The Poet in Love: I

Oh, how I long to embrace you, my lovely stranger 

We are sitting at a distance, a fine distance. 

We are laughing. We are talking. But I wanted more. 

You would look straight ahead. Ah. That is where the line crosses. 

Straight ahead was your sight. And you would laugh, at a distance 

A rain of arrows came from your mouth. Lady Artemis has come to warn me. 

Straight ahead was your sight. It was the perfect distance to pierce my soul 

A pointed arrow appeared when you blinked. Lord Apollo predicts an unconsolable heart

I’d imagine, the pathetic poet that I am 

Where we would sit closer, closing in the distance 

We were in love. We were smiling. I wanted nothing more. 

And yet, you would still look straight ahead. I know a line cannot be crossed. 

A poet’s mind is limited. I can only go so far as to say I am supposed to love you. 

Odysseus remembered Penelope despite the engulfing waves. Would I still remember this love 

Despite the shallow and calm waves I forced myself to traverse upon? 

A poet’s mind limits love. Just like your straight glance. I am supposed to know where it ends 

I thought, if I kept dragging out the ink from my pen, I could 

We could be pulled in closer, a fine distance. 

I will be the one with the straight face, staring unblinkingly at your lovely face 

Suddenly, my imagination runs wild again at this singular possibility; the hopeless poet 

Will I lose you when I turn away like Orpheus did 

And you, like Eurydice, will never see the light of my feelings again? 

I am supposed to know where this ends. I created this story myself. Your glance on me… 

A selfish poet’s desire. I would not mind being stabbed by your gaze a hundred times over

Being dead as a poet means nothing. I could always write something again. 

The parchment is crumpled now. Ink has stained my hands and table. 

Oh, my lovely stranger, here I am embracing you 

Your wings are crumpled. I am kissing them softly. I dare not to unfold them. 

My beautiful piece of work. By my breast I will hold you. Can you feel my fervent heart? 

This is how I can keep you close to me. A figment of my imagination. The poet’s foolish words. 

This is all that I could ask for. You can keep staring ahead. Leave me be with my imagination

Of you. 

Lord Apollo plays his lyre sadly when he sees a field of hyacinth 

The poet recites their poetry with a straight face in a field of crumpled parchment.