There’s worship in the way I silent sit,
To practice verse:
With candles in dark corners I have lit,
All thoughts disperse;
There’s sacrifice in how I pour this wine,
And dream it up:
Each word is water, transmutes into mine
In mine own cup.
There’s knowing in the keeping of a pen
For evening arts;
And cunning in the craft of hearing when
This silence starts.
There’s something in the sound of it, fast kept
As I begin it:
When the witching hour awakes, all dreams are slept.
There’s worship in it.
At times I truly see the connection between poetry and magic. Incantation, conviction, imagination; conjuration, curses, blessings; secrecy, artistry, and wonder. I think all artistic endeavour is a craft.