August Poetry Postcards 2017
This year I've used a book of postcards that I found in a box of my mother's things. She passed away seven years ago and there are some papers I've still not had a chance to read through. I can't simply chuck them without knowing what they are, and believe I gave this little treasure book to her many years ago. We shared a love of dolls and these types of pictures.
I imagine this being a small tribute to my parents and decided to write each postcard, as inspired, about my childhood. These words were given no forethought; I sometimes used the illustration for inspiration, or memories flowed onto the thin cardboard and flew off to their destinations around the world. There has been some slight editing.
Hurricane Harvey happened in the midst of this so there are some contributions there and randomly placed.
These are the works of fifteen excellent English illustrators; all images reproduced from The Blue Lantern Studio.
The title of the book is first and then the artist’s name
and birth and death dates. These cards were so old that many dates of death
aren’t recorded here since they were still alive at the time.
From The Rosie Posie Book
by Anne Anderson
(1874-1930)
My mother could not stand
the idea of
“sleeping in,”
for
herself
or anyone else. She dragged me,
literally,
out of my bed on Saturday
mornings
so I could get my chores done
in time for my cartoons
to come on TV.
As an adult,
she would phone me, and when I’d answer at 7 am, she would say
“ARE
YOU STILL IN BED?”
To be able to sleep in
was always
a lifetime goal. I wish
she could call me now
and
wake me up in the mornings.
I still here.
I still want to sleep in.
From The Little Busy Bee Book
by Anne Anderson(1874-1930)
I was my mother’s
little
butterfly. A least – until
I could walk, or
perhaps run, which soon
followed. Then
I became more my mother’s
little bulldog
and she had to keep me on a leash.
I would run away
given the slightest
opportunity. I spent my life
trying to please her and I was overjoyed
when I
knew I’d made the grade.
For the most part, I was a disappointment.
I kept trying.
As did she.
From The
All Sorts of Stories Book 1911
by H.J. Ford (1860 – 1941)
Sometimes I had creepy dreams.
So sleeping wasn’t always
what I did at night.
As a child, my ordinary day was filled with schemes;
And
how I might get those ideas to ignite.
Bedtime I kept my thoughts alive, on
fire;
Warding off the darkness that lurked in my mind.
Though it was rest my
body desperately desired,
That wasn’t how my psyche was designed.
The boogeyman
slept under my small corner bed;
A ghost in the closet who hid in the day;
The
monsters that grew out of my head.
It took 60 years to make them go away.
From
The Orange Fairy Book 1906
by H.J. Ford
I collected an odd assortment of friends as a child.
My parents embraced them, every one.
Some were “brains” like me and some were completely wild.
Judgment wasn’t allowed in my home. Childhood was meant to be fun.
It wasn’t until Grade 7 when a somewhat clingy girl was exiled.
It seemed there was evidence incontrovertible
That made my mother uncomfortable with what appeared to be
Bed bugs.......
it seemed had most likely caused the red spots on the girls face
And though she was liked,
the insects didn’t belong
IN OUR PLACE.
From The Story of the Rebellious Dolls c 1910
by
E. Stuart Hardy (Born 1870)
Uncle Howard came to stay with my mother and father, (this was long before I was born)
in their apartment on Boren Avenue. It was a one bedroom
and there was little space for
three people, two of them being honeymooners....
And my mother
was a fastidious woman.
Hard on her to accept this giant of a man who had been
injured in the war that was still raging
all over the world.
“But he’s my uncle,”
my father pleaded, yet reluctantly let the veteran leave.
I grew up hearing about
CRAZY UNCLE HOWARD, but my father loved him.
I never forgot that.
From The Twilight of the Gods 1911
by Arthur Rackham
When my cousin would
come to stay with us,
she flirted with all the
boys in the
neighborhood. I didn’t get it. I was 9
when she was 12 and boys
were not a priority
in my life. She was
cool.
I was a “little sister” and my
older brother,
who was her age, had more
in common with her, so
typically
I was
ignored. She almost married
one of those boys and there
were things that
happened that I didn’t
know about but
really – I didn’t care. I found them to
be
just as annoying as
they found me.
From The Stories of the Three Baby Bears Told c 1910
by E. Stuart Hardy (Born 1870)
One time when I was about 6, we were huckleberry picking up in an area
that was wooded but had natural meadows. My grandma, who never wore pants her
entire life, had her skirt tied between her knees. Her two daughters (my mother
and my aunt) were picking in a group and we children were down the hill. There
were others picking, too; Betty was there, my mother’s best friend. I remember
as if it was yesterday when they came tearing down the hill, their legs like
cartoons, scissoring the air, my grandma holding hands between her girls,
leaping. We thought it was bees but it was a bear.
From House Fairies 1925
by Margaret W. Tarrant (1888 – 1959)
I had my suspicions about
the tooth fairy.
I lost my first tooth while
on vacation in S. Dakota. It was
a hot July morning and
I was hungry and wanted
to bite
into my large piece of toast, oozing
with white butter,
dripping with blood red jam.
I was fussy and acting
like a 6 year old.
My mother’s cousin Inga
turned me to
her and asked
to have a look in my mouth. She had dry flour
on her fingertips;
it was all a plan. She grabbed
my tooth and yanked.
Gone!
I cried and
she
laughed and
I laughed, too.
The tooth fairy found me halfway across the
nation.
From The Child’s Book of Verse 1918
by Margaret W. Tarrant (1888 –
1959)
I said my “Now I lay me
down to sleep” prayers
every night and always
ended
with “God bless” – a long list of
people. Whoever heard
my prayers before
tucking me in,
kissing me goodnight and
turning out the light, would
inevitably
cut me short as I blessed the
pastor, his wife and children,
all the neighbors,
my father’s friends,
the car,
the kitty-kat,
dog,
the president.
I often
lay awake far too long, staring out the window,
blessing the moon and the
stars;
blades of grass;
my father’s garden
and the breakfast I would eat in the
morning.
From Mrs. Mary Blaze 1885
by Randolph Caldecott (1846 – 1886)
I taught myself how to read.
My brother brought home his books, tossed
them, and I picked them up.
I was 4; and he was 7, but only in 1st
Grade, since he was held back for two years in Kindergarten.
I poured over the
illustrations of Dick, Jane, and Sally; Spot, the dog; Puff, the cat; and Tim,
the teddy bear (I had a particular fondness for Tim.) I would sit on the
linoleum floor in our kitchen, while my mother prepared dinner.
I never learned
to read phonetically.
SHOES
was the first word I was able to memorize, relate to,
and READ!
After that, they came in a flood and I graduated out of primers
before I entered school.
I loved the library from a young age.
On the other
hand, I was insanely bored in school and hated it,
my entire life.
From Jackanapes 1883
by Randolph Caldecott (1846 - 1886)
I was bullied. It began in kindergarten when big boys got to ride the
trikes at recess and I never got a turn.
I never did get a turn. All year. By
high school I had developed a personality that was molded by a decade of being
made to feel inferior.
I wasn’t stupid. It turned out I had a very high IQ and
I considered suicide when the entire 7th grade found this out. I was
mortified that something must have been innately wrong with me that could never be fixed.
I was smashed up against my locker by one girl who threatened to kill me.
From The Adventures of Borbee and the Wisp 1905
by Florence K Upton
(1873 – 1922)
From the time I was about 2
or 3 years old, I had
a constant companion.
My parents
tolerated the presence
of Timmy,
my Imaginary Friend (now referred
to as IF in the field of psychology).
I went everywhere with Timmy. Sometimes
I led and other times I followed.
Timmy
had a place at the table during meals,
my parents sometimes sat on him,
and
once my father slammed Timmy’s hand in the car door, of which
I became
hysterical. “Jesus Christ,”
my father said and opened the door
to let Timmy in
and grumbled that
he needed to keep up. My parents were
ordinary people. What
made them
so open-minded is a mystery. As an adult
I asked my mother and
she
made it very clear
that as a parent one must choose their battles,
lest they
lose all the time.
From The Vege-Man’s Revenge 1897
by Florence K Upton (1873 – 1922)
Daddy always had a garden.
I never appreciated it
until I asked him
to
come till and plant my first real garden
with me. I loved
to be with him
in his garden as a
child, and
would roll around in the
dust and dirt
between the rows,
while he
weeded and hoed.
I picked peas while they were too young,
pulled up baby carrots
and
washed them with the hose,
eating their sweet earthy youth
before it was
ready. Sweet peas
were strung at the end of each row
and my father would pick a
small bouquet
and have me take them in to my mom,
where she would put them
in
water and their fragrance
filled our small kitchen.
From The Story of Snips c 1910
by Anqusine MacGregor (1905 - )
School was dreadful.
I was always in trouble
and so often confused
as
to the reason why.
My mother was exasperated.
My father was apathetic.
My
teachers beat me.
I took swats in the principal’s office,
holding my skirt up
so Mr. O’Dell
could smack my panties with his paddle.
I cried
and snot ran down
my face
with nothing to clean it up with.
I ran home and was
marched back to
school.
I want to go back and
find that little girl and
hold her in my arms and
not let any more hurt her.
From Nonsense Nonsense!
1902 by Charles Robinson (1870 – 1939)
I learned my first swear word from David T.
I went home saying FFFFF
and thought
it was something people
would find amusing.
David T
used to come to my house
and we’d paint our nails
and
wear my
mother’s hats.
For some people it was confusing.
In 1964,
David T, my friend,
was found hanging
in his grandfather’s
garage.
He could no longer
face the world.
He was 17 and
he was dead.
I still mourn
the loss of David T,
who was relentlessly teased
by people
I have not forgotten.
I truly understood his pitiful dread.
From Marigold Garden 1885
by Kate Greenaway (1846 – 1901)
I adored my mother.
She was
beautiful.
I loved to go to Nordstrom
with her
while she shopped for shoes.
(They sold only shoes then; I think the
store was on 4
th or 5
th Avenue).)
They would bring her a
standard ashtray
and place it in front of her. She would
tap out a cigarette
and the clerk lit it for her,
as she pointed to the different styles of shoes
she’d like to try on.
Her favorites were De Liso heels.
The boxes would pile up
and be scattered everywhere.
Until her death at 89,
my mother kept her shoes in
original boxes;
dozens and dozens and dozens of them.
From The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle 1905
Beatrix Potter (1866 -1943)
I thought I would grow up and be famous and rich,
as all children do.
For quite some time
I imagined Hayley Mills was a friend of mine
and we wrote
letters to one another. I,
of course,
wrote all the letters
and
pretended they were send from England
and Disneyland
and NY. For a long time
I
kept this secret imaginary relationship
to myself but then,
one day,
so
convinced it was real,
I blurted it out in a boastful moment. I already
considered
myself special enough to do so.
It was a big mistake.
From Rumbo Rhymes 1911
by Walter Crane (1845 – 1915)
I went through a very short period of time when I refused to eat meat.
I considered animals sentient beings (and I do believe they are)
but it so
vexed my mother that she could not get me to eat.
I didn’t go about it properly
because in the early 60’s there were few
who thought that carnivores were
unacceptable and vile.
My father advised me to study Darwin and the Food Chain
and do my best to eat my mother’s cooking because
I was stuck with it for
awhile. He told me I could
make those kinds of decisions s an adult.
From Undine 1909
by Arthur Rackham (1867 – 1939)
I had no fear as a child and I didn’t know it was wrong for others to
touch. Alarm was a feeling I became familiar with but somehow, somehow I
blocked fear. My boldness was often my downfall. I was afraid of all the wrong
things. Shame is a terrible thing for a child to bear and so hiding becomes the
remedy. Disguise. Diversion. Distraction. If you don’t think about it yourself,
then perhaps no one will know. No one will guess and you can keep the charade
going for years. And years. And years.
From Flora’s Feast A Masque of Flowers 1889
by Walter Crane (1845 –
1915)
Once I began reading,
the stream of consciousness began
with a
vengeance. My parents read,
so a library was available
once I’d moved on
from
Nancy Drew and the Bobbsey twins.
Two books stand out in my mind
as making as
impression that was
indelible and undeniable.
“OF HUMAN BONDAGE”
by Somerset
Maugham
took me on a thrilling ride
and opened my eyes
and ears
to HUMANITY.
Even though
“Captain Horatio Hornblower”
didn’t have quite the impact,
it did
have lots of lessons and
was an easy read. My mother hesitated
allowing me to
read this book at 13
due to the “N” word but I overlooked that
and it was a few
more years
before I grasped the
depth and the hollowness
of this word.
From The Tale of Peter Rabbit 1901
by Beatrix Potter (1866 – 1943)
I was never a big fan of
Beatrix Potter as a child.
I loved the
illustrations
but the stories all seemed
silly.
Yet,
Peter always held me
in
his naughty thrall and
I was intrigued by
his boldness. His sisters,
on the
other hand, were wimps
and probably didn’t have nearly
as much fun as Peter. As
a child
I was probably a
mix of both – a very typical kid – nice
and
troublesome. I know for certain
there were people
who thought I was an angel,
and
others who considered me a
hellish little brat who
should be neither seen
nor heard.
I named my first born Peter.
He is a Gemini;
born in June –
complete
split of personality,
depending on company.
From The April Baby’s Book of Tunes 1900
by Kate Greenaway (1846 –
1901)
When I was born in the small town
of Enumclaw, Washington, the hospital
was new and I was the 2nd baby born there.
My grandfather came to
the hospital and
handed my mother a bouquet of
September flowers, dahlias and
roses,
through an open window. A nurse took them a
nd told him he couldn’t come
in with his cigar.
He came in anyway, through the front door,
which was just
around the corner from the window.
It was a small hospital.
A nurse put the
flowers in water
and scolded him.
He laughed and told her, in his Danish accent
that she was a good woman.
That was when I was born.
My favorite photo of
my grandpa
and me is me on his knee,
me holding my little African skinned doll,
AmosSandra.
From The Black Cat Book
by Charles Robinson (1870 – 1937)
The first cat I had in my life was
“Mittens” – we fondly called
her
“Mitts” and she loved
my dad, even though she was
my cat.
I’m sure she loved my mother
equally,
as that was more
often than
not, the hand that fed her.
I was 4 years old when we went to
John
and Tess Howells’ farm
and I got to pick out this
tiny wee kitten,
out in the barn,
from a couple of litters. All black,
she had 4 white feet.
She was too little
yet to be weaned
so I didn’t get her until we came back from a trip to
Montana
and S. Dakota.
I can still see her running to me
that day.
I picked her up and
cuddled her
as I would for many years to come.
She lived until I was
22 years
old.
 |
| This is not a postcard from the series. |
29 August 2017
2nd Day of Houston’s Hurricane Harvey.
Perhaps we shouldn’t have built all these levies and dams on Mother
Earth. Maybe all this concrete that holds up streams of exhaust-spewing
automobiles will someday collapse. Boom. Down. Gone. We have reconfigured the
surface of our planet and now she is reacting. Dead dinosaurs providing
compounds for greenhouses gas with the aid of combustion and mechanics.. We
have created dustbowls and floods and melting glaciers and the extinction of
hoards of animals. What will stop us?
From The Three Little Pigs
by Frank Adams (Active 1903 – 1944)
There was one neighbor we all disliked. Even my dad didn’t like her too
much, though he was always kind to her. Mrs. Baum was not a happy person, my
dad told us and her husband was a
jerk. I think it was “First-Class Jerk.”
But we could not help ourselves and she was the one whose doorbell we always
rang and then ran away. She looked like an old pig to me but I got in a LOT of
trouble for saying that. I remember once feeling bad for her when she came out
on her porch and stood with her hands on her hips. We didn’t really have a
reason to hate her.
26 From Peggy and Joan by Honor C. Appleton (1879 – 1951)
I watched my mother painstakingly hang wallpaper in my bedroom. I was
about 4 years old. I recall the colorful little people holding hands and the
darling little blue and pink cottages. I wasn’t sure why she was doing this and
I guess most kids don’t really care what a room looks like, as long as they’re
fed, loved, and get to eat popcorn with their dad and watch TV. Those were the
things that mattered to me so when the babysitter let me have crayons at
naptime and I colored all over the walls, I never really knew what all the fuss
was about. My mother’s anger at the babysitter was beyond my comprehension.
From Josephine Goes Shopping 1926
by Honor C. Appleton (1879 – 1951)
I had a happy childhood, as far as childhoods go.
I hated school and
was taunted and bullied
all the way from kindergarten until 12
th
grade.
But I had lovely times, too.
I had a great collection of dolls that I
played with
until I was probably 13 years old. I wrote poetry
and little
stories, which my parents encouraged.
I was a terror on my bike and rode for
miles.
I adored Brownies and Girl Scouts and my Dad
helped me earn a lot of my
badges.
I performed and sang and danced.
I loved music and was surrounded by
it.
I was a voracious reader and loved the library.
I enjoyed skiing and
swimming and was allowed to go into the city (Seattle) when I was quite young.
I’m grateful for it all.
From Bobbity Flop 1912
by Augustine MacGregor (1905 -)
My mother had an idea of what a little girl should look like and it was
largely based on her favorite little girl.
Shirley Temple.
Besides ballet and
dance classes, held above the bakery, where all I would think of was donuts and
maple bars, my mother molded me by styling my hair.
Her first permanent
solution was applied to my tender scalp when I was still sleeping in a baby crib. Curls. Galore. Until they fell out the next day and my mother claimed "it didn't take."
I believe I was
one year old at the time.
My hair was tortured through the years until I took
control of it myself and didn’t cut it from the age of 14 until I was about 25.
From the Pelican Chorus
by L. Leslie Brooke (1862 – 1940)
I was a great singer.
I always loved “I’m a little Teapot” best
and my mother
had me perform it
for all who were
willing to listen.
By 3, I had a repertoire
of songs,
a couple in Danish,
which I proudly belted out.
The passion for
singing never went away
and although I was forced to play piano,
I don’t regret
that, and
wish my mother had made me
stick with it instead of
taking up guitar.
I was never really
good at that but
I faked it well enough to
ave people tell
me
I was a great singer.
30 From Johnny Crow’s New Garden 1935
by L. Leslie Brooke (1862 – 1940)
In the midst of our Poetry Fest was Harvey. This is my offering to
Trilla in Houston:
Trilla, I received your card today and hope you are safe. I’m so sorry
for what has happened to your beautiful city. I’m not even sure you’ll get this
card. I certainly hope you do. The good that has come from this flood, this
horrible frightening devastation, is the community coming together and most
people recognizing we are all one people, we must know it is okay to lean on
another and be pleased to carry our sisters and brothers on our backs. My hope
for Houston comes to you, with healing and love.
