Wednesday, 11 January 2012

A Childs Garden of Verses



The watercolour sketch above is from N. Wales near Trawsfynydd. It’s one of those weeks this week 2 days in the gallery relatives coming today and work in the gallery tomorrow.

I am not a real fan of poetry. I have said before Dylan Thomas goes straight over my head. I know I should say he is wonderful, but I am afraid I can’t because it doesn’t communicate anything to me. I have no vision of what he is talking about. I think Richard Burton has a wonderful voice when reading Dylan Thomas but he could just as easily be reading a shopping list for me. One book of poetry I did grow up with and love was,
“A Childs Garden of Verses” by Robert L. Stevenson.
That book for me is a projection of innocence. It is poetry I can follow to this day. I still have the volume although it is a little worse for being well thumbed and read to various generations of the family. The illustrations too are wonderful, black and white etchings by Charles Robinson. So maybe I am not quite a Philistine, but then again maybe I am.

Below is Bed in summer a child’s view of grown up logic.

In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candlelight.
In summer quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
 
I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people's feet
Still going past me in the street.
 
And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?

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