Today she brought a lizard’s tail
and dropped it at my feet.
and yesterday a mangled snail
was offered as a treat.
A present helps me when I’m flat.
It gives me such a lift
but not when it’s the family cat
delivering the gift.
Where do you get ideas? How do you write a poem? Do poems have to rhyme? What makes it a poem if it doesn’t rhyme? Who publishes poetry? How do I become a children’s poet? What is your top tip for writers who want to write poetry for children?
These are among the myriad questions asked by writers who want to write poetry. How would you answer them? If you have a poetry pointer to share, email me at traffa-m(at)bigpond.net.au
It rustles, bustles in the breeze
I’m creeping, peeping round the couch
Nearer, nearer almost there
I pounce, but wait
Now it has me!
Let go, you sack of crinkly skin
Stop chasing me
Please stop
You win!
I’ve scraped the skin
From off my chin,
My arms and legs are grazed,
My elbow’s sprained,
My ankle’s maimed,
I’m feeling kind of dazed.
I’ve crunched my neck,
My knee’s a wreck,
My fingers curl like claws,
My dental work
Has gone berserk
And jammed up both my jaws.
My eyes are black,
My nose is red,
My lips are turning blue –
So tell me why
The teachers cry –
SPORT IS GOOD FOR YOU!
A FROG ON A LOG
by Allan Cropper
A frog
a frog on a log
a frog on a log with a bag full of sticks
a frog on a log with a bag full of tricks
a frog
a magical frog
a mystical frog
a wave
a wave of a stick
a wave of a stick from his bag full of tricks
a wave of a wand from his bag full of sticks
a fog
a magical fog
a mystical fog
a mist
a mist on a pond
a mystical fog on a frog on a log
a frog on a log was no longer a frog
a frog on a log had turned into a dog
a dog
a magical dog
a mystical dog
a dog
a dog not a frog
a dog, not a frog, on a log in a fog
a dog not a frog with a bag full of sticks
a dog not a frog with a bag full of tricks
a wave
a wave of a stick
a wave of a stick from his bag full of tricks
a wave of a wand from his bag full of sticks
a smog
a magical smog
a mystical smog
a twist
a twist of a tail
a magical smog and the pond was a bog
a dog not a frog was no longer a dog
a dog not a frog had turned into a hog
a hog
a magical hog
a mystical hog
a hog
a hog not a dog
a hog not a frog
a hog in a bog
a hog not a dog or a frog on a log
a hog in a bog not a dog or a frog
a magical hog with a bag full of sticks
a magical hog with a bag full of tricks
I felt such delight
with the tug of its bite
and its fight till the end to be free.
But now that my fish
has been served on a dish
I just wish it were back in the sea.
Facing.
The Bowler,
Streaks in.
Long limbed,
Powerful.
With intent, he glares at me.
Sweating.
Under my helmet.
I tap my bat.
Raised.
Ready.
Fixated on the Bowler’s hand.
An Umpire,
Yawns behind,
Darkened sunglasses.
Bored. Daydreaming.
A seagull cries
From the boundary.
The red ball,
Careers down.
An inside edge.
Caught by the Keeper.
They call for it.
HOWZAT!
The Umpire.
Stands motionless.
I feign innocence.
He hasn’t heard it.
No finger is raised.
And I silently thank the seagull.
Don’t make me go to school today,
Please! Anything but that!
I’ll tidy up my bedroom,
I’ll be gentle with the cat…
I’ll do the dishes for a week,
(I’ll soak the saucepans too),
But please don’t make me go to school –
That place is like a zoo.
The kids are really mean to me,
They call me nasty names
Like ‘legend in a lunch box’ when
I interrupt their games.
And when they see me coming,
They spread out like peanut paste,
I feel like I’m some fungal growth,
Some noxious toxic waste.
So please don’t make me go to school,
I’ll sulk and whine and sob,
So WHAT if I’m the Principal!
I want a different job!
She stands tall,
Faithful,
Stoic and true.
White-washed,
And unwavering.
Carved basalt steps,
A salt encrusted,
Red door,
With a rusty lock.
Up curved, spiral stairs,
A French Fresnal,
Lens flashes,
Guiding ships,
Away from rocks,
And rips.
Bitter maelstrom,
Blustering galeforce.
To the Lighthouse!
The Lighthouse –
If only you knew,
You saved me
And my crew.
She is not the Japanese beetle
who devastates rows of basil plants;
that brown and black fellow chomping
circles in your garden spaghetti herbs.
She is not elongated, black and lemon-tipped
like Soldier beetle who swarms in number
spring and summer; gardeners anxious they’re
plaguing Melbourne. Crusader beetle is not
bejeweled in topaz, emerald or sapphire
like Jewel beetle. Nor is she the roller
of poop like Dung beetle, ready to squeeze
her offspring inside (like famous Alexander
Beetle’s matchbox) reducing methane as she
dillies away on a cow pat in less than twenty-four
hours. No! Crusader beetle is neither of these,
but a “Joan of Arc” carrying her bannered symbol
on a bluish back. A cross in clear salute, as if
she is proud of her history, out there warring
against predators, her pink and grey feelers
tapping out miles travelled between home and
Acacia bloom, wing-pads blazoned with that
repellent X, proliferating Indonesia, the Indo-
Pacific, or at home, her hind femur and inner
teeth ready to slay Australia’s backyard weeds.
Australian Children’s Poetry 