Tuesday tea time is a bit of a religion in our home. While we flagrantly break Julie Bogart's rules concerning fine china, a beautiful table and tea, we always devour goodies. Today the kids slurped down the best ice cream on the planet. Everyone except the toddler is required to come to the table with a poem to share aloud. This can be their own creation--we recently indulged an extended original haiku phase--or a poem found in one of several poetry books scattered across our living room.
Today's choices illustrate our eclectic bent. You can see why we didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
From the six year old: Hush Little Baby and Star Light, Star Bright
From the ten year old: (BRACKETS) – John Coldwell
It was Wednesday. Maths. Page 28. And I was already thinking about tomorrow. Thursday. Maths. Page 29.
We were doing problems. The ones where you have to remove the brackets first.
I was on question 13 and right inside a bracket, When this strange phrase came into my head. And before I could trap it in a bracket It shot out of my mouth
Into the classroom. “Bring on the dancing prunes!”
The room went silent And thirty pairs of bracket-solving eyes Swivelled in my direction. The teacher stopped putting crosses In somebody’s maths book And looked crossly at me. “What did you say?”
I could have told him But instead, I put a bracket round my reply And said “Nothing.”
The teacher sighed. “How would it be if everybody Called out the first thing that came into their heads?” (Very interesting.)
From the fourteen year old: Flower in the Crannied Wall by Alfred Tennyson
Flower in the crannied wall,
I pluck out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower--but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
From the sixteen year old: The Hokey Pokey, Shakesperean Style
O proud left foot, that ventures quick within
Then soon upon a backward journey lithe.
Anon, once more the gesture, then begin:
Command sinistral pedestal to writhe.
Commence thou then the fervid Hokey-Poke,
A mad gyration, hips in wanton swirl.
To spin! A wilde release from Heavens yoke.
Blessed dervish! Surely canst go, girl.
The Hoke, the poke -- banish now thy doubt
Verily, I say, 'tis what it's all about.
Then soon upon a backward journey lithe.
Anon, once more the gesture, then begin:
Command sinistral pedestal to writhe.
Commence thou then the fervid Hokey-Poke,
A mad gyration, hips in wanton swirl.
To spin! A wilde release from Heavens yoke.
Blessed dervish! Surely canst go, girl.
The Hoke, the poke -- banish now thy doubt
Verily, I say, 'tis what it's all about.
From me (age? none-ya): In Flanders Fields by John McCrae
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead; short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe!
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
