"Thrice blest the man, my love,
             who in such chains is snared and locked
             while we burn apart."
                            — Paulus Silentiarius


When I first wrote verse, it was a fire
and an answering of a trumpet's call,
a sounding in my soul from so long ago —
and as my pen flows, it mimics both
the dance of the flame
   and the cry of my yearning,
that which has always been within me.

And while it may sometimes seem to be,
this is no avocation for fancy,
no proper task for the leisure class,
and most of all, this is not a game,
for though libraries are full of odes
to the trivial, the fleeting,
   for the light in keeping
(those little poems which are served with tea)
poetry is a dark art, best suited to the passions
   and to the passionate.

Do not think, my love, that I neglect you in verse
as you lie sleeping, worlds away —
if I could I would caress your hair,
and whisper to your dreams —
we both know
   it is more than time and distance which separate us,
and yet, it cannot be
   that we were meant
to be kept apart.
This is why I write,
why I keep up
   this dark, dark
       art.