The Little Qualicum River Poetry Slam
Teamwork makes the dream work!
Once upon a time, there were birds living along the Little Qualicum River that loved human rhymes and word play, but they couldn’t make all the sounds as their beaks just wouldn’t allow it. According to river-bird folklore, a blue heron once found the courage to attempt a rhyme, “Sing a song of six-ence an ocket ull of rye. Our and tenty lack-irds aked in a ie...” It was an epic disaster. The owls in the forest booed. The poor heron just couldn’t pucker up.
It is said that not one river bird tried to recite poetry in public since the heron’s phonetic failure.
River otters like rhymes, too. But they don’t talk a lot and they certainly don’t make sentences—they do make sounds, though. And some, especially if they’ve been practising, can make particular sounds. Like buh. And puh. And even blah. But sounds alone don’t make for good poetry.
One autumn afternoon, after the river birds had eaten and their bellies were full, they lounged in the trees over the river, where the river otters were splashing around with the salmon. If you were walking along the river path you might have thought it was a ruckus. But it was something much more.
Julius the kingfisher wanted to recite a poem he’d overheard from two humans strolling by. He tested it out in the privacy of his nest. His delivery wasn’t perfect but he decided to share it with the group. “Two little dickie birds, sitting on an all…”
And that’s when the “alls” went all wrong,
“one named Eter, and one named Aul.”
The other birds shook their heads. It just wasn’t right. The river otters stopped their frolicking. They shook their heads. It just wasn’t right. You can’t rhyme all with aul. They are the same sound. It just doesn’t work. Owls deep in the forest started to boo.
Julius felt foolish for trying. Lillian, one of the river otters who had been practising her sounds, didn’t shake her head and she didn’t boo. She nodded yes. Julius shook his head. No. Lillian clapped her paws and nodded again at Julius. Yes! So Julius tried again. “Two little dickie…”
“BUH,” Lillian interjected.
“Irds….”
Julius stopped. That sounded pretty good. Lillian nodded again. The other birds listened intently.
“sitting on a …”
“WUH,” Lillian added.
“all. One named…”
“PUH”
“Eter, and one named…”
“PUH”
Aul!” Now Julius and Lillian were on a roll.
“FUH”
“Ly away,”
“PUH”
“Eter”
“FUH”
“Ly away,”
“PUH”
“Aul.”
“Come back”
“PUH”
“Eter, and come back”
“PUH”
“Aul!”
The audience responded with loud cawing and a frenzy of flapping wings. The river otters splashed their approval, too. Julius and Lillian took gracious bows. Even the ornery owls of the forest hooted, Woo Hoo! No, this certainly wasn’t just an afternoon ruckus along the river. This was a discovery. This was a collaboration. This was the beginning of a brand new thing: The Little Qualicum River Poetry Slam.