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

— George Elliott Clarke

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