The moon twangs its silver strings;
The river swoons into town;
The wind beds down in the pines,
Covers itself with stars.

George Elliott Clarke

Mots clés poetry canada stars moon poem lullaby river canadian canadian-literature poc african-canadian george-elliott-clarke whylah-falls

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In school, I hated poetry - those skinny,
Malnourished poems that professors love;
The bad grammar and dirty words that catch
In the mouth like fishhooks, tear holes in speech.
Pablo, your words are rain I run through,
Grass I sleep in.

George Elliott Clarke

Mots clés poetry canada poem canadian canadian-literature african-canadian george-elliott-clarke africadia wyhlah-falls

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