Young Cornrows Callin Out the Moon
by Ruth Forman; illustrations by Cbabi Bayoc
What better way to kick off National Poetry Month (okay, in a few days) than with this boombox of a poem about two young sisters in South Philly's summer heat?
These African American kids don't dwell on what they lack, except to note there's no yard to play in. But with cheery shrugs, they move right along to what they do have:
we hold mamma knees when she snaps the naps out
we got gramma tell her not to pull so hard
we got sooo clean cornrows when she finish
n corn bread cool on the stove
I seriously felt all tingly as I read this, and I swear my foot started tapping. It's more than rhythmic, it's sonic. It's upbeat and celebratory, zeroing in on the magic they create for themselves, a pulsating paean to childhood from two irrepressible city kids.
Bayoc's paintings are as smartly hued and loud as I imagine the poem to be: his colors shout with the same unrestrained glee. His hands-up, big-smile girls are a study in exhuberance, done in quick, broad brushstrokes that's as layered as the text.
Rating: *\*\*\*\
Young Cornrows Callin Out the Moon
by Ruth Forman; illustrations by Cbabi Bayoc
What better way to kick off National Poetry Month (okay, in a few days) than with this boombox of a poem about two young sisters in South Philly's summer heat?
These African American kids don't dwell on what they lack, except to note there's no yard to play in. But with cheery shrugs, they move right along to what they do have:
we hold mamma knees when she snaps the naps out
we got gramma tell her not to pull so hard
we got sooo clean cornrows when she finish
n corn bread cool on the stove
I seriously felt all tingly as I read this, and I swear my foot started tapping. It's more than rhythmic, it's sonic. It's upbeat and celebratory, zeroing in on the magic they create for themselves, a pulsating paean to childhood from two irrepressible city kids.
Bayoc's paintings are as smartly hued and loud as I imagine the poem to be: his colors shout with the same unrestrained glee. His hands-up, big-smile girls are a study in exhuberance, done in quick, broad brushstrokes that's as layered as the text.
Rating: *\*\*\*\
Casey Back at Bat
by Dan Gutman; illustrated by Steve Johnson and Lou Fancher
Oooh ... a twofer. It's Poetry Friday and Baseball Week here at Book Buds. I'm celebrating with a rhyming sequel to that song about the sport's most famous loser--you know him, the mighty Casey.
Though I just noticed that other song's about a Casey too! Wow, I'm having mystical moments about a sporting event. And I'm craving peanuts. Is it a sign?
In this version, Casey takes a whack at that ball, and it soars beyond the bleachers into the great beyond. Where it goes and what happens next makes for some out-of-this-world hyperbole, especially when the speedy orb finally makes it back to the ballpark.
The team of illustrators underlaid the pictures with newspapers from the period. As the ball spans the globe, the paper-theme repeats, only the prints change with the locale. A deft touch. Casey's a musclebound type straight out of an old-style comic book, and you gotta love the set to his jaw when he cracks that bat.
Awright, I'll shut up now. Here's what you stopped by for:
"That shot might go five hundred feet!" one bleacher creature reckoned.
"I showed 'em!" cackled Casey as he rounded first and second.
The Mudville fans began to cheer, a roar that started growing
as they watched the ball go o'er the wall,
and then...it kept on going!
It soared by hills and valleys, ever higher in the sky,
past houses, farms, and villages, so swiftly did it fly.
It crossed the great Atlantic, whre it almost struck a bird,
but Casey didn't have a clue, for he was roundin' third.
Hey is it the ex-copyeditor in me or could Gutman have made use of some semi-colons instead of all those full-stops? Just nitpicking.
Fun stuff for the baseball fan in your household. If you need a refresher on the original, here's a version that might, erm, score.
New: Buy it from Powells.
Rating: *\*\*\
For a time, it looked like my first winter in Chicago would be a mild one. Hah! It's snowing as I write this, a hasty, wind-battered affair with little accumulation but a mean punch. So I went a-hunting for snow poems and found this one in a collection of poems from--what a coincidence--a Chicagoan, Gwendolyn Brooks.
Guess folks around here know a thing or two about the flaky stuff, huh?
Cynthia in the Snow
It SUSHES.
It hushes
The loudness in the road.
It flitter-twitters,
And laughs away from me.
It laughs a lovely whiteness,
And whitely whirs away,
To be,
Some otherwhere,
Still white as milk or shirts.
So beautiful it hurts.
Winter Song: A Poem by William Shakespeare
Illustrated by Melanie Hall
Introduction by Alice Provensen
Reviewed by Ilene Goldman
Reading this book, or rather looking at it, makes me want to run to the library and devour anything Melanie Hall has illustrated. Her multi-media images enliven each page and tell a story by themselves. She infuses her work with spirit, lyricism and imagination. What could be better in a children’s book?
Hall’s illustrations bring Shakespeare’s poetry to life, adding context that makes his language more decipherable. An introduction by Alice Provensen and a glossary add to Winter Song’s readability.
Still, it is Shakespeare. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t run from the guy—he’s one of my favorite playwrights, largely because of the myriad interpretations Chicago’s fine repertory theaters offer.
My knowledge of his poetry, however, is limited to the love sonnets. His language hearkens from another era. Its layering requires some unpacking before the words sing on or off the page most of the time. Shakespeare is not an obvious read-aloud for children. On the other hand, when better to begin appreciating Shakespeare than when one is just beginning to love the written word?
As for Winter Song itself, it may be that pulling the poem out of the play Love’s Labor’s Lost creates an awkwardness and lack of context that stymied me. It is very, very cold in Chicago these days so these words should ring true:
When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen in the pail,
When blood is nipped, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
Tu-who;
Tu-whit, tu who:
A merry note
Yet, it took several readings aloud, to myself and to my daughter, to find the rhythm in Winter Song. While I appreciate Winter Song as a lovely introduction to Shakespeare for little ones, I’m not sure what age group would best grasp the depth of language and meaning of this poem.
Eventually, the flow of the words spoke to us and we enjoyed the staring owl singing his nightly “Tu-who; Tu-whit, tu-who.” It is a merry note indeed.
Rating: *\*\
Green as a Bean
by Karla Kuskin; illustrated by Melissa Iwai
We get a run through sizes, shapes and colors in this simple, affecting poem updated from the 1960s, where a child takes on different characteristics such as red or square or soft or small. Kuskin used rhyme and repetition and second-person narration so that you’re talking directly to your child. Do it right, and your kid won’t even know he or she’s being taught something:
If you could be soft
would you be the snow
or twenty-five pillows
or breezes that blow
the blossoms that fall from
the sassafras tree?
Tell me, sweet soft one,
what would you be?
Iwai lushly layers her colors, dotting some yellow over thick slatherings of white while a wall of blue peekaboos from below, just on this one page alone. Multiply that by every page, for every color or shape, and it makes for quite the visual treat, especially when she lets her brush linger on the warmer end of the palette.
Rating: *\*\*\
My Parents Think I’m Sleeping
by Jack Prelutsky; illustrated by Yossi Abolafia
I confess to a prejudice against books with a reading level printed on top: I assume its goal is to hone skills rather than tell a gripping story, and nothing kills a love of reading faster than making it a chore.
Fortunately, our country’s very first Children’s Poet Laureate used his spot-on rhymes and infectious humor to create a memorable collection of poems about a sleepless little boy. The publisher gives it a “3,” meaning it can be read alone, presumably under the covers with a flashlight.
I’m an insomniac—I’ve suffered from sleepless bouts most of my life—so I thought I’d share my favorite take on the subject:
I’m Awake! I’m Awake!
I’m awake! I’m awake!
I cannot shut my eyes,
I’m unable to sleep,
though I’ve made many tries,
I’m sure I’ve explore
every inch of my bed,
my body’s exhausted,
and so is my head.
I wiggle, I fidget,
I tumble, I twist,
I pound my poor pillow
with fist after fist,
I stopped counting sheep
when I reached ninety-three.
I’m awake! I’m awake!
I cannot fall asleeeeeeeeeeeeee
