I’ve been asking around various places online and off to find kids’ questions to answer. For some reason an unusual number of questions asked by kids on my street seem to concern past lives and reincarnation. We’ve had “Who had me before you had me?” “When will I be born again?” And “Was I ever a grandad?” This last from my small neighbour Rowan.

Herewith, my best guess.

You have always been you.

But the you that is you that is you 

Never existed until

The spongy, electrical, pulsating thing in your skull

Came to be what it is.

You have only been you a few years 

Since the spongy thing grew.

And when the last neuron goes out

You will stop being you.

(The you that is you that is you)

But still, there is nothing to fear.

Maybe there is a spark

That was part of the you that is you

That can fly between bodies.

And maybe your spark, long ago.

Once lit someone else, from within.

Just the way that, today, it lights you.

And perhaps… perhaps he was a grandad.

But there is no way we can know.

This question was asked by Will, a friend of a friend’s kid.

The answer is sponsored by cursory googling and semi remembered science lessons.

Hair grows out of your head

Like wires, or like flexible pipes:

Shining, spidersilk tubes.

It’s transparent like glass.

What’s inside it?

A colour.

Whatever your body decided to make.

Maybe buttercup yellow or orange or chocolatey brown

Or black like the wing of a crow, 

Or the colour of leaves at the start, or the end, of the autumn.

The colour of sand at the beach

Or the colour of sunset.

Growing out of your head just like pens full of ink

Ready for you to start writing.

When you’re old, and your stories grow longer,

Your hair will begin to turn white.

And it is most beautiful, then:

All those delicate tubes, full of light.

Another question from Isla.  She has apparently disclosed that her own favourite is the “egg clap” in which you make your hands into egg shapes (fists?) and tap them together. I thought this deserved a clapping game.  With a zen twist.

High clap, high clap

Reach up tall

Low clap, low clap

Reach down small

Side clap, side clap

Side to side

Thinking clap

That’s just inside.

Egg clap, egg clap

Hands like eggs

Leg clap, leg clap

On your legs

Tiny clap

With just our thumbs

Bottom clap

Upon our bums

Noisy, noisy

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP!

Quiet, quiet 

(Tap tap tap)

Floor clap, floor clap

On the ground

One hand clap

That makes no sound.

(Or does it?)

Today’s question was asked by my small neighbour Isla, who wondered about her uncle’s past when she saw a picture of him in a suspiciously piratical hat. (It was his graduation photo.)

Still, one doesn’t like to disappoint…

Now gather around and I’ll tell ye a tale

Of the deadliest pirate to ever set sail

Who once loved the tang of a nautical breeze?

Yer own Uncle David, the scourge of the seas

Oh ye’d not think it now when you see him, so mild

When he’s on his allotment, as meek as a child

With his corduroy trousers and sensible shoes

But when he went to sea, he was really bad news.

Back in those days of course, he was called Deadly Dave

He was dreaded and daring and brainy and brave

And his ship was a beauty, the Flyaway Fox

And his dastardly crew didn’t even wear socks!

Oh the gold that he stole, and the rum that he smuggled!

To catch him alive the authorities struggled

At last he was cornered, near old Whitby Bay

But before they could shoot him, he scarpered away.

Well he knew that he couldn’t go back to the sea

And he wept, for a pirate no more he would be

So he threw out his cutlass, and hung up his hat

Got a sensible job and moved into a flat.

We don’t talk of it now, for it just makes him sad

Oh the glorious days when he used to be bad!

But sometimes when the wind blows from over the sea

He remembers the time he was reckless and free.

I don’t know who asked this question. It was relayed to me third hand by a friend of a friend of a primary school teacher.

Islands don’t float unconnected:

They’re not on their own.

Though oceans surround them, 

And make them feel separate

Still, under the islands

And under the oceans

The earth is the earth is the earth.

And part of each island is magma

And all of the magma is flowing

Together

And the deepest-down part of each land

Is the iron that rests at the centre.

Each island, each country, each nation,

Links back to the core

Through the flow of the magma

Through iron, through stone

We’re connected

And when you can see that

Then even the borders 

That seas make between us

Don’t matter so much any more.

Well it’s the first of April and as always I am participating in National Poetry Writing Month by default.

As it’s the first day of #napowrimo I thought I’d set the tone high, with this cryptobiological query from Poppy.

Where d’you find a mermaid’s bumhole?

Well I really couldn’t say

I have never met a mermaid

(Not to talk to in that way)

But I know a mermaid’s body

Isn’t like mine. I confess

That I cannot be quite certain:

I suppose I’d have to guess…

Every other scaly creature

Has a thing called a cloaca

On their scaly underbelly

And, I swear I’m not a faker:

It’s a hole that things come out of

Things like poo but also wee 

If the animal’s a female

That’s where eggs come out, you see

But I’ve never met a mermaid

If I did, I’d not feel right

Asking her about her bumhole:

It just wouldn’t be polite 

And if you should meet a mermaid

And a mermaid talks to you

She will have much better manners

Than to ask you how you poo.

This question was asked by Quinten: on being told that his mother had run out of patience, he naturally wanted her to restock. 

However I am libelling Quinten somewhat; all of the patience-destroying behaviour mentioned in this poem is based on true life events, but none of it, to my knowledge, was done by Quinten.

Mama has run out of patience

There’s no more of it left in the jar

Mama has run out of patience 

I’m sorry, you pushed her too far

When you put your trousers on backwards 

And your shoes on the opposite feet

Well then Mama still had some patience

But you’ve finally got Mama beat.

When you said that you needed the toilet

Only five minutes into a trip

And you’d promised, before, that you didn’t

Mama did really well not to flip

But you drew with a pen on the sofa

And spilled blackcurrant juice on the floor

And although Mama had lots of patience 

She just hasn’t got any more

Yes, Mama has run out of patience 

And it isn’t a thing you can buy

It’s not found on a stall in the market

(You should probably stop asking “Whyyyyyyy?!”)

For when Mama has run out of patience

She just needs a nice cup of tea

And a cuddle, and maybe a “sorry”.

And she’ll soon have more patience. You’ll see.

…or do I mean uteri? 

Anyway, uteruses is what Ava Rose asked about, evidently concerned about the light entertainment options of the unborn.

I am putting out another request for more questions. Please let me know on social media (twitter @wordgeeksez) or on the comments here if you have a question from a kid you know, that I could potentially answer in a poem. I like to know the kid’s first name, and I would prefer  it if the kid was asked permission for me to use their question.

When you were very tiny

And lived inside your mama

You didn’t watch TV at all

No news, cartoons or drama.

Inside your mama’s uterus

There wasn’t really space:

Not even for a flatscreen

When you were in that place.

Besides, your eyes were tightly closed

In there: you couldn’t see.

So there’d have been no point in us

Installing a TV.

But what you did was listen;

At first to mama’s heart

But then to lots of voices, 

Music: classical and chart.

You didn’t watch TV in there:

Perhaps that’s not the worst:

The television’s lots of fun,

But radio came first.

This is a question from James, for whom the revelation that the Tudors didn’t have electricity raised a conundrum.

King Henry the Eighth he was feeling frustrated

And getting quite bored which was something he hated.

He called on his courtier Tymme Burnerres Leighe 

And demanded “You need to do something for me:

I want to select a sweet maiden for marriage 

And bid on a new horse and maybe a carriage

I need a new jester for making me laugh

But one who can’t see me when taking a bath.

I want all the news from the neighbouring nations

But parliament causes me such indignation 

Though banquets are always considered a treat

Sometimes I would rather stay home and just eat!

I need you to make me a thingamajig 

That makes all this happen. It needn’t be big. 

A clever contraption I hold in my hand

That brings me the news from all over the land.”

So Tymme he bowed low and to Henry he said

“Sire, consider it done” (for he valued his head)

And he thought and he thought till he had an idea

Like a great blinding flash it was suddenly clear

So he rigged up a tablet of finest black slate

And a piece of white chalk for his dear head of state 

and the chalk had a filigree handle so fine

Which in turn was held up by some pieces of twine 

And one was attached to a lady in waiting, 

Who’d draw all the women the king could be dating

And one line went down to a man at the stable

When horses were sold he would yank on the cable

Another was held by a consummate fool

Who drew funny cartoons with the delicate tool

And one line led to parliament. This could be used

To relay all important political news 

To the kitchens, of course, one more line would lead back

To be pulled when his majesty fancied a snack.

The king, when he saw it, was really delighted

And Tymme Burnerres Leighe was immediately knighted

And given a house and a sizeable pension

And everyone asked what he called his invention.

Sir Tymme said “I haven’t perfected it yet.

It still needs some work. But I thought: ‘Tudornet.'”

Another question from Finn.

It’s something I have wondered myself. When you see a group of trees together, what are they up to? 

Note, save me twos is what British (at least Yorkshire) teenagers say when they want someone to give them the second half of a cigarette. Don’t smoke, kids.

They hang out on corners,

Grow lichen tattoos  

Do Carbon Monoxide 

(Hey mate, save me twos!)

Blow oxygen smoke rings,

Throw leaves on the ground,

Look cool and impressive 

Just standing around 

They rustle and murmur,

Throw all kinds of shade

But it isn’t a gang

When it’s trees: it’s a glade.