THE JABBERWOCKY LIVES

A few weeks ago, I made a parenting booboo.

My daughter and I were playing a game where we explore a big jungle with our backpacks. Sometimes she is the backpack on my back. Sometimes, we both have our own backpacks. We point out all the amazing animals and plants we can see. Sometimes we are chased by crocodiles.

One time, I offhandedly mentioned there might be a Jabberwocky about.

My daughter’s eyes went wide.

“Daddy, what’s a Jabberwocky?”

Uh-oh, I thought. I might have just opened a can of worms, here.

That is the problem with being really, really into books. Occasionally, the madness slips out.

I knew she would not be satisfied until she got a proper explanation. And as it happens, I have a gorgeous, illustrated version of Lewis Carroll’s poem (the art is by Charles Santore, one panel of which is below)—a gift from my wife. What could the harm be? I thought. It was, after all, a nonsense poem, perfect for a child.

So, I and my daughter sat down to read it together. But little did I know what was about to transpire. Here was me thinking, “I’m about to win father of the year award,” when the reality would prove quite different.

We read the poem. The beauty of the nonsense sounds had her in stitches of laughter and wide-eyed awe. But then, after I’d finished reading it, with as much gusto and gesticulation as I could muster, her bottom lip began to tremble.

“Daddy, is the Jabberwocky dead?”

Uh-oh again.

I realised then the enormity of my folly. I’d been so concentrated on the entertainment-factor, I’d forgotten to consider the simplest problem with the poem: it centres on an act of violence. If it had just been the poem alone, I might have gotten away from it. But the illustrated version left no room for doubt. My daughter is only three, and she is very sensitive and perceptive. I should have known she would pick up on this.

I quickly reassured her, saying that Nature has extraordinary ways of renewing itself, that flowers can regrow, soil become fertile once more, and life return where there is none. But of course, she saw through these vagaries and obfuscations.

“Daddy, is the Jabberwocky dead?”

Maybe, it is a failure of my courage. Maybe, I should have ripped the bandaid of mortality off then and there. She was halfway to the concept already; all it required was my pronouncement of finality.

But I found myself meeting her steady gaze and saying, “No.” And it felt like truth.

That night, I sat down to write a poem. I meant to read it to her the next day, but no sooner than I finished it than I realised I could not show it to my her. It is too adult, and if I read it to her, it would only compound the errors I had made the previous day. But, still, it is for her, and from the bottom of my heart. One day, perhaps, she might like to read it, and know what her dad intended.

Some may say this is false comfort. But then again, we have seen the powers of nature many times throughout history. What seems irrecoverable is found again. The seasons turn; cycles ever renew.

And deeper even than Nature is another force in the world, an almighty force that at times seems to defy physical laws and certitudes, and that force is hope. I think that is,—rightly or wrongly—the gift I wanted to impart to my daughter. A little bit of hope.

So, here is the poem. I hope it brings a smile to your lips, perhaps even a small measure of comfort. I know it did for me.

For Isabel
All things, in time, must find rebirth.
And so, within the mome rath woven wood,
where lies the corpse of that proud Jabberwock,
a wind comes blowing from the rood,
bearing blossoms of a holy tree.
And there they settle on the Jabberwock,
headless and bruised, besmirched with blood;
a moment longer, all is still—
the slithy toves weaving their dance of light—
and then within that dull,
dead tonnage, movement creeps, stirring of life,
like saplings first breaking the earthen roof.
Cries of terror—sure, there were.
But drowned by joy gallumphing through
the misty glades and dingly dells,
as every living creature fled to tell
of how that mighty dragon's head,
like Lernea's hydra—regrew,
sprouting from rotten flesh, a rarest rose.
And thus, what Death has taken, God re-gives,
for in the tulgey wood—
The Jabberwocky lives.
by Joseph Sale 

Thank you for reading this short little piece. If you’d like to receive more like it, please consider subscribing. If you like my poetry specifically, I have several long-form poems available, most recently Ourobomundus.

Much love to you all!