is an exciting new collection of poetry for young people from Maxine Beneba Clarke, one of Australia’s most innovative and celebrated poets.
This extraordinary collection celebrates the joy of language and features evocative, enticing poems about everyday life.
The sounds of the block, the boredom of detention, and the happenings in the schoolyard. About candy, peanut butter and pets. About a big brother’s messy room, a grandfather’s fading memory, and a grandmother’s garden magic. Through haiku, sonnets, narrative verse, rhyming couplets, limericks, free verse and more, Maxine invites children and young teens to fall in love with the wonder that is poetry.
• An essential collection of NEW poetry from award-winning Australian writer Maxine Beneba Clarke.
• The one hundred poems inside this groundbreaking collection cover forms as varied as haikus, limericks, sonnets and acrostics – and more.
• Modern themes and the spark of life will help give readers a new appreciation for poetry. This is a fresh, bold collection – not staid, traditional stuff!
• Maxine’s backlist titles – including The Hate Race and Foreign Soil – are widely studied.
• She is also a much-loved face on the school visit circuit, and this new book is an inspired response to teachers begging her for kids’ poetry.
• For kids aged 8 to 12: a must-have for every school library collection.
• Illustrated by Maxine in greyscale pencil drawings with hand-cut collage details.
Maxine Beneba Clarke is the Indie award–winning, ABIA award–winning and Stella Prize–shortlisted author of over ten books for children and adults. Her works include the best-selling fiction collection Foreign Soil, the critically acclaimed memoir The Hate Race, the Victorian Premier’s award–winning poetry collection Carrying the World, the Children’s Book Council of Australia Honour Book The Patchwork Bike, and the critically acclaimed Kate Greenaway medal–nominated picture book When We Say Black Lives Matter.
Opposite: Maxine Beneba Clarke. Image credit: Leah Jing McIntosh.
It’s the Sound of the Thing has been an absolute joy to write. With limericks, haiku, sonnets, free verse, tongue twisters, found poems, acrostic poems and more, It’s the Sound of the Thing aims to provide a poem, and a poetic form, that every child will love.
Including poems about TikTok dances, unusual pets, hated vegetables, climate change, bubblegum bubbles, Black history, bike riding, poetry, growing up too fast, not growing up fast enough, the scary house down the street, the sounds of the neighbourhood, the seasons, annoying siblings, ageing grandparents and more, It’s the Sound of the Thing is the largest single-authored collection of poetry for children published in Australia in contemporary times.
The aim of the book, apart from creating a really fun read for kids, after the last few years they’ve endured, is to generate excitement about the many possibilities of language and poetry. It’s the Sound of the Thing is the first title I’ve written for a middle-grade audience, and the first poetry collection I’ve written for children, so I’m really excited to get out and about in libraries, bookshops and classrooms, to meet young readers and encourage them to demonstrate and celebrate their poetic selves.
MAXINE BENEBA CLARKE Author and illustratorWe’re feeling very lucky and proud to work with Maxine and bring her first children’s poetry collection into the world. For all those young readers whose exposure to poetry is often via the words of generations past, this electric and eclectic modern collection will reinvigorate homes across the country.
I am personally very excited for you to read a hand-picked selection of poems from It’s the Sound of the Thing. We’ve picked out eleven poems that capture the spark and modern themes across this vibrant collection, and which will definitely leave you desperate to pick up the final copy when it’s available soon! There will also be incredible blackand-white line illustrations from Maxine to accompany poems across the collection.
Teacher’s notes will also be available upon release, and can be found on our website: https://www.hardiegrant.com/au/hardie-grantchildrens-publishing/teacher-notes
Please go forth and read. I can’t wait for the final copies to be in your hands soon.
CHREN BYNG
Publisher, Hardie Grant Children’s Publishing
I like it in the pages –there is magic hiding there. See, every book’s a spell, that casts a world for me to share.
On a soaring tasselled carpet or flying to Ali Baba’s cave. Or twenty thousand leagues under the sea, where a lovesick mermaid waits.
I’ve seen sirens sing sailors to their deaths, and Anansi’s cunning ways. I’ve cheered on Hare, outrun by Turtle, as slow and steady won the race.
When my head is buried in a book, when you call and call my name, that’s where you will find me: imagining away.
Cheering puddings that last forever; baby-sitting empires run by girls! Hobgoblins, and shoemaker-elves, hobbits, wizards who save the world.
I’ve walked horrid haunted hallways, and seen mighty dragons tamed. I met Akissi in the pages: she makes mischief every day.
I have seen the Loch Ness monster, and chased a bunyip’s tail. I’ve travelled all the seven seas atop the Moby whale.
I have fought the Jabberwock, and oh, how brave I held my sword! I fell with Alice, down a rabbit hole, to a nonsense wonderworld.
I’ve led schoolyard revolutions, by Matilda Wormwood’s side; set off with Lyra and her daemon, underneath the Northern Lights.
I’ve eaten gruel with Oliver, tried not to spit it out. Unwrapped Wonka bars with Charlie, full of nerves, delight and doubt.
When my head is buried in a book, when you call and call my name, you will find me in the pages. I am Narnias away.
So skip with me, down the yellow brick road. We’ll set off for Neverland. Count from the right, to the second star and we’ll read on till dawn.
Our heads a-buried in a book, they’ll call and call our names. We’ll say, ‘Come find us in the pages, we’re just wonderworlds away!’
Dab, dab, shuffle, slide, left, right, left.
Shuffle, slide, dab, dab, twirl, kick, step.
I learnt a dance off TikTok, I taught it to my friend. He taught it to his neighbour, who showed it to his nan.
She taught it to her butcher, who showed it to his sis, who taught it to her nephew, who danced like a boss.
Dab, dab, shuffle, slide, left, right, left.
Shuffle, slide, dab, dab, twirl, kick, step.
The nephew went to my school, he showed it to our class. We did the dance at lunch, on the oval, on the grass.
Dab, dab, shuffle, slide, left, right, left. Shuffle, slide, dab, dab, twirl, kick, step.
A teacher soon came over. She smiled and scratched her head. She joined in the TikTok dance, then this is what she said:
‘I made a little dance last week, and taught it to my friends. They said that we should share it, to see if it would spread.
My husband took a video; uploaded on his phone. We put that dance on TikTok, it went viral, now I know!’
Dab, dab, shuffle, slide, left, right, left. Shuffle, slide, dab, dab, twirl, kick, step.
I learnt a dance on TikTok, but it wasn’t very cool. Turns out it was made up by a teacher at my school. She put the dance on TikTok, that went viral in our town. Next time, I’ll come up with a dance of my own.
I’ll put the dance on TikTok, and I’ll show it to my friend. He’ll teach it to his neighbour, who’ll show it to his nan.
She’ll teach it to her butcher, who’ll show it to his sis, who’ll teach it to her nephew, who will dance like a boss.
Staying back with the other bad kids, time stands still. The detention teacher, whose name I don’t know, slowly shuffles papers at the front of the room. A fly lands on the rim of his sky blue coffee cup, and carefully crawls in.
Jackson, who stole another kid’s lunch money again, is kicking the back of my grey plastic chair.
I know why Jackson’s always hungry. I’ve been to his house. There’s not much food there.
Mariah, who never does her homework, sits at the desk in front, busy plaiting her curly black hair.
Mariah lives in the flat next to ours. Her mum’s been unwell for some time now, but she hasn’t told the teacher.
Everyone thinks detention is the bad kids. The kids who don’t know better. The kids who do the wrong thing.
Everyone says detention is the good-for-binning just-don’t-listen amount-to-nothing kids.
But really, it’s just Jackson, Mariah, and me:
trying not to fiddle, in the stifling demountable heat.
I don’t like yappy puppies, and kittens make me sneeze. A fish, well, you can’t cuddle it, and mice give me the creeps.
A rabbit, that’s just boring, and birds are made to fly. Plus, I don’t want a normal pet. Let me tell you why.
I really want a quirky pet that’s mythical and weird. A cat that’s not, cause it has scales. A turtle with a beard!
A unicorn, a giraffe with wings, or a dragon might be my thing: an oh-wow-that’s-peculiar pet, like no-one’s ever seen.
It could be a Loch Ness monster from the murky Scottish deep, or a double-headed hippo. (Not the hungry kind though, please!)
I could own a horse-sized butterfly that soars me across the skies, a sequinned frillneck lizard, or a piglet that breathes fire.
I’ve read about the bridge-trolls who eat billy-goats for lunch.
I don’t think I’d tame one of those: I’m frightened of their crunch!
A polka-dotted zebra, a rainbow chimpanzee, a vegan pterodactyl could be the perfect pet for me.
Something out-of-ordinary, no other kid here has.
I want an oh-my-goodness-gracious wowee-me-what’s-that?
But you know what?
I found a garden snail, I call her Sleepy Nell. I keep her in an ice-cream tub, with rocks and leaves as well.
I make sure that it’s damp inside, and she has enough to eat. I even poked some holes in it, to make sure she can breathe.
And I stuck some tiny stickers, glittering, on her shell. They look like sparkling silver jewels. I brought her in for show-and-tell.
I said she was a magic snail from a secret fairy world. My teacher said, ‘That’s quite a tale!’ But you know, I think it worked!
The other kids looked so impressed, all boggle-eyed and shocked. And now I have a secret real-life magic-pet-that’s-not.
Not a jumpy, yappy puppy, or a cat that makes me sneeze, or a fish that I can’t cuddle, or a mouse that gives the creeps.
I have a quite unusual pet that’s mythical and strange: just from my imagination, and some stickers, careful-placed.
I have an oh-my-goodness-gracious, wowee-me-what’s-that: a really quite peculiar pet, that no-one else has got!
Sitting on my bed, Under Mum’s orders: ‘Learn your lesson! Karate stays in class!’
Better run fast, Or us girls’ll get ya. Yelling won’t help, Suckers!
Right after lunch, Heather leans over, from her seat in the second row, and whispers something in the new girl’s ear. It wasn’t nice, what Heather said: her lip was snarling, I could tell.
The new girl, whose name is Akenyo, her face grows still, and her shoulders curve inward.
WATCH MAXINE READ ‘SULK’
WATCH MAXINE READ ‘BOYS’
She stares, blankly, down at her desk.
Heather laughs, flicks her long, wheat-coloured hair, and looks around, to see who’s heard.
Come sit with me! I hear myself call, to Akenyo. There’s an empty seat, back here.
There once was a teenage brother, whose sloppiness caused a bother. His room was a mess, a pigsty no less, which rattled his trying mother.
His mother stood shocked near the door, weeping at the bowls on the floor: all covered in mould, from cereal old. The teenager scoffed, ‘What a bore!
Who has time for cleaning, dear Mum? I just shovel in food, then run. My friends are all waiting, I hate to be late, and the cockroaches want to have some.’
His clothes, they were dirty, in piles, unwashed for a good stinky while. Cranky Mum held her nose, as she tried to impose some cleanliness on her dear child.
Said: ‘Darling I’ll give you a week, to vacuum and change those gross sheets. If you can’t get in shape, well then I am afraid I’m putting you out on the street!’
Then suddenly brother was moved, and set about cleaning his room: scrubbing and then folding, de-piling, de-moulding, his den, it was sparkling soon!
And now stood a sloppy big brother, who’d really become quite the other: tidy, neat, spick and span, vacuum cleaner in hand, believing himself very clever.
He said, ‘Mother, look at the kitchen! The spoons, knives and forks are all mixed, and the microwave’s splattered, with crumbs, sauce and batter, you really should clean up and fix them!
Come to think of it, look at your room! Filled with books, so you barely can move! You’d better hop to it, I won’t help you do it! Give a dust and a tidy there too.’
There once was a mum set to sweeping: should have left her teenage son sleeping, and cleaned with a shovel, his cockroach-filled hovel, when he ventured out at the weekend.
Jam it up with jelly, or lettuce, if you’re game. Squish it down on bread: white, sourdough or grain.
Who knew the humble peanut would make such an awesome paste? Peanut butter’s better, better get some in your face.
Cram it into cookies, spread it on a cake. Blend it up into a peanut butter shicketty-shake.
If you think that is disgusting, you don’t deserve a taste. Peanut butter’s better, never let it go waste.
Peanut butter’s better, bet you know that it’s true. Better peanut butter, better get it in you.
Some people think it’s ick, but darn-goshedy-wow, peanut butter’s better: better see themselves out.
The little kids in the yard play tic tac toe; hopscotch, leapfrog, Go Fish, go. They loop cat’s cradle, and they chasey-kiss-catch, till the yard duty teacher yells: ‘Oi! Stop that!’ Then they cry that they want to go home.
The big girls in the yard move in pairs. They daisy-chain, and plait each other’s hair. They’re really not supposed to, cause they might get nits. But they’re bad, and they’re bold, and they don’t give a fig.
The big kids in the yard swear heaps. The sporty kids in the yard bags the courts. They shout, and they dribble, and they snort. They try to slam-dunk, and they’re too short for the jump, but they strut their LeBron James walk.
The teachers in the yard go round. Around-around the playground. When they spot a fight, they scramble like lightning, and you know that detention’s going down.
The ants in the yard scuttle-scuttle, busy gathering the lunch-crumb rubble. If they crawl into your socks, they can give you quite a shock. If they’re bull ants, then they’ll leave you with a hobble.
The magpies in the yard caw-cheep, dropping gumnuts on the grade six seats. They’re loud, and they’re brash, and they’ll swoop you for a snack –especially bread with Vegemite and cheese.
The flies in the yard buzz-buzz, hanging round our lunches as we fuss. If you swat them then it’s yuck: they’ve got maggots in their guts, and their insides always stink like rotten muck.
The sun on the yard burns hot, scorching down with everything it’s got. I’m stuck here in the shade, cause no hat, means no play, but I like writing poems, anyway.
The poet in the yard just stares, watching teachers, bugs and kids with nitty hair: looking all around at the chaos going down, in the leapfrog, kissy-catch, ant-scuttle, magpie-duck, bounce-dribble, lunch-crumb glare.
WATCH MAXINE READ ‘ANTS IN THE YARD’Some people say the sky’s big and blue. But you sigh it’s forever-lasting, never-ending, aqua-true.
Others will say it’s foggy today. But you groan there’s a bone-rattling, soul-freezing haze.
Some kids call quick, let’s put our shoes on! You shout let’s speedily lace-up along.
When you’re sad, you say I’m slow-moodily blue. These wild-wonderful words, they’re the poet in you.
Write the world your way. Let your words soar and sing. Poetry, it’s a big-beautiful thing.
Some people say look, the garden is flowering. You sigh pink-petaled spring-magic’s a-towering.
(Flowering and towering, they rhyme, and you know it. You weave wonder from words – that’s what makes you a poet!)
What’s that cranky noise? Some kids say I’m stomping. But you shout I’m not-fair-ily crash-cross kerlumping!
Some people say bye – hope I see you later. You say may our journeys weave ways in the future.
May I walk beside you, our shadows ever-tall. May we jump rope together, till the end of it all.
When you’re happy, you say I’m warm-sunshine-ish fine. I’m skippity-hoppity laughing inside.
See the world your way. Let your poetry sing. Wrangling with words is a glorious thing.
Some folks, they’ll say the sky is so black. You say terror-blue midnight ate all the light up.
Others remark it’s rainy today. You say clouds are blue-sobbing, like hope’s drained away.
Some kids call quick, run, it’s the ice-cream van! You shout heaven on wheels, sweet-step fast as you can!
On lonely days, you sigh, and say I’m all rowed out because that’s what you feel like, adrift and unfound.
See the world your way. Sing your word-love true-big. Let your poetry tumble, and rumble, and sing.
Even all rowed out, or slow-moodily blue, you should always love dearly, the poet in you.
ISBN 9781761212123
LAUNCH DATE 07/06/2023
FOR AGES 8–12
ARRP $22.99
Includes greyscale art throughout
For interviews, review copy and event requests, please contact:
Yvonne Sewankambo
Head
of Marketing, Hardie Grant Children’s PublishingE: yvonnesewankambo@hardiegrant.com
