This is my world, sun, sand and stone,
A different scene? There can be none!
The Nile, the palms, the brilliant sky-
And at its heart, Sphinx and I.
The goddess Nut, who rules the light
Directs the move from day to night
For me he-since am I not, indeed,
The sacred creature of his creed?
The Sphinx (take pictures if you will)
Looks wise, says nothing. That's her skill.
And so she keeps her mystery still.
Ah, nothing secret can he hide
From one who watched as Cheops bid
The building of the pyramid.
At last the great to pierce the sky.
But stone left idle Bexley and eye.
“Take it,” said Chephren, Cheops’ son,
“To make a Sphinx.” and this was done.
Ask me your questions. Watch me well.
I know the answers. One day I will tell.
Naming Lewis
Wednesday 26 August 2009
The wolf said to Francis
The wolf said to Francis
“You have more sense than to some,
I will not spoil the legend;
Call me, and I shall come.
But in the matter of taming
Should you not look more near?
There's howlings come from humans,
Their hatred is their fear.
We are an orderly people,
Though greater pain and need,
We do not kill for torture;
We do not hoard board rate that hold for greed.
But the victim has the vision-
A gift of sorts that’s given
As some might say, by history
And you, perhaps, by heaven.
Tomorrow or soon after
(Count centuries four days)
I see (and you may also
If you will turn your gaze)-
How the sons of man have taken
A hundredfold their share,
But the child of God, the creature,
Can rest his head nowhere.
See, sky and ocean empty,
The earth scorched to the bone;
By poison, gun starvation
The last free creatures gone.
But the swelling tide of humans
Sweeps on and on and on.
No tree, no bird, no grassland
Only increasing man,
And the prisoned beasts he feeds on-
Was this the heavenly plan?”
Francis stood there silent.
Francis bowed his head.
Clearly passed before him
All that the wolf had said.
Francis looked at his brother
He looked at the forest floor.
The vision pierced his thinking,
And with it, something more
That humans are stony listeners.
The legend stands as before.
Naomi Lewis
“You have more sense than to some,
I will not spoil the legend;
Call me, and I shall come.
But in the matter of taming
Should you not look more near?
There's howlings come from humans,
Their hatred is their fear.
We are an orderly people,
Though greater pain and need,
We do not kill for torture;
We do not hoard board rate that hold for greed.
But the victim has the vision-
A gift of sorts that’s given
As some might say, by history
And you, perhaps, by heaven.
Tomorrow or soon after
(Count centuries four days)
I see (and you may also
If you will turn your gaze)-
How the sons of man have taken
A hundredfold their share,
But the child of God, the creature,
Can rest his head nowhere.
See, sky and ocean empty,
The earth scorched to the bone;
By poison, gun starvation
The last free creatures gone.
But the swelling tide of humans
Sweeps on and on and on.
No tree, no bird, no grassland
Only increasing man,
And the prisoned beasts he feeds on-
Was this the heavenly plan?”
Francis stood there silent.
Francis bowed his head.
Clearly passed before him
All that the wolf had said.
Francis looked at his brother
He looked at the forest floor.
The vision pierced his thinking,
And with it, something more
That humans are stony listeners.
The legend stands as before.
Naomi Lewis
The Convent Cat
O I am a cat of piety Of virtue and sobriety-
Well,how could I be other In such a saintly company
Where I abide in harmony
With all,the only brother.
When I arrived,a foundling,
A three-week orphan,mewling,
The sisters held debate
Considered their professions,
The No-ones and the Yes-ones,
But one voice fixed my fate.
"'Tis no irregularity 'Twill be an act of charity
The thing has no possessions
And little chance of sin,
Besides-he'll have his uses.
For dont forget the mouses
Ofcourse he must come in,"
Said Sister Catharine.
I did not need probation; I'd found my new vocation
In saintly occupation
Within this citadel.
A cat is always punctual
And orderly as well.
So,long before the sunrise
I rush from cell to cell.
I meet with some ingrateness
But-no sister need fear lateness..
Why trouble with a bell?
My needs are simple, I rest upon a wimple-
"Oh holy saintsd see that!
'Tis all a crumple crimple!
Be off,you creature,scat!"
She can't mean Brother Cat!
Fridayis our fish day.
To me it is our wish day-
I wish each day were friday,
So holy is this cat.
I hear a sister whisper,
"Our Thomas is no doubter
Each day he looks devouter
Whatever he is at."
Could any praise be higher ?
Enough now of my history I
t's time to join Refectory
Then practise for the choir In the Magnificat.
Oh who would not aspire
To be a convent cat !
Naomi Lewis
Well,how could I be other In such a saintly company
Where I abide in harmony
With all,the only brother.
When I arrived,a foundling,
A three-week orphan,mewling,
The sisters held debate
Considered their professions,
The No-ones and the Yes-ones,
But one voice fixed my fate.
"'Tis no irregularity 'Twill be an act of charity
The thing has no possessions
And little chance of sin,
Besides-he'll have his uses.
For dont forget the mouses
Ofcourse he must come in,"
Said Sister Catharine.
I did not need probation; I'd found my new vocation
In saintly occupation
Within this citadel.
A cat is always punctual
And orderly as well.
So,long before the sunrise
I rush from cell to cell.
I meet with some ingrateness
But-no sister need fear lateness..
Why trouble with a bell?
My needs are simple, I rest upon a wimple-
"Oh holy saintsd see that!
'Tis all a crumple crimple!
Be off,you creature,scat!"
She can't mean Brother Cat!
Fridayis our fish day.
To me it is our wish day-
I wish each day were friday,
So holy is this cat.
I hear a sister whisper,
"Our Thomas is no doubter
Each day he looks devouter
Whatever he is at."
Could any praise be higher ?
Enough now of my history I
t's time to join Refectory
Then practise for the choir In the Magnificat.
Oh who would not aspire
To be a convent cat !
Naomi Lewis
The Mardi Gras Cat
Had a home and people Where did they go?
Had a home and people Where did they go?
Took their goods;turned the key;
Never gave a thought to me.
I was a lost thing until I met my Beau,
My black cat Beau.
“Honey, you're too pretty
To rough it on your own.
This is a fine city
But only a cat that's streetwise
Can make it here alone.”
He showed me secret places
Where we kept warm and dry.
We shared a crawfish waffle
And a slice of oyster pie.
But at Madris Gras a voice said;
“ Black cat! A good luck giver!”
A hand reached out and snatched him.
They took him down the river.
That's how we got parted,
That’s why I'm broken hearted.
Looked for him up Rampart
And down Dauphine.
That cat must be somewhere
In New Orleans.
Asked the Mississippi
“Is he down below?”
“Sorry girlie-like to help-
But I ain't got your Beau.
But I ain't got your Beau.
Sun went down the west side
Sky was smoky red.
Dreamed I heard him calling,
This is what he said:
“Where you got to, baby?
Been searching low and high.
Got to find you somewhere,
Don’t like to lee you cry.
I'm a long way from the old place.
Wish that I can fly.
But wait for me, don't wander;
I'll be there by and by.
We'll share a crawfish waffle
And a slice of oyster pie.”
Will he come at sunrise?
Will he come at noon?
Black beau, comes soon.
Had a home and people Where did they go?
Took their goods;turned the key;
Never gave a thought to me.
I was a lost thing until I met my Beau,
My black cat Beau.
“Honey, you're too pretty
To rough it on your own.
This is a fine city
But only a cat that's streetwise
Can make it here alone.”
He showed me secret places
Where we kept warm and dry.
We shared a crawfish waffle
And a slice of oyster pie.
But at Madris Gras a voice said;
“ Black cat! A good luck giver!”
A hand reached out and snatched him.
They took him down the river.
That's how we got parted,
That’s why I'm broken hearted.
Looked for him up Rampart
And down Dauphine.
That cat must be somewhere
In New Orleans.
Asked the Mississippi
“Is he down below?”
“Sorry girlie-like to help-
But I ain't got your Beau.
But I ain't got your Beau.
Sun went down the west side
Sky was smoky red.
Dreamed I heard him calling,
This is what he said:
“Where you got to, baby?
Been searching low and high.
Got to find you somewhere,
Don’t like to lee you cry.
I'm a long way from the old place.
Wish that I can fly.
But wait for me, don't wander;
I'll be there by and by.
We'll share a crawfish waffle
And a slice of oyster pie.”
Will he come at sunrise?
Will he come at noon?
Black beau, comes soon.
Naomi Lewis on Dick Whittington.
Dick Whittington has always been a favourite fairytale character, and no wonder. He was a hero without ever knowing it. But wait-is fairytale had just description of where to find him?
In Shakespeare, there are plenty of fairies, small as mustard seeds or human size if it suits the tale of verse. Shakespeare, like most Elizabethans, totally believed in fairies-and what is totally believed in, truly exists -for the believer.
And is their magic in Dick Whittington's story? There are no magical animals, not a bird, nor of fish, the cat itself does not speak any language but its own and behaves always in cat fashion, doing what it naturally dose. And yet the whole tale is infused with wonder.
Now here is a fact known to few, if any, humans, and yet affecting all, every single one. Every human has within himself or herself- for good or evil-a grain of magic. And that magic has a name. Its name is chance. Was it anything but chance that made Dick fall asleep on that particular doorstep, the doorstep of Mr Fitzwarren? And to be lying there when Alice (with her father) came to arrive and unknowingly change the course of his life? What chance took an unwitting Dick to Highgate Hill (look at the stone) where his cat was waiting for him? Only chance could have made the cat come out and choose him. Have you always chosen the right road?
In Shakespeare, there are plenty of fairies, small as mustard seeds or human size if it suits the tale of verse. Shakespeare, like most Elizabethans, totally believed in fairies-and what is totally believed in, truly exists -for the believer.
And is their magic in Dick Whittington's story? There are no magical animals, not a bird, nor of fish, the cat itself does not speak any language but its own and behaves always in cat fashion, doing what it naturally dose. And yet the whole tale is infused with wonder.
Now here is a fact known to few, if any, humans, and yet affecting all, every single one. Every human has within himself or herself- for good or evil-a grain of magic. And that magic has a name. Its name is chance. Was it anything but chance that made Dick fall asleep on that particular doorstep, the doorstep of Mr Fitzwarren? And to be lying there when Alice (with her father) came to arrive and unknowingly change the course of his life? What chance took an unwitting Dick to Highgate Hill (look at the stone) where his cat was waiting for him? Only chance could have made the cat come out and choose him. Have you always chosen the right road?
Naomi Lewis on her introduction to the New Statesman.
I feel I had been reborn-not in a religious sense. It all started when first I set my foot on the threshold of the New Statesman offices. It was at that time in Great Turnstile, and my life was transformed! I had sent in a letter saying I would like to do a book review page for them, and at first they pooh-poohed. But then I said my name was G.de Vavaseur. I was at the time winning all the competitions under that pseudonym, which are taken from a woman we called “Goody” as children. They all came out to have a look at me and said, “We thought he was a man!”
Anyway they gave me double page spread in the centre of every issue. I became something, although I know not what that something was. I do remember being invited to a party were all the poets were there with their spouses. Robert Conquest and suchlike standing around in a group, all men, talking together, something to do with a book called, “The Method” (actually, The Movement). I overheard one of them saying, “The trouble with Naomi she doesn't know how good she is.” When they saw me coming they all looked at me in awe. Robert Conquest said to me, “Are you some kind of saint or something? I have been told them not to meddle with you.” It didn't stop him, however.
Anyway they gave me double page spread in the centre of every issue. I became something, although I know not what that something was. I do remember being invited to a party were all the poets were there with their spouses. Robert Conquest and suchlike standing around in a group, all men, talking together, something to do with a book called, “The Method” (actually, The Movement). I overheard one of them saying, “The trouble with Naomi she doesn't know how good she is.” When they saw me coming they all looked at me in awe. Robert Conquest said to me, “Are you some kind of saint or something? I have been told them not to meddle with you.” It didn't stop him, however.
Naomi Lewis on the Holocaust.
The Holocaust occupied Naomi's thoughts and conversation. She introduced me to the incomparable and unique writings of Primo Levi with its carefully weighed and serenely beautiful prose as it confronted the unendurable while advocated a celebration of peoples’ uniqueness as he illuminates a new morality in his differentiation between the morally strong and the morally weak vicious bully in his unforgettable portraits of those who shared his journey through hell. Naomi advocated that Primo Levi’s work with its enormous dignity and worth, his determination to survive, to bear witness and to save the scaffolding of civilisation to be essential to any understanding of the Holocaust.
Naomi once stated “You know as I walk along the street I see all those things, half eaten buns, apple cores and chips, all trampled on, and I think about these things thrown away so carelessly, they would have made the difference between life and death by starvation to a Holocaust victim.”
On the Holocaust itself she said, “The forgiving of it is just forgetting.”
Naomi once stated “You know as I walk along the street I see all those things, half eaten buns, apple cores and chips, all trampled on, and I think about these things thrown away so carelessly, they would have made the difference between life and death by starvation to a Holocaust victim.”
On the Holocaust itself she said, “The forgiving of it is just forgetting.”
Tuesday 25 August 2009
Footprint in The Air
"Stay!" said the child.
The bird said, "No,
My wing has mended, I must go.
I shall come back to see you though,
One night, one day "
"How shall I know?'
"Look for my footprint in the snow."
"The snow soon goes - oh, that's not fair!'"
"Don't grieve. Don't grieve. I shall be there
In the bright season of the year,
One night, one day "
"But tell me, where?"
"Look for my footprint on the air. "
The bird said, "No,
My wing has mended, I must go.
I shall come back to see you though,
One night, one day "
"How shall I know?'
"Look for my footprint in the snow."
"The snow soon goes - oh, that's not fair!'"
"Don't grieve. Don't grieve. I shall be there
In the bright season of the year,
One night, one day "
"But tell me, where?"
"Look for my footprint on the air. "
Monday 24 August 2009
The Egyptian Cat
This is my world, sun, sand and stone,
A different scene? There can be none!
The Nile, the palms, the brilliant sky-
And at its heart, Sphinx and I.
The goddess Nut, who rules the light
Directs the move from day to night
For me he-since am I not, indeed,
The sacred creature of his creed?
The Sphinx (take pictures if you will)
Looks wise, says nothing. That's her skill.
And so she keeps her mystery still.
Ah, nothing secret can he hide
From one who watched as Cheops bid
The building of the pyramid.
At last the great to pierce the sky.
But stone left idle Bexley and eye.
“Take it,” said Chephren, Cheops’ son,
“To make a Sphinx.” and this was done.
Ask me your questions. Watch me well.
I know the answers. One day I will tell.
Naming Lewis
A different scene? There can be none!
The Nile, the palms, the brilliant sky-
And at its heart, Sphinx and I.
The goddess Nut, who rules the light
Directs the move from day to night
For me he-since am I not, indeed,
The sacred creature of his creed?
The Sphinx (take pictures if you will)
Looks wise, says nothing. That's her skill.
And so she keeps her mystery still.
Ah, nothing secret can he hide
From one who watched as Cheops bid
The building of the pyramid.
At last the great to pierce the sky.
But stone left idle Bexley and eye.
“Take it,” said Chephren, Cheops’ son,
“To make a Sphinx.” and this was done.
Ask me your questions. Watch me well.
I know the answers. One day I will tell.
Naming Lewis
The wolf said to Francis
The wolf said to Francis
“You have more sense than to some,
I will not spoil the legend;
Call me, and I shall come.
But in the matter of taming
Should you not look more near?
There's howlings come from humans,
Their hatred is their fear.
We are an orderly people,
Though greater pain and need,
We do not kill for torture;
We do not hoard board rate that hold for greed.
But the victim has the vision-
A gift of sorts that’s given
As some might say, by history
And you, perhaps, by heaven.
Tomorrow or soon after
(Count centuries four days)
I see (and you may also
If you will turn your gaze)-
How the sons of man have taken
A hundredfold their share,
But the child of God, the creature,
Can rest his head nowhere.
See, sky and ocean empty,
The earth scorched to the bone;
By poison, gun starvation
The last free creatures gone.
But the swelling tide of humans
Sweeps on and on and on.
No tree, no bird, no grassland
Only increasing man,
And the prisoned beasts he feeds on-
Was this the heavenly plan?”
Francis stood there silent.
Francis bowed his head.
Clearly passed before him
All that the wolf had said.
Francis looked at his brother
He looked at the forest floor.
The vision pierced his thinking,
And with it, something more
That humans are stony listeners.
The legend stands as before.
Naomi Lewis
“You have more sense than to some,
I will not spoil the legend;
Call me, and I shall come.
But in the matter of taming
Should you not look more near?
There's howlings come from humans,
Their hatred is their fear.
We are an orderly people,
Though greater pain and need,
We do not kill for torture;
We do not hoard board rate that hold for greed.
But the victim has the vision-
A gift of sorts that’s given
As some might say, by history
And you, perhaps, by heaven.
Tomorrow or soon after
(Count centuries four days)
I see (and you may also
If you will turn your gaze)-
How the sons of man have taken
A hundredfold their share,
But the child of God, the creature,
Can rest his head nowhere.
See, sky and ocean empty,
The earth scorched to the bone;
By poison, gun starvation
The last free creatures gone.
But the swelling tide of humans
Sweeps on and on and on.
No tree, no bird, no grassland
Only increasing man,
And the prisoned beasts he feeds on-
Was this the heavenly plan?”
Francis stood there silent.
Francis bowed his head.
Clearly passed before him
All that the wolf had said.
Francis looked at his brother
He looked at the forest floor.
The vision pierced his thinking,
And with it, something more
That humans are stony listeners.
The legend stands as before.
Naomi Lewis
As Naomi Lewis states false myth in prose or verse is not a harmless matter. It has almost caused the total genocide of the wolf, the most misjudged of all animals and in ways to dreadful to set out. As Naomi states between ourselves and animals, the captives, the toilers and even our closest pets there is an invisible breach which we cannot cross but which poems can sometimes leap over.
As Naomi states most poems while attempting to catch the spirit of the creature are from the human point of view as in Shelley's haunting aziola James Stevens light footed goats. Namely holds that one of the greatest animal poems which has ever been written is William Blake’s “Tyger. ” Naomi holds that Thomas Hardy possessed a rare understanding of animals and birds and that Edward Thomas and understanding of wild flowers plants and leaves. She holds that John Clare held in understanding and knowledge of hedgerows, flowers, grasses, small animals and insects above any other poet who possessed his quality in language. She points out that the wildflowers on Titania’s bank or in Lycidas point in life the classed as weeds and thus destroyed by man's herbicides. She points out, however, that they have luckily survived in poetry.
Naomi states that while the number of free great animals dwindles nearer to nought and the green earth goes millions more human are added to the earth.
Naomi had a fastidious lifelong concern for animals, their exploitation and their welfare which was theme of her anthologies, her poetry, her writing and her translations of Hans Christian Andersen which captured the nuances of his storytelling voice. Naomi dedicated her life to her love for animals and there was no aspect of animal exploitation of which she was unaware. She stated “Animals first last and always. They are the most cruelly treated creatures on earth.” Once looking up at the hills in the town covered with early manor houses she stated, “Think, every stick and stone carted up there by those poor horses!”
As Naomi states most poems while attempting to catch the spirit of the creature are from the human point of view as in Shelley's haunting aziola James Stevens light footed goats. Namely holds that one of the greatest animal poems which has ever been written is William Blake’s “Tyger. ” Naomi holds that Thomas Hardy possessed a rare understanding of animals and birds and that Edward Thomas and understanding of wild flowers plants and leaves. She holds that John Clare held in understanding and knowledge of hedgerows, flowers, grasses, small animals and insects above any other poet who possessed his quality in language. She points out that the wildflowers on Titania’s bank or in Lycidas point in life the classed as weeds and thus destroyed by man's herbicides. She points out, however, that they have luckily survived in poetry.
Naomi states that while the number of free great animals dwindles nearer to nought and the green earth goes millions more human are added to the earth.
Naomi had a fastidious lifelong concern for animals, their exploitation and their welfare which was theme of her anthologies, her poetry, her writing and her translations of Hans Christian Andersen which captured the nuances of his storytelling voice. Naomi dedicated her life to her love for animals and there was no aspect of animal exploitation of which she was unaware. She stated “Animals first last and always. They are the most cruelly treated creatures on earth.” Once looking up at the hills in the town covered with early manor houses she stated, “Think, every stick and stone carted up there by those poor horses!”
Friday 21 August 2009
The Pilgrim Cat
The night is cold;the mountain high
Light shines from the monastry.
Pilgrim cat without a name
To the monastry came.
"Pilgrim catwith travelled feet
Turn the wheel and you shall eat."
"Willingly my bowl I earn
But I need no wheel to turn.
Since possession have I none
In myself my wheel is spun.
But in this way it shall be done;
Human fingers are not mine,
So round your wheel my steps shall twine,
Circling in unbroken line.
Where the circles cross and meet
I await my task complete."
"Bring me a mat and bring a bowl.
Bring welcome for this pilgrim soul.
This pilgrimcat is strange and wise.
Would that he'd stay beyond sunrise."
Light shines from the monastry.
Pilgrim cat without a name
To the monastry came.
"Pilgrim catwith travelled feet
Turn the wheel and you shall eat."
"Willingly my bowl I earn
But I need no wheel to turn.
Since possession have I none
In myself my wheel is spun.
But in this way it shall be done;
Human fingers are not mine,
So round your wheel my steps shall twine,
Circling in unbroken line.
Where the circles cross and meet
I await my task complete."
"Bring me a mat and bring a bowl.
Bring welcome for this pilgrim soul.
This pilgrimcat is strange and wise.
Would that he'd stay beyond sunrise."
The Convent Cat
O I am a cat of piety
Of virtue and sobriety-
Well,how could I be other
In such a saintly company
Where i abide in harmony
With all,the only brother
When I arrived,a foundling,
A three-week orpha,mewling,
The sisters held debate
Considered their professions,
The No-ones and the Yes-ones,
But one voice fixed my fate.
"'Tis no irregularity
'Twill be an act of charity
The thing has no possessions
And little chance of sin,
Besides-he'll have his uses.
For dont forget the mouses
Ofcourse he must come in,"
Said Sister Catharine.
I did not need probation;
I'd found my new vocation
In saintly occupation
Within this citadel.
A cat is always punctual
And orderly as well.
So,long before the sunrise
I rush from cell to cell.
I meet with some ingrateness
But-no sister need fear lateness..
Why trouble with a bell?
My needs are simple,
I rest upon a wimple-
"Oh holy saintsd see that!
'Tis all a crumple crimple!
Be off,you creature,scat!"
She can't mean Brother Cat!
Fridayis our fish day.
To me it is our wish day-
I wish each day were friday,
So holy is this cat.
I hear a sister whisper,
"Our Thomas is no doubter
Each day he looks devouter
Whatever he is at."
Could any praise be higher ?
Enough now of my history
It's time to join Refectory
Then practise for the choir
In the Magnificat.
Oh who would not aspire
To be a convent cat !
Of virtue and sobriety-
Well,how could I be other
In such a saintly company
Where i abide in harmony
With all,the only brother
When I arrived,a foundling,
A three-week orpha,mewling,
The sisters held debate
Considered their professions,
The No-ones and the Yes-ones,
But one voice fixed my fate.
"'Tis no irregularity
'Twill be an act of charity
The thing has no possessions
And little chance of sin,
Besides-he'll have his uses.
For dont forget the mouses
Ofcourse he must come in,"
Said Sister Catharine.
I did not need probation;
I'd found my new vocation
In saintly occupation
Within this citadel.
A cat is always punctual
And orderly as well.
So,long before the sunrise
I rush from cell to cell.
I meet with some ingrateness
But-no sister need fear lateness..
Why trouble with a bell?
My needs are simple,
I rest upon a wimple-
"Oh holy saintsd see that!
'Tis all a crumple crimple!
Be off,you creature,scat!"
She can't mean Brother Cat!
Fridayis our fish day.
To me it is our wish day-
I wish each day were friday,
So holy is this cat.
I hear a sister whisper,
"Our Thomas is no doubter
Each day he looks devouter
Whatever he is at."
Could any praise be higher ?
Enough now of my history
It's time to join Refectory
Then practise for the choir
In the Magnificat.
Oh who would not aspire
To be a convent cat !
The Mardi Gras Cat
Had a home and people
Where did they go?
Naomi Lewis stood out as the leading anthologist of British children's literature over the past 50 years. Formidably well read, she was a searching critic and a published poet. Hesitant in manner but confident in her opinions, her elfin presence at literary gatherings was a guarantee of lively and enlightening conversation.
Naomi was born in 1911 in Great Yarmouth the second of four children, Lewis was the daughter of a dreamy Russian-Jewish fish merchant. Originating from Latvia Naomi's father took the surname Lewis of his wife, a talented artist and musician. While the family was never well-off, with the children from necessity dressed in home-made clothes,this gave her an incredible repect for the fundementals of material importance,however, there was plenty of time for good talk and piano playing, and over the years many interesting visitors gravitated to the modest terraced house where the family lived. Acting out games in the tiny front garden with her sister and two brothers, to whom she was always close, and reading voraciously from the stacks of books dotted around the house from the attic to the cellar, Lewis enjoyed a happy childhood. Winning a scholarship to Westfield College to read English, she put her excellent French to use after graduation by teaching briefly at a finishing school in Switzerland.
Returning to London, where her parents had moved, she tried her hand unsuccessfully as an advertising copy-writer. More teaching followed in various state schools, with her breakthrough into criticism happening through the New Statesman's weekly competitions, then at the height of their game and often involving literary pastiche. Like Edward Blishen, another brilliant literary outsider and future children's critic writing at the same time, Lewis made a habit of winning these competitions week after week, employing a variety of pseudonyms. Finally presenting herself at the magazine's office as a potential reviewer, she was immediately taken on as a contributor in what she later des-cribed as her "born again" moment.
The best of her criticism was collected in A Visit to Mrs Wilcox (1957). Long out of print, this still reads supremely well, with Lewis mixing her extraordinary scholarship with a nice line in epigrams, at one time describing the mother-child character prevalent in the writings of J.M. Barrie as a "monstrous maternal marshmallow". She also refers in her introduction to having set a foot in the "curious literary underworld" of children's literature. This came about after V.S. Pritchett, the New Statesman's celebrated literary editor, passed her some children's books pleading lack of time to review them himself. Eschewing the effervescent mocking tone so inimitably adopted by Arthur Marshall, another reviewer of children's books for the magazine, Lewis applied her formidable memory and critical acuity to such effect that very soon she was seen as a leading authority in the subject. Now writing for many other publications and frequently appearing on the radio, she was also asked to provide introductions for anthologies before becoming an eminent compiler in her own right. Some original poetry also followed, notably The Butterfly Collector (1978) and Leaves (1980). An expert on the life and works of Hans Andersen, her illustrated translations of his fairy tales were a high point in British post-war children's publishing.
During all this time Lewis taught classes in creative writing and poetry appreciation at London's City Institute, going on well into her seventies. Always concerned with animal welfare, she listed her principal recreation in Who's Who as "trying in practical ways to alleviate the lot of horses, camels, bears, sheep, wolves, cows and other ill-used mortals of the animal kind". This concern was to take an increasingly hands-on direction, with Lewis using her already overcrowded flat in Red Lion Square, where she lived by herself, as a temporary hospital for stray cats and injured pigeons snatched from London streets.
This activity was extensively covered in a television film made about her; it also helped explain why she preferred to meet friends and acquaintances on neutral ground. In her introductions to the series The Best Children's Books of the Year (Hamish Hamilton, 1963-69) she usually put in a word for animals, lamenting the plight of caged birds or wondering aloud whether the Fatted Calf necessarily shared in the general enthusiasm generated by the return of the Prodigal Son. Awarded the Eleanor Farjeon prize in 1975 for distinguished services to British children's literature, she was subsequently made a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature in 1981.
Still active in old age, Lewis produced her own delightfully witty collection of poems The Mardi Gras Cat in 1993, which A.N. Wilson, writing in the Evening Standard, described as "absolutely magical". She also oversaw another widely praised anthology: Rocking Horse Land and Other Classic Tales of Dolls and Toys in 2000. Increasingly bent over, she continued as long as possible to deliver her notoriously illegible and much-corrected handwritten copy by bicycle. Such was her standing that her publishers and literary editors were still prepared to wait, whatever the deadline, in the certain knowledge that what they would finally get would be both utterly individual and of the highest standard
Where did they go?
Naomi Lewis stood out as the leading anthologist of British children's literature over the past 50 years. Formidably well read, she was a searching critic and a published poet. Hesitant in manner but confident in her opinions, her elfin presence at literary gatherings was a guarantee of lively and enlightening conversation.
Naomi was born in 1911 in Great Yarmouth the second of four children, Lewis was the daughter of a dreamy Russian-Jewish fish merchant. Originating from Latvia Naomi's father took the surname Lewis of his wife, a talented artist and musician. While the family was never well-off, with the children from necessity dressed in home-made clothes,this gave her an incredible repect for the fundementals of material importance,however, there was plenty of time for good talk and piano playing, and over the years many interesting visitors gravitated to the modest terraced house where the family lived. Acting out games in the tiny front garden with her sister and two brothers, to whom she was always close, and reading voraciously from the stacks of books dotted around the house from the attic to the cellar, Lewis enjoyed a happy childhood. Winning a scholarship to Westfield College to read English, she put her excellent French to use after graduation by teaching briefly at a finishing school in Switzerland.
Returning to London, where her parents had moved, she tried her hand unsuccessfully as an advertising copy-writer. More teaching followed in various state schools, with her breakthrough into criticism happening through the New Statesman's weekly competitions, then at the height of their game and often involving literary pastiche. Like Edward Blishen, another brilliant literary outsider and future children's critic writing at the same time, Lewis made a habit of winning these competitions week after week, employing a variety of pseudonyms. Finally presenting herself at the magazine's office as a potential reviewer, she was immediately taken on as a contributor in what she later des-cribed as her "born again" moment.
The best of her criticism was collected in A Visit to Mrs Wilcox (1957). Long out of print, this still reads supremely well, with Lewis mixing her extraordinary scholarship with a nice line in epigrams, at one time describing the mother-child character prevalent in the writings of J.M. Barrie as a "monstrous maternal marshmallow". She also refers in her introduction to having set a foot in the "curious literary underworld" of children's literature. This came about after V.S. Pritchett, the New Statesman's celebrated literary editor, passed her some children's books pleading lack of time to review them himself. Eschewing the effervescent mocking tone so inimitably adopted by Arthur Marshall, another reviewer of children's books for the magazine, Lewis applied her formidable memory and critical acuity to such effect that very soon she was seen as a leading authority in the subject. Now writing for many other publications and frequently appearing on the radio, she was also asked to provide introductions for anthologies before becoming an eminent compiler in her own right. Some original poetry also followed, notably The Butterfly Collector (1978) and Leaves (1980). An expert on the life and works of Hans Andersen, her illustrated translations of his fairy tales were a high point in British post-war children's publishing.
During all this time Lewis taught classes in creative writing and poetry appreciation at London's City Institute, going on well into her seventies. Always concerned with animal welfare, she listed her principal recreation in Who's Who as "trying in practical ways to alleviate the lot of horses, camels, bears, sheep, wolves, cows and other ill-used mortals of the animal kind". This concern was to take an increasingly hands-on direction, with Lewis using her already overcrowded flat in Red Lion Square, where she lived by herself, as a temporary hospital for stray cats and injured pigeons snatched from London streets.
This activity was extensively covered in a television film made about her; it also helped explain why she preferred to meet friends and acquaintances on neutral ground. In her introductions to the series The Best Children's Books of the Year (Hamish Hamilton, 1963-69) she usually put in a word for animals, lamenting the plight of caged birds or wondering aloud whether the Fatted Calf necessarily shared in the general enthusiasm generated by the return of the Prodigal Son. Awarded the Eleanor Farjeon prize in 1975 for distinguished services to British children's literature, she was subsequently made a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature in 1981.
Still active in old age, Lewis produced her own delightfully witty collection of poems The Mardi Gras Cat in 1993, which A.N. Wilson, writing in the Evening Standard, described as "absolutely magical". She also oversaw another widely praised anthology: Rocking Horse Land and Other Classic Tales of Dolls and Toys in 2000. Increasingly bent over, she continued as long as possible to deliver her notoriously illegible and much-corrected handwritten copy by bicycle. Such was her standing that her publishers and literary editors were still prepared to wait, whatever the deadline, in the certain knowledge that what they would finally get would be both utterly individual and of the highest standard
Footprint in The Air
"Stay!" said the child.
The bird said, "No,
My wing has mended, I must go.
I shall come back to see you though,
One night, one day "
"How shall I know?'
"Look for my footprint in the snow."
"The snow soon goes - oh, that's not fair!'"
"Don't grieve. Don't grieve. I shall be there
In the bright season of the year,
One night, one day "
"But tell me, where?"
"Look for my footprint on the air. "
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