THE WONDERFUL WORLD OF SYLVIA LEWIS KINNEY

The Wonderful World of Sylvia Levi's Kinney

In 1962 there was printed in a limited edition by the Westernlore Press in California a charming book entitled: VALIANT FLEA - a Book of Very Light Verse. (Unhappily, this book is out of print. We hope some enterprising publisher will reprint it.) The author Sylvia Lewis Kinney - is not unknown to readers of this publication. Her poetic contributions in the past have added charm to our pages.

The unique title of the book came from Shakespeare's King Henry V: "You may as well say, that's a valiant flea that dares eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion."

Of Valiant Flea and its author, Richard Armour, noted and inspired practitioner of the art of light verse, has written: "Light verse is a minor art, but it has a special set of requirements. These include a playful attitude toward the world and oneself, a sharp eye and ear for detecting the absurdities of life, a feeling for words, and firm control of rhyme and meter. Good light verse is not quite so easy to write as may appear.

"Sylvia Kinney has the qualifications to write good light verse. And, more than some who write it, she knows the difference between good, mediocre, and bad. Long ago, she should have had a collection of her verse in print. The delay has probably been caused by her modesty, her high standards, and (something which endears her to at least one light verse writer) her enthusiasm for the work of others.

"But at last we have a little book of Sylvia Kinney's light verse for others to be enthusiastic about. It is high time."

Now a resident of Palm Springs and Los Angeles, California, the roots of Mrs. Kinney go deep into Arizona's rich soil, for her people were among the distinguished pioneers of our state.

In her own engaging way, she tells us about herself: "Once upon a time there was a little fat pink girl named Sylvia Lewis. She was born in Phoenix at 50 West Moreland and she thought she lived in a park because there were umbrella trees down the middle of the street. She had two brothers: Orme, older, and Bob, younger. Her mother said, 'I had a black-haired boy and a red-headed boy and a girl for an experiment.' "So here I am now, Sylvia Lewis Kinney, with two married daughters, five grandsons, and three granddaughters, and am neither fat nor old (in my opinion). Quite in the pink as a matter of fact. Though more than half my life has been lived in Southern California, near the ocean, I am a desert woman. The Palm Springs desert, is nearby, so that is where I spend a lot of my time. But the Arizona desert is the lovely one, and that is where my heart is.

"My family were pioneers. My granddad came from Virginia after the Civil War, and my Uncle Bill was born in Texas, but Granddad always told him to say he was born on his way West. Another uncle Uncle Lin became head of the Salt River Valley Water Users' Association in Phoenix and people in the Salt River Valley still quote him when there is a long, dry spell. It has always rained and it always will.' I remember him as a beautiful man in white Palm Beach suits. Granddad lived on Uncle Lin's ranch and came in every Saturday morning in his buggy behind a big black named Pomp. Sometimes I got to go to the barber shop with Granddad. He smelled lovely, and I was grown up before I knew that nice perfume was bourbon. He and Mother had a Saturday morning toddy before the trip downtown.

"Father was on the territorial bench of the Supreme Court, so we lived in Globe for three years. I remember going on a trip to the White Mountains with the George Smalleys in their two-cylinder Reo. The camp wagon went ahead. And I rode part of the time with the wagon driver, Mr. Holliday. He looked at me and said, 'I see you suck your thumb.' I said happily, Yes.' He said, 'Look where my thumb was. I sucked it off. I never put my thumb in my mouth again. My only other memory of Globe is the time Yndia Smalley and I stole Virginia Hunt's doll. Her father became the first governor of Arizona, but all I remember was that I had to return the doll, which was humiliating, because I really wanted it.

"I was always a poet. My first poem began, 'Oh sparrow that flies about in the trees Take this, take that, and then take these. I thought it was beautiful and still don't know why people laughed.

"After McKinley School, Central School (where Mrs. Latham was my teacher; now ninety and as pretty as an apple blossom), Monroe School, and Phoenix High, I went to the University in Tucson. That was a golden age. I knew Carl Sandburg, Harriet Monroe, Edgar Lee Masters, Sinclair Lewis, Vachel Lindsay, Louis Untermeyer; and I had Dr. Tucker for all the Shakespeare I was allowed to take. I wrote one-act plays and reams of verse; I was the fool in Twelfth Night, and I danced miles in the Blue Moon dance hall, and I sneaked off to Nogales and fortunately was not booted out of school. Best of all I rode with the Cavalry Unit. We rode big horses with flat saddles and we spread out over the desert, with the Captain leading; we jumped greasewood, and galloped down rocky

HIS SWEETHEART HAS SHARP TEETH

I can't compete with nails and wood; I'm quite a wife, but not that good, A bandsaw brings a gleam I cannot kindle. Compared to lovely brace and bit I find I matter not a whit, And matched against a lathe my chances dwindle. My husband glowers at my frock And registers a violent shock At such expense; in fact I note a chill-ness. And yet with conscience clean and sunny He spends the most colossal money On something that he tells me is a drillpress. The dismal jointer, shapeless shaper, And all those packs of scratchy paper, Those teeny-weeny nails, the messy glue Have something that I haven't got, Some strange appeal that I have not; And frankly I don't quite know what to do Because if I complain of this He pecks an absent-minded kiss And hurries off as fast as he is ableSo, sure as gin is in a fizz, I'll always know his first love is Mahogany about to be a table.

hillsides, and the Captain shouted back, 'Roll the buttocks, ladies, roll the buttocks.' But, sadly, I was graduated, and that glorious era was ended. So, too, was Arizona, because I got married and came to Los Angeles.

"I learned, to my dismay, that my husband was a fisherman. Fortunately, during the depression we were too poor to venture far, but we fished in the Sierra Madres, the high Sierras, the Pacific; yea, and wherever there was water. As a sideline I was also busy saving the world. I was the board-member to end all. Then I discovered that the world had lots more savers than it needed, so I became a rug-hooker, a dressmaker, a painter (ha), and suddenly the depression was over, World War II was over, and we, my husband and I, really began to fish. And the reluctant wife turned into the angler extraordinary. How we loved it! We fished for salmon in Wales and Scotland, for trout in the chalk streams of Hampshire, for salmon in Spain, for trout in Normandie, and in Switzerland, and in Austria, and wherever a dry fly would lightly prick the stream.

"Now I am by myself, and while living alone is new to me I am doing very well. All those nice children and grandchildren and friends and gardens and of course the miles of unwritten verse. It is time to get along." R.C.

ANNUAL VACATION

My husband loves a fly. I wish The fish Would see this problem eye to eye And bite Just right Without regard for moon or season, Or hatch, or wind, or any reason. You'd think a fish would love to tackle A juicy No. 12 Grey Hackle. A rising rainbow ought to thrill To No. 14 Ginger Quill.

It seems unfair the trout should veto These, and choose a live mosquito, It ought to be ashamed to beg For spinner, or for salmon egg. It's got the whole year in these creeks And Pop has only got two weeks.

HOT DAY BLOOMING

The children frolic aloud and free; The big kids dive in the bright blue sea; The mothers chat and the fathers snooze; And the cheerful world kicks off its shoes; And the warm sand spreads the welcome mat For summer's here in a big straw hat.

WHAT'S FOR DINNER

The summer's the time when the family relaxes, It's sad when it wanes and the wintertime waxes For summer is season much sweeter than other For all of the family not counting mother.

The summer for mother is notably guestful, It's potable, eatable, not very restful. While mother's bed's empty by seven the others Are all full of persons not one of them mothers.

The rest of the family, darling and petted, Come straggling down with their appetites whetted. While the last eats his breakfast the first of the bunch Is smiling with pleasure at thought of his lunch.

ADVANTAGES OF EDUCATION

When sweet vacation comes to end For small fry and for teachers, When swimming pools at last suspend Activities; when bleachers, Once filled with little baseball fans, Are empty of their rooters; When shores are left to pelicans And sidewalks have no scooters; When bells from the Good Humor man Call forth no kids and nickels; When market lists no longer span Potato chips and pickles - Then mothers hang their burdens up And store away their jitters, For life's an overflowing cup When schools become the sitters.

HOME AGAIN

This lovely house, serene and cool Is mine, and all the good things here Are mine. The colors fresh and fair, The flowers bright with autumn air, The little scarlet velvet chair,Smooth desk, warm hearth; beloved and dear Are mine.

And can I be the fool Who only last week went away Discouraged with the dingy walls, The couch that needed doing-over, The lawn, more devil-grass than clover? Ah! He who travels off to Dover Brings back a blessing to his halls And with return finds holiday.

WOLF WOLF

I must'nt think he has a lot - In fact he tells me that he's not Too solvent, and his face gets long, And if I didn't know his song So awfully well I might get scared, But facts are that we've always fared Quite nicely; so, despite his bleating I'm sure that we'll go right on eating.

He's just a man. Men take the stand That women might get out of hand If too convinced that ink is black, So, craftily, they take the tack That clutching of an aching head Will make wives think that ink is red.

Oh darling, you will never know That fifty million years ago Were women born, and even then They knew their cave. They knew their men.

WAITING FOR A PARKING PLACE OR THE BEAUTIFUL AND DAMNED

When she gets in her car and you wait for her spot, Will she be on her way? No indeed, she will not.

She will wiggle the mirror and study her face And she isn't about to back out of her space.

She will pucker her lips; she will frown at her chin, And examine her teeth with a humorless grin.

She will pull at a curl and will powder her noseWhen you finally leave Then she finally goes.

BACKWARD GLANCE

Psychiatry displeases me, I'm sure I'm what I look to be, Which is a rather jumbled bunch Of aging gears that sometimes crunch But mostly mesh, as was intended, And very seldom need be mended.

No doubt there's some forgotten pain Within my cerebral domain That now and then is manifest In bad behavior. But some rest Upon my back effects a cure While loved ones tiptoe and endure.

Perhaps in childhood days I was Chastised at times for unjust cause, And possibly the end result Has put some quirks in this adult. But had my sins all gone unheeded I would have missed the spanks I needed.

And so, today, I am inclined To spank the modern small behind When its possessor has been bad, And shame! I do it when I'm mad; Thus shockingly perpetuating Some human gears for later grating.

But, also possibly, these fry Will grow up happily as I.

MADAME IS NOT IN THE DRAWING ROOM

I knew I could get our food fixed faster If only I owned my own mix-master, I knew that a freezer would make life easier, And a string-bean-stringer and a grapefruit squeezier, And a melon-baller and a boiled-egg slicer Would make things nicer, As also a dishwasher would. I'm such A dutiful wife that I don't ask much But I love to cook so I yearned to render Some wonders with an electric blender. And of all the joys that would make me grateful A disposal unit would be least hateful.

And now that I have these dandy devices My life is twice as Busy and hard. I forever bust them, Forever wash and forever dust them, Forever store them, forever lose them, And clutter the kitchen whenever I use them. And I look back longingly on that life When I ran my house with a paring knife.

MRS. BROWN

Mrs. Brown is the mother of young, To her should song of praise be sung! She's frequently found at the fanciest places, She patronizes the shows, the races, She prances at parties, and in the morn Is out in her garden, hoeing corn, Or is whisking children in varying masses From school to dentist to dancing classes. And if she tires of this, then that Is fixed by buying a nice new hat A hat with feathers! A hat with veils! A hat with a trim of ermine tails! A hat with a bird like that of Nellie! A nutty bonnet by Schiaparelli! Hardly a woman is now alive So witty, so pretty, so mother of five; Over the county and through the towns Goes life in the hands of Mrs. Browns.

DECEMBER FIRST

School began, you will remember, In the middle of September, And all the wealth of quiet days Stretched sweet down autumn's pleasant ways. Oh very well do I recall The things I planned to do last fall: The shelves and drawers; the stack of mending; Neglected little tasks upending All my peace of mind, my poise; But shoved aside in summer's noise.

But somehow while my back was turned That extra time I thought I'd earned Has disappeared, and now November Slides away, and here's December. The idle needle's still unthreaded, The bottom drawers resemble Shredded Wheat. And in my ears there swells The scary sound of Jingle Bells.