I've had the book in my car since my nephew's birthday. (I got him a Chicka Chicka Boom Boom puzzle, and I didn't realize until the night before his party that he didn't have the book -- I could have sworn I'd given him a copy.) I keep looking at it and wondering why I loved it so much -- because even from a young age, I liked plot and structure, which isn't exactly a strong point in Chicka Chicka Boom Boom -- and why my nephew didn't like it.
I've finally come to the conclusion of the words.
I still love the rhythm, the made-up words, the rhymes, the fact that even just reading it sounds like singing. My nephew, obviously, is a boy, and psychologically, boys don't tend to be as drawn to words and word patterns as girls are.
So I guess this -- and Shel Silverstein -- is why I still like poetry now.
Speaking of Shel, my husband and I were talking about a poem the other night, and I asked if it was a Silverstein poem. His response: "Oh, no. This is a legitimate poet."
Whaaat? It was ON.
He backtracked very quickly and recited part of "Sick" to make me feel better.
So, in honor of my early love of rhythm -- and the larger print in children's books, for which I'm super grateful these blind days -- here's "Sick" by Shel Silverstein.
"I cannot go to school today,"
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
"I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I'm going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I've counted sixteen chicken pox
And there's one more -- that's seventeen,
And don't you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut -- my eyes are blue --
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I'm sure that my left leg is broke --
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button's caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle's sprained,
My 'pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow's bent, my spine ain't straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is -- what?
What's that? What's that you say?
You say today is ... Saturday?
G'bye, I'm going out to play!"
Love it still. And recite it still when I don't want to be productive, but nothing is wrong with me.
