Alice in Verse: The Lost Rhymes of Wonderland Read online

  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

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Candleshoe Books.

  CANDLESHOE, the WAX SEAL LOGO, and associated logos

  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.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, visit us on the world wide web at

  www.candleshoebooks.com

  CIP data available

  ISBN-13: 978-09825089-2-3 • ISBN-10: 0-9825089-2-1

  First Kindle Edition

  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—

  Contrariwise, from ill effects,

  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.

  But mindful of the syllables

  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