastic monkeys, sets off to bring the water back. But the Old Thing is just as determined to keep the water.
The poems in ‘The Night Elephant’ use a range of forms: yes, there are rhyming couplets, but there are also haiku, shape poems, free verse and alliterative verse, as well as traditional forms such as sonnets, triolets and villanelles.
In my wonderful wife’s unbiased opinion The Night Elephant is ‘perfect’. Here’s the first poem. If you want to read more, get in touch, or petition your local publisher.
Here’s Sophie – Our Hero
Here’s Sophie. What is there to say?
She’s eight years old and loves to play
with boxes, bottles, tins and jars,
with bolts and bits from bikes and cars.
There’s nothing makes her quite as glad
as when she gets a box from dad
containing nameless bits of junk
which had been rusting in a trunk
discarded in a basement store
with ‘Danger’ written on the door.
She takes the box into the shed
then tips it up so she can spread
her metal treasures on the bench.
She works at them with brush and wrench
and scrubs off rust and oil and slime
until each piece is free from grime.
And when a bolt or bracket’s bright
she studies it with touch and sight
until she thinks she knows its name
or character (that’s much the same).
So then she knows the part it plays
within the metal art displays
that line all four walls of the shed
and even hang above her bed.
On weekdays, when she goes to school,
her backpack’s stuffed with every tool
she thinks she’ll need while she’s away:
two screw-drivers, one red, one grey,
a hammer, torch, a pair of pliers
(which has a notch for cutting wires),
a drill, a set of allen keys,
a brush, a special spray that frees
up rusting hinges, bolts and locks,
a little key for winding clocks.
The bag’s so full it cannot take
her school things, so she has to make
her mother carry them, while she
clanks with her tools, triumphantly.
(© Huw Evans 2018. No reproduction without permission – but you are free to link to this page.)