I wanted to write a poem about my mother’s singing and thought of several ways that I could do it. I could write about the rest of the family’s running away when she sang. I could write about having to hold my ears. I could write about what other people thought when they heard her. There were many possibilities. Then I had a brainstorm. I would write about ridiculous things that might happen when she sang, things that probably wouldn’t and even couldn’t happen but would be fun to put into a poem.
In order to do this, I did something that you can do too. I took out my notebook and made a list. This is one of my favorite writing techniques, as I’ve previously mentioned. I always end up with more things than I can use, but that’s okay. It’s much better to start with more material than you need and then eliminate some items than to start with too little material and have to scramble around for more ideas. Also, I always save the stuff that I don’t use and look at it later for use in other poems.
As the list developed, I noticed that certain items worked well together and that some things could be easily made to rhyme. I’ve talked to lots of kids about what ridiculous things my mother’s singing might inspire, and some of them have come up with better ideas than I had, even some that I would have put in the poem had I thought of them. Here are some examples: “The stars would fall off the American flag.” “The planet would go out of orbit.” “Your shoes would switch feet.” Anyhow, here’s the poem about my mother’s singing, filled with some of the things that I did think of. It’s called “Euphonica Jarre.”
Euphonica Jarre
Euphonica Jarre has a voice that’s bizarre,
but Euphonica warbles all day,
as windowpanes shatter and chefs spoil the batter
and mannequins moan with dismay.
Mighty ships run aground at her horrible sound,
pretty pictures fall out of their frames,
trees drop off their branches,
rocks start avalanches,
and flower beds burst into flames.
When she opens her mouth, even eagles head south,
little fish truly wish they could drown,
the buzzards all hover, as tigers take cover,
and rats pack their bags and leave town.
Milk turns into butter and butterflies mutter
and bees look for something to sting,
pigs peel off their skins, a tornado begins
when Euphonica Jarre starts to sing.
By the way, my mother saw the poem after the book was published. She read it and laughed. “I wonder where you get your ideas,” she said. I didn’t tell her but simply said, “Oh, they just pop into my head.”