When I was ten, I found an old book with an inscription handwritten, addressed to my mom and dated before I was born: "you touch me/ in my most secret moments/ like a vagrant light/ and I am whole." Being an incorrigible show off, I performed the lines for a speech and drama class assignment even if "the fog comes on little cat feet" would have sufficed (undeterred, I unnecessarily performed Anthony's Oration later that year).
Anyway, the author was my dad. University professor by day, occasional poet by mood. He died when I was thirteen. The book was lost but a version of the poem for my mother was typed up along with his other poems and bound into an unpublished folio of sorts.
Happy birthday, Daddy!
Anyway, the author was my dad. University professor by day, occasional poet by mood. He died when I was thirteen. The book was lost but a version of the poem for my mother was typed up along with his other poems and bound into an unpublished folio of sorts.
Happy birthday, Daddy!
