The Electrifying Moment When I Discovered Poetry

RADISH SO RED

Poetry. Either you get it, or you don’t. I was eight and waiting with dread in the dentist’s office. The dentist was a friend of the family, and in later years when I went to him in an emergency I discovered the reason for the dread. The man was rough! Ouch! A long sustained and very painful ouch. 

The advantage to this particular dentist’s office was a round table with a number of children’s books spread out, heaped up, and piled upon the table. In the midst of the pile was a book featuring Sir Giles and the Reluctant Dragon. I was enchanted by the tale of a little boy, my age, who struck up a friendship with a gentle and poetic dragon who lived in a cave above the town. 

The townsfolk, a savage and narrow minded lot, also discovered the dragon and called on the aging Sir Giles to deliver them from the dragon.  (Sir Giles in the story was actually a stand-in for St. George). 

I remember it this way: Sir Giles and I set off up the hill to find a resolution to this crisis. We three of course enjoy a fine picnic, cold chicken upon the grassy lawn before the dragon’s lair. As a child I often rejoiced to enter into a good story. I still do. Being an uncommitted bystander just isn’t very exciting, especially when waiting with dread in the dentist’s office.

A central problem arises. The dragon is a very gentle fellow, hard to anger, and can only puff out a little smoke. He explains it this way:

The Dragon: You've got to be mad to breathe fire, but I'm not mad at anybody.

Myself as the Boy: But try real hard. Concentrate.

[the dragon tries, but all he can muster is a puny smoke ring]

The Dragon: Not very good, is it?

Me: Nope. Too bad you're not a real dragon, instead of a punk poet.

The Dragon: [Angry] "Punk poet"?

[Now fire is coming out of his mouth]

The Dragon: Ooh, say that again.

Me: Punk poet.

The Dragon: Again.

Me: Punk poet.

The Dragon: Again.

Me: Punk poet.

The Dragon: [Delighted] Ooh, I'm mad! I'm mad! I'm mad!

Me: Punk poet! Punk poet! Punk poet!

Sir Giles, not to be outdone professes to be a bit of a bard himself. Then comes the electrifying moment, that magic moment when I discover poetry. Sir Giles begins to reach towards a dish of radishes on the picnic spread before him and intones his poem.

Radish so red

Radish so red

Plucked from the heart of your warm little bed

[He plucks a radish from the bowl and holds it up]

Sprinkle some salt on the top of your head

[He sprinkles some salt on the radish and eats it with loud crunching sound: crunch, crunch]

Delicious.

Now that’s the way I remember it, and I ought to know for I was there.