loud,
no books
but encyclopedia,
hiding behind
end-table,
drapes fidgeting,
national geographics
layered open
alien
religions,
bangles elongating
necks, circular
cornfield in desert,
white-clothed
bedouin, tattered scrolls,
peking man
poems
spread on top,
stutters untwisting,
hours unwrapping,
“this is my rock
and here I run
to steal the secrets
of the sun”
——————————————–
A late as usual response to the dVerse conversation from last week about early memories of poetry. The comments surfaced a very specific memory that took a bit to unpackage.
The last four lines are from a David McCord poem in the 1964 edition of World Book’s Childcraft (volume 1, Poems and Rhymes), a book that held much of my learning-to-read years. Here is the whole wonderful poem.
This is My Rock
This is my rock
And here I run
To steal the secret of the sun;
This is my rock
And here come I
Before the night has swept the sky;
This is my rock,
This is the place
I meet the evening face to face.
Poems from in between 