ALICE IN VERSE
THE LOST RHYMES OF WONDERLAND
J.T. HOLDEN
ILLUSTRATIONS BY
ANDREW JOHNSON
C A N D L E S H O E
books for the Imagination
Chicago New York
Text copyright © 2011 by J.T. Holden
Illustrations by Andrew Johnson copyright © 2011 by Candleshoe Books
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Published by Candleshoe Books.
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are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Candleshoe Books.
Grateful acknowledgement is made to following for their technical contributions:
Jean Kunold, Laura Forney, Lynne Kuefler, Kris Stevens, and Paul Fiorelli.
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CIP data available
ISBN-13: 978-09825089-2-3 • ISBN-10: 0-9825089-2-1
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Praise for
Alice in Verse: The Lost Rhymes of Wonderland
“A compilation of masterful, original poetry. From the absurdity of the verse to the well-composed rhyme to the shrewd black-and-white illustrations, this book is certainly a literature lover’s delight!”
—The Children’s Book Review
“Rich in dramatic irony…sophisticated and amusing…the two writers [Holden and Carroll] become nearly indistinguishable.”
—ForeWord Reviews
“A deftly crafted compendium of original poetry, accompanied by superb black-and-white illustrations. Classic elements of both Wonderland and Looking-Glass are imaginatively reinterpreted for a thoroughly unique and entertaining reading experience. Highly recommended for academic and community library collections, Alice in Verse: The Lost Rhymes of Wonderland should be included on any supplemental reading list for students and fans of Carroll’s original works.”
—The Midwest Book Review
For
Kathy & Sherri
&
Jo
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
DOWN THE RABBIT-HOLE AGAIN
THE BOTTLE & THE BISCUIT BOX
THE CATERPILLAR’S LESSON ON RHETORIC & RHYME
THE MARINER’S TALE
THE SUBJECTIVE REVIEW
THE COOK, THE PIG, THE CAT & HIS DUCHESS
THE TEA PARTY RESUMES
A SLIGHT DETOUR THROUGH THE LOOKING-GLASS
DEE & DUM
THE WALRUS & THE CARPENTER HEAD BACK
THE BATTLE
IN THE GARDEN OF HEARTS
THE TRIAL BEGINS
THE HATTER’S DEFENCE
THE HARE’S REBUTTAL & THE HATTER’S REBUKE
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS REPENTS
THE QUEEN’S SENTENCE
THE ROYAL FLUSH
WAKING
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE WHITE RABBIT
ALICE IN FREE-FALL
ALICE IN-DECISION
A POOL OF TEARS
THE CATERPILLAR
THE BLACKEST WATERS
THE FLIGHT OF THE ORATOR
IN THE KITCHEN OF THE DUCHESS’S COOK
A HEATED DISCOURSE
CAT ON A LIMB
TEA & SOLILOQUY
THE DORMOUSE’S REVELATION
ALICE IN REVERSE
LOOKING-GLASS LAND
THE TWINS
THE MOON & THE SUN
A MOONLIT STROLL ALONG THE BRINY BEACH
INTO THE SINKING SAND
THE ELDEST OYSTER
ALICE IN RETREAT
ON THE CROQUET GROUNDS
THE WAR OF THE ROSES
ALICE & THE DUCHESS
THE ROYAL COURT
THE RABBIT REPORTS
THE HARE DECLARES
THE HATTER PONTIFICATES
THE MAD CLASH
THE HARE DEFERS
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS
THE QUEEN OF HEARTS
THE EVER-WANING LIGHT
PANDEMONIUM
THE CRIMSON QUEEN
ALICE IN REPOSE
INTRODUCTION
In 1865 Charles Lutwidge Dodgson published Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland under the pen-name Lewis Carroll. The sequel, Through the Looking-Glass & What Alice Found There, followed in 1871. During the nine years Dodgson spent writing the two books that would cement his pen-name and reputation in children’s literature for generations to come, he had compiled numerous poems and snippets of verse—only a scant number of which ultimately made their way onto the pages of his masterpiece and its sequel. Shortly after Dodgson’s death at the age of 66 in 1898, rumours began to surface of ‘the lost rhymes’—a collection of poetry that presumably shed more light on the subject of Wonderland and the Looking-Glass world. Understandably, questions abounded: Who really stole the Queen’s tarts? Whatever did become of the Walrus and the Carpenter after their nefarious jot down the briny beach with the little Oysters? Is there truly any sense to be found in nonsense at all?
Of course, this was all highly speculative. No one had ever actually seen these so-called ‘lost rhymes’—and if in fact they had existed in the first place, it was generally assumed the author had taken the secret of their whereabouts with him…
That is the tale, as told by my grandfather, back in a time when I was still small enough to settle on his knee for a story—long before I ever put pen to paper, or had the slightest notion that I would one day make a living telling stories. Now, in the spirit of full disclosure, it should be noted that my grandfather was both an Irishman and a storyteller (which, arguably, are one and the same) and had long been known to put a little polish on a story from time to time—that is, of course, when he wasn’t making one up out of whole cloth. But whether or not the legend of the Lost Rhymes was merely a product of a clever old man’s imagination, spun solely for the entertainment of an inquisitive boy with a depthless capacity for puzzles, mysteries, and all things unattainable, was inconsequential. The seed had been planted, and already experimental tendrils had begun poking up from the soil. If there was even a grain of truth to the tale, the slightest chance that the Lost Rhymes might possibly be out there, I was certain that I would find them. Or so I believed back in those heady days of the ‘unclouded brow and dreaming eyes of wonder’.
Sometime during the inevitable transition from adolescence to adulthood, the dream of discovery was replaced by the discovery of a new, more tangible dream: I had begun to put words on paper. My own words. And even the long-standing lure of the elusive Lost Rhymes couldn’t keep me from this wonderful new sensation of creating stories and rhymes of my own. As time passed, the Lost Rhymes receded further into the reaches of ‘Memory’s mystic band’. And yet the idea of them— the spark that lit the flame that fuels my creativity to this very day—remained, like a slow-burning ember, waiting for someone to stoke the kindling on the grate above it…
It was while working revisions on a book of spooky poems based upon legends, faerie tales, and folklore that a time-worn question popped into my mind, quite unexpectedly, and no matter how hard I tried to push it back and get on with the task at hand, it would not relent. It was a simple question, yet one that opened myriad doors down that long and dimly-lit corridor of my childhood: Who really stole the Queen’s tarts? As I pondered this question (along with others—Whatever did become of the Walrus and
the Carpenter? Is there any sense to be found in nonsense?), I found myself drifting further away from my spooky rhymes and closer to those long-sought Lost Rhymes of Wonderland. A thorough search of every library and internet site that contained any information on Carroll and his works produced nothing. Were the Lost Rhymes truly lost? Had they ever existed in the first place? Was I just wasting my time, hunting the ghost in the hall, as my grandfather used to say?
It was in this moment of thoughtful introspection—and, admittedly, doubt—that an exchange between my grandfather and me resurfaced. I couldn’t have been more than seven at the time. I don’t recall where we were, whether it was night or day, or whether indeed the exchange was simply the product of a dream, but, real or dreamt, the moment remains etched in my memory. I had asked him if he believed anyone would ever find the Lost Rhymes, and though his reply came with a wink, there was no sign of guile: ‘If anyone is to find them, it will be you.’
As those words settled in, and doubt began to give way to clarity and conviction, I couldn’t help feeling that somewhere my grandfather was smiling. With this vital clue in hand, and a renewed sense of faith in the fable, I set forth in search of the Lost Rhymes once again—only, this time, my journey began on a single blank page and ended with the book you now hold in your hands.
J. T. Holden
2009
Thus grew the tale of Wonderland:
Thus slowly, one by one,
Its quaint events were hammered out—
And now the tale is done…
— LEWIS CARROLL
DOWN THE RABBIT-HOLE AGAIN
How doth the morning sunlight breach
The shade beneath the thickets,
Along the bank, across the reach,
To still the song of crickets.
How drowsily the blades of grass
Sway on the subtle breezes,
Which waft about the bonny lass
Who lounges as she pleases.
How languid is her study pose,
How leisurely she strays
From ’neath the throes of dreary prose
To more poetic days.
How longingly she recollects
Those mem’ries most arousing—
The puzzling paths that intersect
Her consciousness when drowsing.
How lovely spill her silky locks,
How sweetly drops her jaw
When first she spies the clock of clocks
Within the Rabbit’s paw.
How swiftly to the wooded stop
Beneath the sunny knoll:
How deep and dark her sudden drop
Into the rabbit-hole…
THE BOTTLE & THE BISCUIT BOX
Along the narrow passageway,
Beneath the dreamy glow
Of muted light from hanging lamps,
All lined up in a row.
Into the hall of many doors,
Upon the little table
A bottle sits, and round its neck:
A most inviting label.
No hope to breach the smallest door—
Perhaps then she should drink it.
And yet it could be poisonous —
Perhaps she should rethink it.
A bottle labeled ‘poison’ is
Most sure to disagree—
One surely would be free!
How curious the flavour spills
Along the dwindling throat!
How high the little table grows—
How terribly remote.
The perfect drink to make one shrink,
One surely would agree;
The perfect size for entry, true—
But not without the key.
Beneath the soaring table now:
A tiny biscuit box—
And there within, a little sin:
A tasty paradox.
A little bite, perhaps it might
Reverse—to some degree—
The ill-effect and redirect
Up to the mocking key.
How curious the morsel slides
Along the stretching throat!
How scarcely does the hall of doors
Accommodate the bloat.
The perfect dough to make one grow,
One surely can’t deny.
And yet the key still out of reach—
Enough to make one cry!
Another sip, another bite
Could do but modest harm—
A little more to reach the floor
Might prove to be the charm!
How doth the proper measurements
Indeed erase all fears—
How swiftly one is swept away
Upon a pool of tears!
THE CATERPILLAR’S LESSON ON RHETORIC & RHYME
Through the sun-dappled forest of towering grass,
Where a long trail of smoke leads the way to the pass
’Neath the shade of the flowers in full summer bloom,
Where the wisest of orators rests on his ’shroom—
With his mind ever-sharp, and his tongue ever-terse,
As he lectures on dialect, doggerel, and verse:
‘Your poetry’s rough —an affront to the ear
That is trained for the rhythm that we practice here.
It should travel with ease from your tongue to your mouth,
Like the winds from the north as they travel down south.
Like the moon in ascension, or stars on the breeze,
Should the verbal intention be always to please—
To traverse the vernacular we practice here,
To the rules of these rhythms, so must you adhere:
You should never include more than what is required
Of the verse you rehearse for results most desired—
For the troublesome stanza, you’ve probably heard,
Is the one that is burdened by one extra word.
Now these phrases poetic may often sound queer—
Rearranged, interchanged, and exceedingly drear—
But a word thus omitted is song to the ear
Of the sweet elocution that we practice here.
So always remember to keep tempo true,
And be mindful of diction—no matter the skew—
And to flip your words freely, but never exceed
All those requisite syllables that you will need.
We shall start with the basics of rhythm and rhyme,
And thus count every syllable whilst keeping time—
Without heed to the logic that others hold dear,
Or resistance to phrases you’d often find queer.
So, if thusly possessed, I suggest you regale
With the frightful delight of a maritime tale.
I shall cue you but once; then you’re off on your own,
Yet to tease with your rhythm and please with your tone:
How Doth the Little Busy Bee
Or Crocodile begin it—
Now give us song as twice as long,
With more compunction in it.
And tempo as you spin it—
For less or more, or cadence poor,
Will surely never win it.’
THE MARINER’S TALE
With comportment in question and hands folded so,
She commenced with recital of maritime woe—
With a tone most peculiar, which only grew worse
With the trembling release of each subsequent verse:
‘How doth the looming middle-night
Continue with its breathing—
To overlay what underlies,
And propagate such seething!
How skillfully they navigate,
How steadily they row
About the sea in search of things
So many miles below.
How deeply plunge the divers here
Into the blackest waters—
; To slay the creature whilst she sleeps
Beside her sons and daughters.
How boldly they perform their task,
How silent then the wake,
As creatures small begin to stir,
With hungers yet to slake.
How frenzied doth the waters flail
To complement such seething—
How deafening those foundlings wail,
When first they take to teething!’
THE SUBJECTIVE REVIEW
The Caterpillar closed his eyes,
And raised his pointed nose—
In cool contempt or careful thought,
Or simply in repose,
One couldn’t say with certainty:
One really never knows.
He tapped his fingers pensively,
Whilst lavish rings of smoke
Did permeate about his perch
To form a shielding cloak—
And when the haze was quite replete,
The Caterpillar spoke:
‘How lovely flows your melody,
How sweet your coarse refrain—
How perfectly you galvanise
The perfectly mundane.
How practical your poetry,
How timely every cue—
How clearly you infuse it with
A clearly slanted view.
How smooth your flow of syllables,
How deft your cutting wit—
How flawlessly you intertwine
Each flawed and tepid bit.
How sweetly blunt your countenance,
How picturesque your idyll—
However, you should never slouch
When offering recital!’
As silence fell about the wood,
The trees began to sway—
And when the smoke dispersed at last
(At much to her dismay)
The Caterpillar spread his wings,
And on them flew away.
THE COOK, THE PIG, THE CAT & HIS DUCHESS
‘Come straight to the kitchen; don’t knock at the door,
For the footman who sits on the stoop
Will be caught in the crossfire of dishes galore,
As the fight rages over the soup!
Don’t mind all the pepper, and please hold your sneezes—
You’ll only awaken the baby