A Tribute To The Elegant, Deeply Queer Poetry Of The ‘Frog And Toad’ Bot

In 1974, Arnold Lobel, the author of the immensely popular Frog And Toad series, sat down with his family and told them, in his singsong voice, that he was gay.

It was his official coming out; the moment he finally put his desires into careful words. But, according to his daughter, he had already been living his truth in the form of the books that made his name. Frog and Toad, his iconic heroes, were, she said, “of the same sex” and deeply in love with each other. Long before Lobel made his private world explicitly public, he had explored what it would mean for him to be queer; what his life would look like if he could proudly love another man.

Frog and Toad model a very particular kind of love. Their affection for each other is not only radical in its queerness — it has a subversive, simple joy all of its own. The pair live apart. They do not need to share a house in order to prove their affection, either to themselves or to anyone else. Mostly what they do is live their lives side by side, importantly distinct, sharing when they both want to share.

In the story ‘Alone’, for instance, Frog decides to take some time by himself to think. This worries Toad, who begins to suspect that maybe their relationship is in some ways failing. Is Frog not happy? But after his bout of solitude, Frog comes back happier than ever. “This morning when I woke up I felt good because the sun was shining,” Frog says. “I felt good because I was a frog. And I felt good because I have you for a friend. I wanted to be alone. I wanted to think about how fine everything is.”

There is no co-dependency here. The normative idea of what it means to be in a relationship — what it means to love — is thoroughly departed from. Frog and Toad don’t need to build a life together. They can be on their own when they are on their own, and together when they are together.

Toad sat and did nothing. Frog sat with him.

— Frog and Toad Bot (@FrogandToadbot) December 6, 2021

Great poetry, Jordie Albiston once wrote, holds you against a feeling and then nails you there. How better to describe the tender verse of the Frog and Toad series? Lobel was open about the fact that what he was writing was, in essence, a series of books for adults that were easy enough to understand that children could also pore over them. He was guided by a stoic kind of wisdom; Frog and Toad frequently allow their emotions, whether positive or negative, fierce or cool, wash over them slowly. They think before they act. They consider each other before they speak. And with their small, greenish hands, they build things, stopping every now and then to look at what they have done.

It is this stoicism, this gentle acceptance of the world around them, that is captured so beautifully by the Frog and Toad bot, a Twitter account that sends little fragments of Lobel’s stories skittering across the internet. The bot’s content is usually only a sentence or so in length. But the impact of these brief snatches of life lived with a precise tempo is profound. In the constant noise of the internet, these poetic snatches represent an insistent, quietly voiced reminder to check in with oneself.

'I saw the sun coming out,' said Frog. 'I saw birds sitting and singing in a tree. I saw my mother and father working in their garden. I saw flowers in the garden.'

— Frog and Toad Bot (@FrogandToadbot) December 6, 2021

It is, after all, extremely easy to live without purpose; to do things because the dominant social narrative instructs you to. You know how you can drive to work, pull up, lock your car, and then realise that you didn’t take in a second of your commute? That you have been, in essence, sleepwalking; that you have submitted your life to forces greater than yourself, forces that you no longer question?

Frog and Toad never live their lives in this way. They are constantly aware, constantly choosing. They are a picture of a particularly modern form of autonomy, one that manifests itself in a myriad of pretty, understated decisions every single day. Whether they are trading presents, or growing seeds, or cleaning their houses, they lively wholly in the moment, tied directly to the work of their languid, slow amphibian bodies.

'I am sorry,' said Frog. 'That hat is much too big for you. I will give you something else.'

'No,' said Toad. 'This hat is your present to me. I like it. I will wear it the way it is.'

— Frog and Toad Bot (@FrogandToadbot) December 5, 2021

There is, however, a kind of urgency here. But not an urgency that manifests itself as a rushing to the next moment, constructing a desperate picture of the future against which all present actions are compared against. It is instead an urgency to understand what the world has to offer; to sip from every cup, to, somewhat paradoxically, take one’s time. The internet is very light on such reminders that we can move both fast and slow; that we can be both curious and content; that we can strive, always, to do better, live more cleanly, and yet remain alive to the ways that we already have chosen to be.

In one story, Frog and Toad ride a winter sled together. Toad is apprehensive, concerned that he might fall off and hurt himself. “Do not be afraid,” Frog says to him. “I will be with you on the sled. It will be a fine, fast ride. Toad, you sit in front. I will sit right behind you.” And then off they go, sliding down the hill, together.

---

Joseph Earp is a staff writer at Junkee. For more of his work, read this piece on the queer subversion of Jane Campion’s The Power Of The Dog.