Butterfly eyes and other secrets of the meadow by Joyce Sidman illustrated by Beth Krommes

 

A top-drawer blend of art and science.  Kirkus

What is it? What am I? Who is he? What are we?

This book consists of a series of poems each of which ends with a question. Then readers turn the page and see the answer and perhaps confirm their own guess. You will see dew, a rabbit and a fox, the spittlebug, milkweed and monarch butterflies, snake and toad, goldfinch and hawk. All creatures of the meadow. 

So this book is an interesting blend of poetry, guessing game riddles and non fiction. Here is a set of teaching ideas.

I have found another favourite illustrator - Beth Krommes. Her scratchboard work in this book is so appealing. I would love to see some of her originals. Here is an image from the end papers of Butterfly eyes:

This book was published in 2006 and so it may be difficult to purchase but perhaps you will be lucky and find a copy in a library (as I did). You can see inside this book here. And here are other books by Joyce Sidman. Here is an interview about writing poetry with Joyce Sidman.

Sixteen poems describe the multitude of meadow denizens that stake a claim in that particular kind of land. Each poem describes a creature, though it’s up to the reader to guess that animal/plant/insect’s identity. Two pages of poetry showing a hint of the thing being described lead into two more pages of factual information. ... Some poems are funny, some are mysterious, and most leave you ah-hankerin’ for more. At the end kids will also find a Glossary of those terms that might have escaped their comprehension earlier in the book. Fuse #8

An Apology to My Prey by Joyce Sidman

I am deeply sorry for my huge orbs

of eyes, keen and hooded,

that pierce your lush

tapestry of meadow.

And my wins: I regret their slotted tips

that allow such explosive thrust;

their span that gathers wind

effortlessly, and of course their

deadly, folding dive.

Let me offer an apology, too,

for my talons, impossibly long

and curved, sliding so easily

through fur and feathers,

seeking, as they do,

that final grip.

And last, of course, the beak.

It does tend to glitter, I know –

a merciless hook,

a golden sickle poised over

your soft, helpless heart.

I’m sorry. For you, that is.

All this works out quite well

For me.

What am I?