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I'm bigThese are real poems, alive with spot-on, sophisticated imagery. As in the first stanza of "Little Ghost":
bigger than fifty men.
I go Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong!
Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong! Dong!
on News at Ten.
Think of me as a childHere, Duffy haunts us with non-colours, tastes, smells and memories: the weight of a small absence. In the following stanza, the (bored) ghost does all the usual poltergeisty things: "I make a portrait fall"; "I pipe my thin spirit noise/on the limy-lemony air./Ooooooooo. Creepy." But when it tries to read, its "smoky fingers can't turn the pages." So not only do we get your standard funny-scary stuff, rendered utterly tangible, but Duffy also weaves a deep and necessary sadness into this tale. After all, a little ghost equals a dead child.
Who has swallowed herself whole-
gulp, gone--
leaving only
the colour of goat's cheese,
the hue of a buried bone,
the tint of the last dab of vanilla ice-cream
in a cone.
Elswhere in this collection we're introduced to the self-confessed liar; the boy who's in terrible trouble for making a snowball so big his mum thinks there's been an eclipse; a pair of incompatible queens; some particularly unpleasant childminders and a toy dog with a future. And Eileen Cooper's illustrations are fab. Just one word of warning. Watch out for the quicksand. Aaaarrrggghh. --Lisa Gee
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