All the silver pennies #children #poetry #iNeedFeminismBecause

A book full of verse for children, youth and readers 🙂 It’s interesting if you change up the gender of the poetry or don’t write down a name at all, the poems seem to have different meanings and different inherent “worth”. That’s internalized prioritization of white male poets, sadly enough. But fucking around with genders this way is fun too- because of the changes in your own mind.

There is a star that runs very fast,
That goes pulling the moon
Through the tops of the poplars.
It is all in silver,
The tall star:
The moon rolls goldenly along
Out of breath.
Mr. Moon, does he make you hurry?

Hilda Conklin

All the Silver Pennies: Combining Silver Pennies and More Silver Pennies
Collection of poetry for children. Reissue in one volume of silver pennies (1925) and more silver pennies (1938).
Originally published: 1967 Editors: Blanche Jennings Thompson

The moon? It is a griffin’s egg,
Hatching to-morrow night.
And how the little boys will watch
With shouting and delight
To see him break the shell and stretch
And creep across the sky.

Yet gentle will the griffin be,
Most decorous and fat,
And walk up to the milky way
And lap it like a cat.

Nicholas Vachel Lindsay

“Nicholas(1879 – 1931) was born in Springfield, Illinois to a close and devoutly religious family. His family hoped Vachel would become a doctor like his father, but he was drawn to art and poetry from an early age. Though he began self-publishing many years earlier, distributing his work for free and reading it wherever he could find an audience, his first poem wasn’t “officially” published until he was 34.

Vachel literally walked across the country for years, exchanging poems for food and lodging.

His readings were bold, dramatic presentations, his poems typically focused on social issues, and the public loved him.

Never very healthy, Vachel slowly succumbed to a manic-depressive disorder aggravated by debt and declining creativity; he killed himself by drinking cleaning solvent at the age of 52, leaving behind his wife and two young children. Learn more about him at” All The Silver Pennies…buy it from an Indie store!!!

Child in the gardens. Vincent O’Sullivan

The Child in the Gardens

How sudden, this entering the fallen
gardens for the first time, to feel the blisters
of the world’s father, as his own hand
does. It is everything dying at once,
the slimed pond and the riffling of leaves,
shoes drenched across sapless stalks.
It is what you will read a thousand times.
You will come to think, who has not stood
there, holding that large hand, not said
Can’t we go back? I don’t like this place.
Your voice sounds like someone else’s. You
rub a sleeve against your cheek, you want
him to laugh, to say, ‘The early stars can’t hurt
us, they are further than trains we hear
on the clearest of nights.’ We are in a story
called Father, We Must Get Out.
Leaves scritch at the red walls,
a stone lady lies near the pond, eating
dirty grass. It is too sudden, this
walking into time for its first lesson,
its brown wind, its scummed nasty
paths. You know how lovely yellow
is your favourite colour, the kitchen at home.
You touch the big gates as you leave,
the trees stand on their bones, the shoulders
on the vandaled statue are huge cold
eggs. Nothing there wants to move.
You touch the gates and tell them, We
are not coming back to this place. Are we, Dad?

Vincent O’Sullivan

From: Nice Morning for It, Adam (Victoria University Press, 2004)

Independent NZ bookstores:

More information about the poet:

Because snow and ice are pretty, cold. Haiku.

The snow is melting
and the village is flooded
with children.


Looking at the clouds
blue in the ice-wind
space flows.

Thomas Grieg

No sky
no earth- even so
snowflakes fall.


Chickens II: Those crazy silly most excellent chickens!

Last Night I Dreamed of Chickens

Last night I dreamed of chickens,
there were chickens everywhere,
they were standing on my stomach,
they were nesting in my hair,
they were pecking at my pillow,
they were hopping on my head,
they were ruffling up their feathers
as they raced about my bed.

They were on the chairs and tables,
they were on the chandeliers,
they were roosting in the corners,
they were clucking in my ears,
there were chickens, chickens, chickens
for as far as I could see…
when I woke today, I noticed
there were eggs on top of me.

Jack Prelutsky

All about chickens- I

Chicken Pig
It’s like being lost
in the forest, hungry, with a
plump live chicken in your cradling
arms: you want to savage the bird,
but you also want the eggs.

You go weak on your legs.
What’s worse, what you need
most is the companionship,
but you’re too hungry to know that.
That is something you only know after
you’ve been lost a lot and always,

eventually, alit upon
your bird; consumed her
before you’d realized what
a friend she’d been, letting you
sleep-in late on the forest floor
though she herself awoke
at the moment of dawn

and thought of long-lost
rooster voices quaking
the golden straw. She
looks over at you, sleeping,
and what can I tell you, she loves
you, but like a friend.

Eventually, when lost
in a forest with a friendly chicken
you make a point of emerging
from the woods together,
triumphant; her, fat with bugs,
you, lean with berries.

Still, while you yet wander,
you can not resist telling her
your joke:

Guy sees a pig with three legs,
asks the farmer, What gives?
Farmer says, That pig woke
my family from a fire, got us all out.
Says the guy, And lost the leg thereby?
Nope, says the farmer,
Still had all four when he took
a bullet for me when I had
my little struggle with the law.
Guy nods, So that’s where
he lost his paw? Farmer shakes
it off, says, Nah, we fixed him up.
A pause, guy says, So how’d he lose
the leg? Farmer says, Well, hell,
a pig like that
you don’t eat all at once.

Chicken squints. Doesn’t think
it’s funny.

Annie M.G. Schmidt “Suja Suja Prikkeltje”

I loosely translated a Dutch baby’s sleeping song by the poet Annie M.G. Schmidt. ‘suja’ comes from ‘soothe’.

Suja suja prickly-ball, outside the moon bathes all in silver white,

You are a little porcupine, but don’t be sad: you are alright,

You are an itty-bitty porcupine, ignore the stereotypes,

The lions have their manes and tigers have their stripes

We have our auntie squirrel with a reddish woollen tail,

And you, you’re more than awesome with all those little quills!

Sleep, my itty-bitty prickle-ball, so you will grow big and fat,

So you’ll turn into a porcupine ‘xactly like mom and dad.

The stately elephant has a trunk, the bears, oooh, they have sharp claws,

The parrot has bright feathers, green ones, and think of royal blue macaws!

Our uncle giraffe, well, he has the longest neck; brown spots on golden white,

And you, you have all those prickly quills: what, not too shabby, right!?

Suja suja prickle-dum-dee, the moon is lit and the shadows are long.

You’re mine, the most beautiful porcupine, and also very strong!

The cats have whiskers and purring weave your dreams,

Sweet cows have horns and fish they dance in streams,

Our cousin the otter has a jacket, velvet, soft-brown and gray,

and you, you have all those tickly quills: those will come in handy one day!


Suja suja Prikkeltje, daar buiten schijnt de maan,

je bent een stekelvarkentje, maar trek het je niet aan,

je bent een stekelvarkentje, dat heb je al begrepen,

De leeuwen hebben manen en de tijgers hebben strepen

en onze tante eekhoorn heeft een roje wollen staart,

maar jij hebt allemaal stekeltjes en dát is zoveel waard.

Slaap, mijn kleine Prikkeltje, dan wordt je groot en dik,

dan wordt je net zo’n stekelvarken als je pa en ik.

Het olifantje heeft een slurf, de beren hebben klauwen,

de papegaai heeft veren, van die groene, van die blauwe,

en onze oom giraffe heeft een héle lange nek,

maar jij hebt allemaal stekeltjes en dat is ook niet gek,

Suja suja Prikkeltje, het is al vreselijk laat,

Je bent het mooiste stekelvarken, dat er maar bestaat,

de poezen hebben snorren en daar kunnen ze door spinnen,

de koeien hebben horens en de vissen hebben vinnen,

en onze neef, de otter, heeft een bruinfluwelen jas,

maar jij hebt allemaal stekeltjes, die komen nog te pas.