I can still remember when I was first captured by a love of poetry. It was Christmas of 1992. Our family used to have a tradition of drawing names of the cousin you would buy a Christmas present for, then for Christmas we would gather together at one of the aunts' house and exchange gifts.
That Christmas I don't remember who I bought a present for, I was only six, but I do remember who picked me. That year it was my cousin Rich, and he picked out (or maybe my Aunt Rod picked it out) a book that I would read dozens of times over. It was A Child's Garden Of Verses, by Robert Louis Stevenson. I can still remember how I would sit in my bed, flipping the pages, looking at the beautiful paintings and reading what I thought were the most amazing poems my young eyes had ever seen.
From that point on, I couldn't get enough of beautiful, lyrical poetry. I borrowed books of poetry from the library. I memorized my favorites from Emily Dickinson and Robert Frost. I read and reread poems I couldn't understand, believing that if I just read them enough their meaning would magically unlock to me.
Yes, I think that my Christmas present that year was one of the most memorable and influential of my childhood. A present I hope to be able to share with another child some day.
For now I will leave you with Robert Louis Stevenson's closing thoughts from A Child's Garden Of Verses.
To Any Reader
As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees,
So you may see, if you will look
Through the windows of this book,
Another child, far, far away,
And in another garden, play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is all on his play-business bent.
He does not hear, he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.
Robert Louis Stevenson
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