Two of my all-time favorite books are Winnie-the-Pooh and The House at Pooh Corner. No matter what imperfections my childhood household held, I counted on my mom to read those stories—in large part because I loved how the characters talked, hummed, and sang, the sound of such phrases as tiddley pom. Thanks to A.A. Milne I started writing poems, pausing on each word to adjust the rhythm, to get the feel right. I carried his books with me to college, crayon marks and all and, when living in a designated “triple” was horrifically unconducive to sleep, I’d fill my head with tra-la-las and rum-tum-tiddle-um-tums.
Years later, as a high school teacher, I struggled to teach a more complicated book: A Tale of Two Cities. Several students were hindered by dyslexia, and all of us found Victorian language hard to process. So I read aloud. My students, of course, felt they’d pulled off a great coup, but none-the-less they stiffened when Madame Defarge entered the scene, groaned at the saccharine dialogue of Lucie Mannette, and (spoiler alert) gasped finally when Carton went to the guillotine. I still hear the moving repetitions in his last words (not in my voice, but in the deep tones of Simon Callow narrating an audio version): “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known."
When my daughter was born, we received a great gift: a classic British box set of A.A. Milne’s books. And while she was still in her crib, my husband started reading. (For the record, I thought I should be the one to have the honor, but his Eeyore voice was way better than mine!) Over the years, he read those books 100 times, and she came to use charming phrases like, “I'm thinking my thinks.” (Which isn’t in the books, but it could've been?) One fine Father’s Day, we even gifted him a T-shirt with our favorite Eeyorism: “merriment and whatnot.”
My old copy of Winnie-the-Pooh alongside my daughter’s copy of The House at Pooh Corner
Because I hear cadences when I read to myself, I’ve been told I’m an auditory learner and a slow reader. I guess I have a listening setting? In the online poetry room I join on Sundays, we read long works together, taking turns with sections of Louise Glück's Averno or Etel Adnan’s Arab Apocalypse. Sometimes we surprise each other. We get choked up. We laugh. My poetry friends are not people I know well… and yet.
Some words are simply meant to be voiced—flabbergast, mercurial, chonky. But I enjoy hearing all kinds writing aloud. When college applicants share a personal essay during a Zoom call, I ask them to read it to me. Most, in the oft-quoted words of Melville’s Bartleby, “prefer not to.” So I read to them, trying to catch the rhythm of their words. To see what they see. Sometimes they can’t help but edit as they listen. They want it to sound right.
I’ve gone back, read this post aloud, moved some sentences, cut others, and adjusted small errors in tone. I’ve discovered “British box set” is a pleasing phrase. I also paused to ask my husband to go find that T-shirt and, when it didn’t appear, I said, in my lesser Eeyore voice, “Don’t apologize. It’s just what would happen.”
Part of me really wants to end there, but it might sound a little sad. Let’s imagine instead Pooh high in the air and dark as a mud puddle, trying to trick bees out of their honey. “Every little cloud/ Always sings aloud.” Sure, we might give ourselves away. Anyhow, let’s indulge our voices.
Love this!!! Now I’ll go think my thinks! 💕
This is just wonderful!