“Words are, in my not-so-humble opinion, our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury, and remedying it.”
I’ve always thought Shel Silverstein’s poetry is like little drops of magic, short and silly and always guaranteed to put a smile on your face. We can grow up and pretend all we want that we’re mature adults who only have a taste for Dickinson or Plath but you know there’ll always be a special place for those poems you read as a child. I know I do.
I can relate to each of my favourite’s even now.
I can be as active as I want but the truth is I’m a lot like lazy Jane. For me, home delivery is a god send.
And when things seem tough and there’s a job to do that you find so daunting and terrible that you wish someone else could just get on with it instead of you, you’ve got a nice little reminder that somebody has to do it. And there’s a reason that somebody is you.
Then there are times when we think we’ve done so well, ha ha, how funny those stories are when we realise what we’ve done. (How sad it is if we never realise, don’t you think?)
And sometimes, Silverstein hints at the hard parts of life, like the masks we wear and walk around.
Or how tough it is being yourself in a crowd of muggles… without a single word (Dumbledore underestimated the power of illustrations, I suppose.)
For all these reasons and more, I will always adore Shel Silverstein’s poetry. After all, who said wisdom can’t rhyme?