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The Children’s Writer

"I shut my eyes for a few minutes, with my portable typewriter on my knee – I make my mind a blank and wait – and then, as clearly as I would see real children, my characters stand before me in my mind's eye ... The first sentence comes straight into my mind, I don't have to think of it – I don't have to think of anything." - Enid Blyton

I never was as free
as the children in your books.
Perhaps no child is.
Perhaps that's the romance.

Derided as plain and unintelligent,
unadorned with anything
like style, grace, or that elusive beast
called "literary merit", your books remained
on shelves nonetheless,
your stories in the under-minds
of readers gathered in the eye
of your mind,
linked together in a circle unbroken
by hate or peril or fear.

Hands clasping hands in the black pupil,
the lid of the eye descended
and shut off all light,
until the light
of what grew on the underside of your mind
bloomed above the children,
illuminating houses, gardens, trees, and clouds.

For all that you are tarred,
your world was dreamlike and serene
to visitors under 12.
We read you again,
praying that the secret door
has not been obscured
by time’s lichen.
But, of course, it has.
You were both the children’s writer
and writer-child,
in whose lidded eye we rested for a while.
Written by The_Silly_Sibyl (Jack Thomas)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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