When we were kids in our very small town of Ogema, one without a library, theatre or high school, our exposure to things cultural was scarce. But we had our mother. Probably once a week or so we’d snuggle up to her on the davenport and she’d read us stories from the big, heavy, green storybook. Many of the stories were from Aesop’s Fables — I can remember “The Lion and the Mouse,” “Fox and the Grapes” and the “Tortoise and the Hare.”
But what I liked best is when she’d recite poems she’d memorized as a child. As part of her presentation, she’d always state the title and then tell us the name of the poet. And today, I can recite most of the short ones, and perhaps the first lines of the longer ones. There is something so comforting about poetry—my guess is that is exactly what it gave to Mom—comfort. As the seasons of the year revolved, we could count on a poem. For instance, as summer neared, we would listen as she recited…
The Swing
by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)
How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing’
Ever a child can do!
Up in the air and over the wall
Till I can see so wide,
Rivers and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside—
Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown—
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!
Or as fall approached…
September
by Helen Hunt Jackson (1830-1885)
The golden-rod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.
The gentian’s bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun.
The sedges flaunt their harvest,
In every meadow nook;
And asters by the brook-side
Make asters in the brook.
From dewy lanes at morning
the grapes’ sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies.
By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer’s best of weather,
And autumn’s best of cheer.
But none of all this beauty
Which floods the earth and air
Is unto me the secret
Which makes September fair.
‘T is a thing which I remember;
To name it thrills me yet:
One day of one September
I never can forget.
After September, a month or so later, we’d hear Mom recite…
The North Wind Doth Blow
by Mother Goose
The north wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will poor Robin do then?
Poor thing!
He’ll sit in a barn.
And to keep himself warm,
Will hide his head under his wing,
Poor thing!
She could do any number of the many stanzas of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s “By the shores of “Gitche Gumee” or Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven.” (Which I always thought sounded creepy, but if you are tempted, Google either). And if she was feeling playful, she might break out with…
Not Last Night but the Night Before
… a Jump Rope Rhyme
Not last night but the night before
Twenty-four robbers knocked at my door
As I run out, they ran in
Hit me on the head with a rolling pin. (She stopped here)
Asked them what they wanted
And this is what they said:
Chinese dancers turn around
Chinese dancers touch the ground
Chinese dancers do the splits
Chinese dancers – Kabitz!
There were probably more poems in her repertoire, but these are simply the ones I can remember.
