Oct 13, 2011

A Post on Thursday, Why Not?

I'll end up posting every day this week. I have not done that in ages. The initial reason for posting today is to explain my post for tomorrow when I will be reviewing Anita Laydon Miller's A Scary Good Book AND participating in Matt McNish and Alex Cavanaugh's Pay it Forward Blogfest. Follow the link for Matt's intro post and the official list of participants. The point of the blogfest is to feature three bloggers who may not be well-known but are pure awesome. I have had an extremely hard time choosing three, and my old followers will not be surprised by my list. So come back tomorrow and see who I want to share with you!

With that out of the way, I want to share with you a poem from Edgar Guest, who wrote over 11,000 poems for the Detroit Free Press in the first half of the 20th century. One of the things I like best about Guest's poem is the clarity of word and ease of rhythm. I urge you to check out Guest and get a taste for the Michigan I love.

Story Telling

By Edgar Guest

Most every night when they're in bed,
And both their little prayers have said,
They shout for me to come upstairs
And tell them tales of gypsies bold,
And eagles with the claws that hold
A baby's weight, and fairy sprites
That roam the woods on starry nights.

And I must illustrate these tales,
Must imitate the northern gales
That toss the native man's canoe,
And show the way he paddles, too.
If in the story comes a bear,
I have to pause and sniff the air
And show the way he climbs the trees
To steal the honey from the bees.

And then I buzz like angry bees
And sting him on his nose and knees
And howl in pain, till mother cries:
"That pair will never shut their eyes,
While all that noise up there you make;
You're simply keeping them awake."
And then they whisper: "Just one more,"
And once again I'm forced to roar.

New stories every night they ask.
And that is not an easy task;
I have to be so many things,
The frog that croaks, the lark that sings,
The cunning fox, the frightened hen;
But just last night they stumped me, when
They wanted me to twist and squirm
And imitate an angle worm.

At last they tumble off to sleep,
And softly from their room I creep
And brush and comb the shock of hair
I tossed about to be a bear.
Then mother says: "Well, I should say
You're just as much a child as they."
But you can bet I'll not resign
That story telling job of mine.