Thank you, Mr Premier

It's always a pleasure when the premier of the state you live in endorses your book, even if he probably hasn't read it! Still, I was happy to find out this week that my humorous picture book, What's the Matter, Aunty May? (pictured above) has made it onto the NSW Premier's Reading Challenge list for the second year in a row.

There are, of course, thousands of books to choose from (it's a very comprehensive list). That means a lot of kids may never get to read my particular title. But since tens of thousands of students take part in the six-month program, and they all are challenged to read many books, there's a good chance a whole lot of kids may get to read What's the matter, Aunty May? this year who might otherwise not have.

And that, I think, is a good thing. Good for the kids, I mean, not just for me. It's been four years now since this book was published (and longer still since I actually wrote it) and that means there's enough distance between me and the book for me to sit back and appreciate it simply as a book.

And, as a book, Aunty May seems to "work" (if you like this kind of thing, and a lot of kids apparently do). The text rolls along with a sing-song rhythm and rhyme, and there are lots of funny bits; the kid character creates chaos wherever he goes, joyfully oblivious to all the mess he's created.

Of course, the book was much more than a solo effort. As well as my poetry, it needed a publisher with a stack-load of vision to get me to extend one of my poems into a whole book (some of you might remember that I hadn't originally intended to write a book at all, just a poem; it was the publisher who had the idea for a picture book). And it needed a fabulous illustrator too, who the publisher found in Andrew Joyner, one of Australia's best, who took the text, and not only illustrated it but also added wonderful new layers of humour and madness.

As a state Government initiative, a large number of schools will be involved in the 2016 Premier's Reading Challenge. For many schools, the Challenge is an important part of their yearly reading program. It's not just an individual pursuit either. The website encourages teachers to organise class, group and in-pairs activities around particular books. Perhaps some of them will choose the Aunty May book. I don't know.

The Premier, Mr Mike Baird, wrote this in his "Message from the Premier" on the Reading Challenge website: "The world of books is certainly an exciting one, and I wish all students undertaking the Premier's Reading Challenge a fun, enjoyable and fulfilling experience."

Of course, I don't know how many kids will read What's the matter, Aunty May? But as a writer, it's a pleasure to be involved even in a tiny way.

Thank you, Mr Premier.

The 2016 NSW Premier's Reading Challenge opened on the 7th March and closes on the 19th August.

Why I like the Grinch

It was only in recent years that I discovered Dr Seuss' How the Grinch stole Christmas (pictured). In fact, I saw the movie (starring Jim Carrey) before I found a copy of the book and read the original for myself. The movie quickly became one of my favourite-ever movies. And the book, similarly, delights me when I re-read it―as I did this week, twice―even though it is so much more simple than the film.

As a writer of children's verse, I am interested in Dr Seuss' Grinch from a professional point of view, quite apart from my private delight as a reader, although the two are linked. And what seems inescapable is that much of the power of the Grinch story derives from the fact that the Grinch is a great villain, yet lovable at the same time. He's an outcast, a loner, deluded to the point of committing a heinous crime against an entire town. He's also a greatly troubled individual, who cannot bear the noise and joy of ordinary society and so wants to spread misery to everyone. Even though he isn't "human", the Grinch has so much of the darker, mournful side of humanity about him that the reader cannot help but recognise him as familiar. In the end, his fault is boiled down in the book to one thing: his heart is "two sizes too small"―a delightful encapsulation of his fundamental condition.

And so the Grinch commits his great crime, stealing all the Christmas presents, decorations and food from the town of Whoville. Near the end of the book, of course, comes the great twist. In spite of his efforts, the Grinch doesn't stop Christmas from coming. It comes, even without the presents and trappings. The inhabitants of Whoville are still able to rejoice and sing, simply because it's Christmas. This revelation leads to the Grinch's own redemption; his heart grows "three sizes that day", and he returns all that he has pinched and joins in the celebrations with the rest of the town.

The whole story is given a light touch, not only by the crazy illustrations but also by the constant rhythm of the comic verse, and by the rhyming scheme. The rhythm is accented on every third syllable, and there are four of these units in every line, to give what is in strict terms anapestic tetrameter, i.e.da-da-DA da-da-DA da-da-DA da-da-DA. Dr Seuss doesn't follow this meter slavishly; sometimes syllables are dropped, and sometimes lines are split so that they appear on the page as two or three shorter lines instead of one long one. But the general rhythm provides a structure that basically extends through the whole book. And the rhymes are often delicious too.

Now, the whole point of this blog is to point out one very important truth. The power of Dr Seuss' text doesn't come solely from his clever rhyming verse; nor does it come solely from his wonderful character-driven story. The book is successful because Dr Seuss manages to meld both these things so beautifully. It is a fantastic story, but it is also a fantastic story written in wonderfully crafted verse. The two things meet, and the result is a book that has become a classic.

I often try to keep this double-truth in front of me when I write children's verse. I try to go all the way in imagining crazy character-driven stories, and I work hard to get the rhyming verse to really "sing".

Perhaps you'd like to get a copy of Dr Seuss' How the Grinch stole Christmas, and notice it all fresh for yourself!

Dr Seuss (for poetic use)

Why is this book one of my favourite kids’ books (If I Ran the Circus by Dr Seuss, pictured)? Partly, I suppose, it was a book I read and adored as a child. In fact, it is still a book I can read with delight, as I did again recently. I love the pushed-to-the-limit imagination of the circus acts. Yet I also love the poetry. The whole book is written in zany rhyming verse. The lines have remained ringing in my ears for decades, not memorised, yet familiar in their patterns and effects. 

When my own picture book in verse was published in 2012 (What’s the Matter, Aunty May?), a couple of reviewers noted the “Seussian” feel of it. I took this as a compliment. But I was also a little mystified. I hadn’t consciously copied Dr Seuss’ style or techniques. So I concluded that Dr Seuss’ influence on me had been more atmospheric. I had absorbed from Dr Seuss—and I suppose from other favourites, such as A.A. Milne and Roald Dahl—a number of “techniques” that ended up becoming almost instinctive.

So it was an interesting exercise when I sat down recently with my copy of If I Ran the Circus and tried to analyse exactly what sort of techniques I might have picked up from Dr Seuss. I found I could identify at least three.

Firstly, Dr Seuss (by the way, his real name was Theodore Seuss Geisel) is almost invariably strict about his poetic rhythms. This means two things. His lines have the right number of syllables for the regular pattern he has chosen. Also, the stresses fall in just the right places. When he uses a word like “remarkable”, which he does in the line, “And you’ll now meet the Foon, The Remarkable Foon”, he places “remarkable” so that it fits exactly into the anapaestic tetrameter rhythmic meter he is using. This means the “-mark-” of “remarkable” is stressed and the pairs of syllables around it are unstressed. And of course he doesn’t do this with just one word, but with every word in the book. Each word is stressed naturally, but it is also exactly placed so that the natural stresses create the right rhythm of da-da-DA da-da-DA da-da-DA da-da-DA.

Secondly, Dr Seuss’ lines rhyme. Like the rhythm, the rhyme sounds natural, not forced. Of course, he is helped by the fact that he is creating imaginary creatures with imaginary names. Thus he can have his Foon rhyming with “moon” in the next line. He simply made up a new word to fit the rhyming word!—but, by putting the known word in the second line, it sounded like an absolutely legitimate rhyme. Of course he also rhymes many couplets without creating newly-coined words. The thing to note here, and I have often noted it too in my own creation of rhyming verse, is that a lot of fairly common words in English have some other fairly common words that rhyme with them. Using these simple words sounds natural and unforced. Thus Dr Seuss has rhyming pairs such as head/said, kind/mind, appears/ears, in/begin etc. By keeping it simple, he manages to create a host of successful and unforced rhyming couplets—a whole book’s worth of them. It is a useful tip to keep in mind. Don’t try to be too sophisticated in your rhymes. Keep it simple.

Thirdly, and this is really the most important point of all, Dr Seuss’ story shines through. The rhythm and rhyme become mere servants of the poet in the overriding aim of creating a fun (in fact, a completely zany) imaginary tale. The precisely-written rhythm and rhyme do work their own magic of course, but it is a secondary magic, a music in the background. The main creative thrust is the story itself, which is why the book ends up being so successful. The reader is transported into another world, with consistent characters and a thoroughly satisfying and ridiculous plot.

What interests me is that I too, pretty much instinctively, used the same “techniques” in What’s the Matter, Aunty May? Perhaps this shouldn’t surprise me. Perhaps there’s something universal about these three “keys”. It’s not that there’s really a formula to creating a successful kids’ tale in rhyme. But there seem to be at least some helpful principles. Yes, by all means, use rhythm (but make sure it is precise and consistent and natural). Yes, by all means, use rhyme (but look especially for the simple, unforced rhyming words). Most of all, try to tell a thoroughly wonderful, imaginative and consistent tale from beginning to end, one that delights you as the writer. Then, there’s a very good chance that it will delight others too.

Becoming American

In November 2012 one of my poems was published in the USA in an issue of Cricket magazine (pictured). I had had many children’s poems published previously in Australia, but this was the first poem that had appeared overseas, apart from my picture book in verse (What’s the Matter, Aunty May, which had been published a few months earlier than this in the UK as well as Australia). Cricket magazine has a reputation of being America’s premier literary magazine for children, so it was a real privilege to be published in its pages. The poem, “In Alabar”, was a fantasy poem in four eight-line rhyming stanzas. It told the story of an enchanted market—in an imaginary land—that sold the most amazing treasures.

There were two things that struck me about getting this poem published in America. The first was just mercenary; the second was not at all mercenary and was actually rather delightful.

Firstly, let me mention the first thing, because I guess it could be of some interest to aspiring writers. It belongs to that somewhat tiresome department of life called “making a living.” As a struggling writer, I was keen not only to try to sell my individual poems, but to try to re-sell them in other markets. This is actually harder than it sounds, because children’s poetry markets worldwide are few and far between. I had managed to sell one-time rights of “In Alabar” to The School Magazine in Australia, and they had duly published the poem in their Blast Off magazine in May 2006, with a double-page illustration by leading Australian illustrator Kim Gamble. They paid me $125.29, according to their standard rates at the time for a poem of 25 to 40 lines (mine had 32). Some time later I sent “In Alabar” and four other poems to Cricket magazine in Chicago. They replied a year or so later (it can take time!) offering me $US64 for reprint rights for “In Alabar” (Their rate was $2 a line for a poem that had already been published elsewhere.) They declined the other four poems. The poem eventually appeared in their end-of-year issue for 2012, with a very different but enchanting illustration, this time by an illustrator called Micha Archer. Thus I managed to increase my income for a single poem, by sending it elsewhere (though be warned, fellow poets, it took years). By the way, when I want to earn larger sums, I write prose, not poetry!

But the other thing that struck me about getting this poem published in America was much more delightful. It was the thought that thousands more children (and their associated adults: parents, teachers and librarians) might read, and even enjoy, “In Alabar”. The editors, in their correspondence with me, had described my poem as “imaginative and enchanting,” which was very nice of course, but more than that it filled me with hope. It was a hope that children across America could enjoy those strange, fantastical items-for-sale in my market in Alabar: The ruby-feathered birds, the fish that breathed in “water, air and fire,” the fountain spouting liquid gold, the turquoise swan that sang, the helmet carved from asteroid, the lamps aflame with dragon’s breath. And I wondered whether my American readers would also be taken aback—when midnight struck in the poem—when the market turned into a bird and spread its silver wings to head towards the nearest star? The American editors had changed “towards” to “toward,” because that is American usage, and they had similarly hyphenated my “goodbye” to make it “good-bye”, but otherwise my poem had remained unchanged.

An interesting thought, that has never occurred to me until right now when I sat down to write this blog, is that “In Alabar” was probably read out aloud in America hundreds (perhaps thousands) of time) in an American accent. What a wonderful thing English-language verse is! It is capable of being written down in one English-speaking country, and then read aloud in all sorts of other accents around the English-speaking world. I had written down my poem in Australia (and had read it aloud in an Australian accent). Yet, by being published in Cricket magazine, my poem had become American.

If you’re interested, you might like to track down “In Alabar” in back copies of the magazines, either in Australia (Blast Off, The School Magazine, May 2006) or in America (Cricket, November/December 2012).

www.theschoolmagazine.com.au

www.cricketmag.com

Copying the Bard

Over the years, I have had a number of sonnets published. Since my basic model has always been the classic “Shakespearean” sonnet, I thought it might be of interest to readers for me to dissect the form and make my own brief comments upon it.

Actually, I find that Shakespeare’s own sonnets don’t thrill me much anymore. Recently, I re-read his famous collection of 154 sonnets (pictured above) and found myself, frankly, underwhelmed. I find I can still read some of his plays with delight (which of course have a great sense of story to them, as well as being couched in stirring language). But his sonnets I find are often too idiosyncratic in theme to interest me now, and even the word order is often too convoluted to satisfy my twenty-first century ear.

But the form of the Shakespearean sonnet still enthralls me. And it was the form that was drummed into me (again and again!) as I re-read those 154 sonnets recently. Let me quote for you a typical example (Sonnet 71) and then I’ll briefly deconstruct it.

SONNET 71 (by William Shakespeare)

No longer mourn for me when I am dead

Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

Give warning to the world that I am fled

From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell

Nay, if you read this line, remember not

The hand that writ it, for I love you so

That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot

If thinking on me then should make you woe.

O, if, I say, you look upon this verse,

When I, perhaps, compounded am with clay,

Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,

But let your love even with my life decay;

    Lest the wise world should look into your moan,

    And mock you with me after I am gone.

The first thing to notice is that it has exactly fourteen lines, as sonnets almost always do. But the structure is much more formalised than just the number of lines. Each line has ten syllables, and those ten syllables are generally arranged in five pairs of unstressed-stressed syllables, which means the lines are (formally) lines of Iambic pentameter. Actually, this stress pattern is not followed slavishly by Shakespeare, or by any other sonnet writer. He lets words and phrases have their own natural stresses so that the “unstressed-stressed” pattern quite often disappears for a moment and then returns.

There is also a subdivision of the whole sonnet into four distinct parts, as is typical in a Shakespearean sonnet. There are three four-line “quatrains” followed by a final two-line “couplet”. The three quatrains all feature alternating rhyming lines in the pattern A-B-A-B. The final couplet has two lines that rhyme with each other. You can also note that the couplet not only rounds out the theme of the whole sonnet, but adds its own new point while doing it, which again is typical of the Shakespearean sonnet form. They like to end with a bang.

But what thrills me about the form—and what has thrilled so many other poets over the past four hundred years—is that this fourteen-line structure is so incredibly versatile. It’s like a matrix capable of being infused with infinite variety, depending on the theme and word-choice of the poet. You can write a sonnet about just about anything! A few weeks ago I shared with you a poem of mine called “Kangaroo Sonnet”. In that blog I was more concerned with the way the topic (kangaroos) was already set up in the mind of a reader by past experiences. Let me now share that sonnet with you again. But this time notice the sonnet form: the fourteen lines; the ten syllables of every line; the three quatrains with the rhyming pattern A-B-A-B; the end rhyming couplet (with its final image). But most of all notice how a four-hundred-year-old form gave me a “matrix” I could work with in the 21^st century on the other side of the planet! That’s why I’m so thankful to Mr Shakespeare.

KANGAROO SONNET

They are—at first—unseen, just like statues

and as grey-brown as the eucalypt trunks.

But then they spring into action, these ’roos

rousing the forest with their thumps and thunks.

Most of their movement is flight; they barely

touch ground—instead they are bouncing, bounding

between trees, through blank intervals of air:

leaves fly—dust dances—amidst the pounding.

And then the action telescopes away

into the distance. The great disturbance

recedes like a train on a lazy day

and the bush unbends from its perturbance.

There is nothing left but some broken sticks

and some leaves, swinging, from those giant kicks.

“Kangaroo Sonnet”© Peter Friend. First published by the NSW Dept. of Educ. in The School Magazine (Touchdown, November 2010)