How does the poem find its form- To let our meanings out? What makes it live, says cold or warm- As our words shed truth or doubt? Does Shakespeare’s shade turn in his grave- ‘If our verse doth too ramblest on’- Or Poe, our grimmer ballads save- Afore his gaunt inspiration’s gone? The question foremost to my mind- When I’m quite compelled to write- Is why these words which best I find- Only come in dark of night. I may sit throughout the brightest day- Seeking fervently for my muse- Yet only as shadows gain total sway- Will any thought hold long for my use. It’s little sense I have for those lighter works- Sun-dappled sonnets best sung by day. No, my words do erupt in grislier quirks- As dead children might rise up to play. There’s a perfect example of what I mean- “Dead children rising to play…” The image invoked is horribly keen- And doesn’t read well during the day. For in daytime are the darlings about- Warming hearts with tender lisp or pout- It’s at night, out of sight, that my image wins out- As we suffer and struggle with sweet mortal doubt. We do not fear evil while the sunshine falls- And we remain so in its light- No, it’s only when true darkness calls- That my words…are set…just right. Do not read my words in the afternoon- Or you’ll be tempted to throw them away- Hold off a bit, it’ll be dark soon- Then we can ALL get together and play.