Edward Forde Hickey - Chattering at School: Nature poems for children

Adorably playful illustrations and joyful wordplay will draw in readers of all ages to the beginning of this wonderful collection of nature poems. The first aspect that will capture the readers attention comes even before the poems begin, when the author writes a little summary of where and why this poetry started, creating the perfect starting-place for us to focus on before diving into the poems themselves. He gives us a small glimpse backwards into a previous age, indicating the powerful influence on certain small childhood moments, which a loving grandmother can bring to bear. The illustrations go well with the whimsical or the more heartfelt poetry-writing. This allows younger children to explore the page with interest as the poems are read aloud. Airole Warden This book is dedicated to Grannie and Jack Back in the years 1951/58 - during my school holidays at grannies little farm in Dolla (Tipperary) - I found enough peace and quiet to scribble a few hurried drafts for the following verses before heading back to my parents and the smoky landscape of London.

Each day grannie and her son, Jack, would go off to the cowshed to milk their cows. But before that - and to encourage me - she would give me a pencil and a post-office copybook so that I could try my hand at writing - something she knew I liked to do. As a result, I often found myself behind the hay-reek (on sunny days) or above in the old hayshed (on rainy days) with nothing but the wind in the trees to disturb me as I wrote down my thoughts.From the age of 11 up until I was 18 - as soon as I made my sad journey from Tipperary back to school in West Kensington - I tailored these schoolboy efforts as best I could and sent my humble collection back to grannie to read during the cold winter nights. These unadorned pieces have remained private and hidden for the past 64 years. But now, in my old age and looking at them with fresh eyes - I feel that they might bring a bit of pleasure to one or two younger readers - my own grandchildren among them - and encourage them to write.Edward Forde Hickey. May 2022 W eary old me on the sandy bank, Im always getting thinner.

Time I crocodiled my way To the river for my dinner. Plump fat me in the afternoon bush, ready for my tea. Time I crocodiled in again For fish and sympathy Full to the brim in the twilight glow, washed and scrubbed for bed. Time I crocodiled to sleep, contented lad, well fed. Bless me, what about tomorrow? I must hunt once more. I m only a silly old penguin. I m only a silly old penguin.

Im almost two years old. My feet are meant for dancing with. Thats what Ive been told. Im only a silly old penguin, painted black and white. My colours are such that I can be seen at any hour of the night. I have thousands of relations, who huddle close to me.

I dont mind being a penguin at the edge of the Polar Sea. Everyone to his own taste. Kindly let me be: a cheerful, clumsy
slip-of-a penguin - that,
my friends, is me! D oes he no, I dont believe it hide his head in sand? Better ostrich pastimes surely were ordained and planned. For you have legs to race with at energetic speed. And my advice the use of them that is all you need. Get yourself away from here over the bushland wild.

The grass beyond the mountaintops is juicier, more mild. See far-distant places, utilise your mind. Get a move on, ostrich, sand can make you blind. I was crossing over Old Joes alley, when - suddenly alarm! Old Joes big Brutus made a dash, his teeth unveiled for harm. Oh, I dashed, I dashed in a headlong tizzy down to Grettas shack. I could hear each snarl, I could feel the fur rising on Brutuss back.

But what to do? No time for panic. Find me the nearest tree. A lung-tearing leap - heart-thumping then at last I reach safety. Upwards, upwards now I circle. (Steady as you go). Ive reached the top but now Im scared as I gaze at the fields below.

The hay-barns spinning, lanes whiz
whizzing, children stop and stare. r ing-a-ding, t ing-a-ling firemans bell. Danger! Where? Up there! A sweating fireman, panting, cursing, anger in each sigh. Up on the ladder, heavenwards lumbering, craning his thunderous eye. Meeow! Please fireman, dont be angry! Brutus is the knave. Grettas shack and Old Joes alley were nearly Suzies grave! T he speed, sheer windy
speed that flashes by, as the cheetah urges on his lengthy span.

An ill-fated gazelle, fast, yet not fast enough Catch me if you can. I can. A zebra, twin-barred, mesmerizing colours, has drawn the cheetah speeding down the hill. An urgent answer in his thunderous shape. Catch me if you will. I will.

The ambling antelope, as he picks sweet grasses seemingly unhurried, homeward bending. The cheetah, speed of lightning, quickly flashes. Catch me if you know the sudden ending. Have you not seen a cheetah in a book imagined - and then marveled at his flight? A flash before his gradual extinction, a speed unparalleled, a wondrous sight. I know you have.