Forgive Me, I Meant to Do It:
False Apology Poems. By Gail Carson Levine. Illustrated by Matthew Cordell.
Harper. $15.99.
I’ve Lost My Hippopotamus. By
Jack Prelutsky. Illustrated by Jackie Urbanovic. Greenwillow/HarperCollins.
$18.99.
We are well into
political silly season, and that means we are well into false-apology season as
well: “I apologize if anyone was offended,” “I am sorry that my words were
misconstrued,” “I had not meant to speak in a way that may have inadvertently
upset some people,” and all the rest of the weasel-word apologies that are not
really apologies but attempts to maintain deniability and wiggle room. Politicians are far from alone in employing
these unapologetic pseudo-apologies: their handlers and supporters do so as
well, and so do corporate chieftains, and so – if we are being honest about it
– do many people in everyday life who meant just what they said but who encounter
a stronger reaction to their comments than they anticipated. William Carlos Williams invented the
false-apology poem, calling it “This Is Just to Say” and explaining that he was
sorry to have eaten the plums of the person to whom the poem is addressed, but
my goodness, they were delicious. That
is, he is not sorry at all to have gotten to the fruit first. Gail Carson Levine includes the Williams poem
in Forgive Me, I Meant to Do It, then
adds to it a whole pile of her own false-apology poems, all with the same title
as Williams’. Her introduction (which
she withholds until after several of the poems) explains the poems’ structure
and urges readers to write their own.
And Matthew Cordell aids and abets the whole devilish enterprise with
illustrations showing the successful perpetrators and dismayed
perpetrated-upon. Some of Levine’s poems
deal with simple family matters: “I swiped/ your lucky/ baseball/ cap/ which/
made you tragically/ lose/ the state playoff/ Forgive me/ the cap/ keeps the
sun/ out of my eyes.” Others involve
famous fictional characters, such as Pinocchio: “I have shortened/ my nose/
with your saw/ because/ honestly/ telling lies/ is so much fun/ Forgive me/ I
don’t care/ about becoming/ a real boy.”
And then there are the sendups of lullabies: “I’m the one/ who stuck/
the cradle/ in the tree/ which/ was probably/ a stupid place/ to put a baby/
Forgive me/ I thought/ that bough would break/ sooner or later.” And non-apologies about nursery rhymes, such
as “Three Blind Mice”: “I confess/ I sliced off/ their skinny/ tails/ which/
they seemed awfully/ fond/ of waving/ Forgive me/ I wanted symmetry/ sightless
in front/ tailless behind.” The whole
book is a modest sort of guilty pleasure, giving vent to a nyah-nyah-nyah
impulse barely concealed behind clever verbiage and suitably amusing
pictures. Maybe, just maybe, kids who
read it will absorb a dose of skepticism, suitable for application when they
are old enough to vote.
Jack Prelutsky’s poems
in I’ve Lost My Hippopotamus are more
straightforwardly humorous, less wry and considerably less cynical, but are
just as much fun in their own way. Some,
such as the title poem, deal with imaginary situations involving real animals. But the imaginary situations involving imaginary creatures are even more
enjoyable: “The GLUDUS are a nuisance,/ With a tendency to cling./ It’s hard to
make them go away,/ They stick to everything./ If you should meet the GLUDUS,/
There is little you can do./ You’ll find that you are out of luck—/ They’ll
soon be stuck on you.” Poems like this
one seem especially to inspire illustrator Jackie Urbanovic, whose takes on
WIGUANAS (“the world’s/ Only lizards with hair”), HALIBUTTERFLIES, the agile
HOPALOTAMUS, the PENGUINCHWORMS and other critters are absolutely right. Prelutsky’s imagination runs rampant in poems
about PELICANTALOUPES (which “are predisposed to mope—/ They’re never very
jolly”) and an unusual specter: “Most ghosts are insignificant,/ Incalculably
small./ It’s impossible to find them,/ Even when they caterwaul./ A number are
voluminous,/ A few are extra tall—/ The enormous ELEPHANTOM/ Is the grandest
ghost of all.” The oddball animals and
other creatures are scattered throughout a book that also includes poems about
golf, bouncing, conspicuous consumption (“Otto Gottalott”), a snake that can do
math (it’s an adder), and the unexpected (but unapologetic) consequences of
eating fruit. A set of haiku about real
animals makes an attractive mid-book change of pace; then the silliness resumes,
remaining in place to the end of a set of poems that can be as much fun to read
out loud as to use for chuckling quietly while reading them to oneself.
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