The Hidden Poetic Genius of an Old, English Nursery Rhyme

So I loved this, but I didn't know why it had invaded my imagination so thoroughly until I started writing. I began to see the power of the twinning of narrative and rhythm, which is something my books go into very much. It taught me to think about the difference between what poetry does—old fashioned thumping, rhyming poetry—and the effects that really beautiful, percussive, musical, melodic prose can achieve with rhythm.

In this simple little rhyme, you're seeing an unraveling of the tightest form of poetry into free verse. The rhyme form is immensely interesting; it sets a tight, highly versified and melodic opening against a free-verse and percussive closing.

An excerpt from Jim Crace's interview.

It goes like this. You're starting off in that first sentence: tinker, tailor. Not "tinker tailor soldier sailor," not only with alliteration, but with but with matching pairs of syllables: Tinker. Tailor. Soldier. Sailor. And, you've got a perfect rhyme: tailor and sailor. Those four words there could not be stitched more tightly together than they are in the form that I've just given them to you.

Then you come to the third line. Again, we observe pairs of syllables—but there's a subtle change, and a weird change. "Tinker tailor; soldier sailor; rich man, poor man." You've got repetition—but exactly the same words don't rhyme with each other. Pear doesn't rhyme with pear; bear rhymes with pear. "Man" and "man" don't rhyme—they're simply repetitions. There's a kind of loss of verve about repeating a word. So it's subtly, subtly starting to fall apart.

Then you've got a real falling apart on the next line—because "tinker, tailor," "soldier, sailor," "rich man poor man": You've got pairs of syllables. And then you've got this tricky three-syllable line: beggar man. It's three syllables, which breaks the pattern—and yet you've got the repetition of the word "man" that links them together. But it's loosening up its form. And then finally, the percussive note, the little drumbeat at the end—that slap on the skin of the drums—is the word thief.

Thief, of the words in this small piece, stands alone. It's only one syllable. It doesn't complete the rhyme. It's the only one that implies a kind of moral failing. On all three levels, it subverts the established pattern. And so the "thief" moment is the moment of prose—the moment I go after in my writing. I never achieve the regularity of tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor. I'm trying to achieve melodic and rhythmic beauty in prose that is expressed here in this nice little so-called poem.

This poem registered profoundly in my imagination, even though I didn't understand it until later. But it created a literary consciousness in me. We should never underestimate what it is that will turn a young person into someone who wants to love literature. Or the young person who wants to make music, or the young person who is attracted to lyric. How are these people formed? They're not formed by being sent to do MFAs in creative writing. That's too late. They're formed by early encounters. They're formed by something that their mother said that made them laugh because it was so well-shaped. And "Tinker, Tailor," is something that seems so simple, that seems so one-dimensional—this little rhyme. But if you start to pick it apart—well, I'm having no trouble talking with you about it for 20 minutes. And those things enter into you. Straight from the plum tree, into the plum pie and onto the family table counting the stones: That's where my writing voice was formed.

How are these young people who love literature formed? They're not formed by being sent to do MFAs in creative writing. That's too late. They're formed by early encounters.

I hate to think how this whole story might not have been possible today—that I caught just the tail end of a world that's all but disappeared. We are in a society where everything is getting more "user-friendly," to use that horrible phrase. Food is being packaged so thoroughly. Fewer and fewer people are scrumping. There are fewer damson trees to raid—and if there were, they'd be fenced off. Fewer people are buying fresh fruit—they're buying it tinned. And more they're buying produce which doesn't have pits or stones in it. Parents aren't sitting at the family table chatting around—they're in front of the TV set. Now I sound like an old fart, but you see what I'm saying: The life of that little rhyme, the content of that little rhyme is to some extent threatened. And I'm not wagging my finger at change, I favor change. But this is one of the things we're going to lose. The great, rich oral tradition, and the narratives embedded in the land—these spoil when we abandon them, like summer fruit left hanging on the tree.

In some way my encounter with the stones—both when I was scrumping them and then again when I was eating them—somehow helped forge my passion for the natural world. The natural history and the landscape are my characters, in a way more important than the human characters. And it was this nursery rhyme that helped me realize that the natural world has powerful and deeply embedded narratives. Trees across the road flowering with perishable fruit. The thrill of a young boy going out scrumping, and the terror of being caught. The fact of a family gathering at a family table to eat their food together, some of it grown and some of it borrowed. All of this is made sense of by a little snatch of beautiful language, one I've carried all my life. To encounter it is to re-encounter the dining table. To relive my love for my parents, which has not abated one bit. This little rhyme is one of my most powerful reminders of my family's love. It shows exactly how big things of childhood and transgression can be powerfully expressed, and recalled whole again, by the form of beautiful prose.

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Joe Fassler is a writer based in Brooklyn. His fiction has appeared in The Boston Review, and he regularly interviews authors for The Lit Show. In 2011, his reporting for was a finalist for a James Beard Foundation Award in Journalism.

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