Opposites, More Opposites, and a Few Differences by Richard Wilbur

There are so many wonderful books that have quietly slipped out of print over the years. Every once in a while, one turns up that makes you wonder how it ever disappeared in the first place. I recently came across one of those treasures, Opposites, More Opposites, and a Few Differences by Richard Wilbur.

The little hardcover has become something of a rarity. Since going out of print, copies have become surprisingly expensive on the secondary market. Fortunately, the book itself hasn’t vanished completely. It remains available as a Kindle edition, allowing a new generation of readers to discover what makes it so special.

Richard Wilbur was not just another writer trying his hand at children’s poetry. He was one of America’s most celebrated literary figures, serving as U.S. Poet Laureate and winning two Pulitzer Prizes. Yet what makes this collection remarkable is not its pedigree but the way it effortlessly bridges the gap between high literary art and pure childhood delight.

The book’s origins are wonderfully simple. The poems grew out of a game Wilbur played around the dinner table with his four children. Someone would call out a word, and the family would debate what its true opposite might be. That simple exercise became the foundation for a collection that explores language with intelligence, humor, and surprising depth.

Most books about opposites settle for easy pairings: hot and cold, up and down, big and small. Wilbur wasn’t interested in taking the easy road. He examined the slippery nature of language itself. What, for example, is the opposite of “present”? The answer depends entirely on what you mean.

“Because what’s present doesn’t last,
The opposite of it is past.
Or if you choose to look ahead,
Future’s the opposite instead.
Or look around to see what’s here,
And absent things will not appear.
There’s one more opposite of present
That’s really almost too unpleasant:
It is when someone takes away
Something with which you like to play.”

What makes these poems work so beautifully is that the cleverness never feels forced. Wilbur’s mastery of language allows him to play with ideas while keeping everything light on its feet. The poems are written in perfectly controlled verse, yet they never sound academic or stiff. They bounce, dance, and surprise.

Adding to the charm are Wilbur’s own illustrations. His simple, almost Thurber-like line drawings are full of visual jokes and playful logic. Each page feels like a small discovery. The poems are numbered as though they are laying down rules for the universe, while the accompanying artwork quietly pokes holes in those rules.

The rhyme schemes are carefully structured, usually following AABBCC patterns, but the craftsmanship never calls attention to itself. Children can enjoy them for their humor and musicality, while adults can appreciate the precision hiding beneath the surface.

I like to think that if I had discovered these poems back in the early 1970s, I might have been inspired to write something similar. Then again, I’m not entirely convinced I would have succeeded. Limericks invite invention. Opposites demand precision. Precision has never been my strongest suit. Patience and exactness often seem to run in the opposite direction from my instincts.

Still, there is enormous pleasure in turning page after page and watching Wilbur dissect what is essentially the yin and yang of the English language.

“What is the opposite of flying?
For birds, it would be just not trying.
Perhaps the opposite for us
Would be to take a train or bus.”

My larger takeaway is how rare this kind of writing has become. Too often, I come across rhyming text that feels lifeless on the page. The words may technically rhyme, but they never spark, surprise, or invite the reader in. The result is poetry that risks teaching children the wrong lesson: that verse is a formula to follow rather than a form of play, discovery, and imagination.

The finest rhyming poetry almost makes you forget the rhyme is there. What matters first is the idea, the wit, the unexpected turn of phrase, and the joy of seeing language stretched into shapes you never anticipated. Rhyme should enhance those qualities, not replace them. When a poem depends entirely on forced rhymes and predictable patterns, it may be technically correct, but it lacks the energy and personality that make poetry memorable.

Books like More Opposites and a Few Differences remind us that children are capable of appreciating far more than we often give them credit for. More importantly, they remind us that learning and laughter are not opposites at all.