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Family Reunion
Actual 1950 1st edition.
- GenresPoetry
256 pages, Hardcover
Published January 1, 1950
3 people are currently reading
10 people want to read
About the author
Ogden Nash
235 books196 followersFrederic Ogden Nash was an American poet well known for his light verse. At the time of his death in 1971, the New York Times said his "droll verse with its unconventional rhymes made him the country's best-known producer of humorous poetry".
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
July 30, 2015
Another wonderful book of poetry by Nash. (Has he ever written any other kind?)
These are mostly centered around family life and a few mention his two daughters.
My favorites?
Children's Party
May I join you in the doghouse, Rover?
I wish to retire till the party's over.
Since three o'clock I've done my best
To entertain each tiny guest;
My conscience now I've left behind me,
And if they want me, let them find me.
I blew their bubbles, I sailed their boats,
I kept them from each other's throats.
I told them tales of magic lands,
I took them out to wash their hands.
I sorted their rubbers and tied their laces,
I wiped their noses and dried their faces.
Of similarities there's lots
Twixt tiny tots and Hottentots.
I've earned repose to heal the ravages
Of these angelic-looking savages.
Oh, progeny playing by itself
Is a lonely little elf,
But progeny in roistering batches
Would drive St. Francis from here to Natchez.
Shunned are the games a parent proposes;
They prefer to squirt each other with hoses,
Their playmates are their natural foemen
And they like to poke each other's abdomen.
Their joy needs another woe's to cushion it,
Say a puddle, and someone littler to push in it.
They observe with glee the ballistic results
Of ice cream with spoons for catapults,
And inform the assembly with tears and glares
That everyone's presents are better than theirs.
Oh, little women and little men,
Someday I hope to love you again,
But not till after the party's over,
So give me the key to the doghouse, Rover.
POLTERGUEST, MY POLTERGUEST
I've put Miss Hopper upon the train,
And I hope to do so never again,
For must I do so, I shouldn't wonder
If, instead of upon it, I put her under.
Never has host encountered a visitor
Less desirabler, less exquisiter,
Or experienced such a tangy zest,
In beholding the back of a parting guest.
Hoitiful-toitiful Hecate Hopper
Haunted our house and haunted it proper,
Hecate Hopper left the property
Irredeemably Hecate Hopperty
The morning paper was her monopoly
She read it first, and Hecate Hopperly
Handing on to the old subscriber
A was of Dorothy Dix and fiber.
Shall we coin a phase for "to unco-operate"?
How about trying "to Hecate Hopperate"?
On the maid's days off she found it fun
To breakfast in bed at quarter to one.
Not only was Hecate on a diet,
She insisted that all the family try it,
And all one week end we gobbled like pigs
on rutabagas and salted figs.
She clogged the pipes and she blew the fuses,
She broke the rocker that Grandma uses,
She left stuff to be posted or expressed,
Hecate Hopper, the Polterguest.
If I pushed Miss Hopper under the train
I'd probably have to do it again,
For the time that I pushed her off the boat
I regretfully found Miss Hopper could float.
Then there's this delightful tribute to summer - the season no one seems to love as much as I do:
The Return
Early is the evening,
Reluctant the dawn;
Once there was a summer;
Suddenly it was gone.
It fell like a leaf;
Whirled downstream.
Was there ever a summer,
Or only a dream?
Was ever a world
That was not November?
Once there was a summer,
And this I remember,
Cornflowers and daisies,
Buttercups and cloves,
Black-eyed Susans, and Queen Anne's lace;
A wide green meadow,
And the bees booming over,
And a little laughing girl with the wind in her face.
Strident are the voices
And hard lights shine;
Feral are the faces;
Is one of them mine?
Something is lost now;
Tarnished the gleam;
Was there ever nobleness,
Or only a dream?
Yes, and it lingers,
Lost not yet;
Something remains
Til this I forget;
Cornflowers and daisies,
Buttercups and cloves,
Black-eyed Susans under blue and white skies;
And the grass waist-high
Where the red cow grazes,
And a little laughing girl with faith in her eyes.
Yes, no matter how old I get, that little girl is me.
And then there's the lovely poem that closes the book.
The Middle
When I remember bygone days
I think how evening follows morn;
So many I loved were not yet dead,
So many I love were not yet born.
A sad and sweet end to a volume of funny observations and loving tributes.
These are mostly centered around family life and a few mention his two daughters.
My favorites?
Children's Party
May I join you in the doghouse, Rover?
I wish to retire till the party's over.
Since three o'clock I've done my best
To entertain each tiny guest;
My conscience now I've left behind me,
And if they want me, let them find me.
I blew their bubbles, I sailed their boats,
I kept them from each other's throats.
I told them tales of magic lands,
I took them out to wash their hands.
I sorted their rubbers and tied their laces,
I wiped their noses and dried their faces.
Of similarities there's lots
Twixt tiny tots and Hottentots.
I've earned repose to heal the ravages
Of these angelic-looking savages.
Oh, progeny playing by itself
Is a lonely little elf,
But progeny in roistering batches
Would drive St. Francis from here to Natchez.
Shunned are the games a parent proposes;
They prefer to squirt each other with hoses,
Their playmates are their natural foemen
And they like to poke each other's abdomen.
Their joy needs another woe's to cushion it,
Say a puddle, and someone littler to push in it.
They observe with glee the ballistic results
Of ice cream with spoons for catapults,
And inform the assembly with tears and glares
That everyone's presents are better than theirs.
Oh, little women and little men,
Someday I hope to love you again,
But not till after the party's over,
So give me the key to the doghouse, Rover.
POLTERGUEST, MY POLTERGUEST
I've put Miss Hopper upon the train,
And I hope to do so never again,
For must I do so, I shouldn't wonder
If, instead of upon it, I put her under.
Never has host encountered a visitor
Less desirabler, less exquisiter,
Or experienced such a tangy zest,
In beholding the back of a parting guest.
Hoitiful-toitiful Hecate Hopper
Haunted our house and haunted it proper,
Hecate Hopper left the property
Irredeemably Hecate Hopperty
The morning paper was her monopoly
She read it first, and Hecate Hopperly
Handing on to the old subscriber
A was of Dorothy Dix and fiber.
Shall we coin a phase for "to unco-operate"?
How about trying "to Hecate Hopperate"?
On the maid's days off she found it fun
To breakfast in bed at quarter to one.
Not only was Hecate on a diet,
She insisted that all the family try it,
And all one week end we gobbled like pigs
on rutabagas and salted figs.
She clogged the pipes and she blew the fuses,
She broke the rocker that Grandma uses,
She left stuff to be posted or expressed,
Hecate Hopper, the Polterguest.
If I pushed Miss Hopper under the train
I'd probably have to do it again,
For the time that I pushed her off the boat
I regretfully found Miss Hopper could float.
Then there's this delightful tribute to summer - the season no one seems to love as much as I do:
The Return
Early is the evening,
Reluctant the dawn;
Once there was a summer;
Suddenly it was gone.
It fell like a leaf;
Whirled downstream.
Was there ever a summer,
Or only a dream?
Was ever a world
That was not November?
Once there was a summer,
And this I remember,
Cornflowers and daisies,
Buttercups and cloves,
Black-eyed Susans, and Queen Anne's lace;
A wide green meadow,
And the bees booming over,
And a little laughing girl with the wind in her face.
Strident are the voices
And hard lights shine;
Feral are the faces;
Is one of them mine?
Something is lost now;
Tarnished the gleam;
Was there ever nobleness,
Or only a dream?
Yes, and it lingers,
Lost not yet;
Something remains
Til this I forget;
Cornflowers and daisies,
Buttercups and cloves,
Black-eyed Susans under blue and white skies;
And the grass waist-high
Where the red cow grazes,
And a little laughing girl with faith in her eyes.
Yes, no matter how old I get, that little girl is me.
And then there's the lovely poem that closes the book.
The Middle
When I remember bygone days
I think how evening follows morn;
So many I loved were not yet dead,
So many I love were not yet born.
A sad and sweet end to a volume of funny observations and loving tributes.
June 2, 2010
Ogden Nash is the Shel Silverstein of adulthood that no one ever told me about.
April 1, 2016
With only two reviews, I assume that Ogden Nash is out of fashion. More's the pity. He is probably the most accomplished poet of his chosen genre ever. I can't recommend him enough.
July 13, 2020
I had already read all of these poems in other Nash collections I own, but I found myself enjoying them more deeply this time around, now that I am also a father of two girls.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews