Alice in Verse: The Lost Rhymes of Wonderland (2 page)

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…

— L
EWIS
C
ARROLL

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…

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!

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.’