Frankly, writing poetry for children is plain old fun, and I

“Frankly, writing poetry for children is plain old fun, and I consider myself blessed to have such a delightful career.” Thus spoke Jack Prelutsky, the first children’s poet laureate of the United States, a man whose words opened doors of laughter and wonder for countless young readers. In his simple yet profound declaration lies the essence of joy in creation—the truth that poetry, when offered to children, is not only an art but also a gift of play, a weaving of delight into the fabric of life.

The meaning of this saying is that poetry need not always be solemn, heavy, or burdened with philosophy. To write for children is to return to the roots of imagination, where language sparkles with nonsense and rhythm dances freely. Prelutsky declares that it is fun—not toil or struggle—that drives his work. And in that fun lies a deeper wisdom: children’s laughter, their delight in rhyme and play, is itself a form of poetry, one that connects us to innocence and to the purest enjoyment of words.

The origin of Prelutsky’s conviction comes from his own life. Before becoming a poet, he wandered through odd jobs and uncertain paths. But once he discovered the joy of writing verses that children could enjoy, his purpose crystallized. He found that the playful rhymes, whimsical creatures, and lively rhythms of his books lit sparks of delight in children who might otherwise never pick up a poem. This career was not a burden but a blessing, a daily practice of turning imagination into laughter and joy.

History offers us other examples of this spirit. Consider Aesop, whose fables, simple in language yet rich in meaning, were told for children but have endured for millennia. Or think of Lewis Carroll, who through the playful madness of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland gave the world a language of imagination that delights both young and old. Their work, like Prelutsky’s, proves that poetry and storytelling for children is not lesser art, but a foundation upon which whole lives of creativity may be built.

The lesson here is that joy itself can be sacred. Too often we think that only difficulty produces greatness, that only sorrow and struggle can yield art. But Prelutsky reminds us that delight, humor, and laughter are also divine gifts, worthy of cultivation. Writing for children may seem light, but it requires great skill: words must be chosen with precision, rhythms with care, so that they ring naturally in the ear and lodge in memory. To make a child laugh with language is as noble as to make an adult weep.

Practically, this means we must not dismiss what brings us fun and lightness. Seek out work and expression that gives joy, not only to yourself but to others. If you write, play with words. If you create, do not be afraid to delight. And if you guide children, read them poems that tickle their imaginations, for in doing so you give them a treasure that may last their whole lives. For many, the first love of poetry begins not with Shakespeare or Homer, but with the verses that made them laugh as children.

Thus the teaching endures: poetry for children is not a lesser art, but a blessed calling. Jack Prelutsky shows us that when we embrace joy, when we honor play, when we allow fun to guide creation, we bring light into the world. Let us then be unashamed of delight, for in the laughter of children we hear the purest form of poetry—living, rhythmic, and eternal.