On Water I Stood

(Circa 2013. Though I had the temptation/desire to edit it, I decided to keep it as is. This poem is Inspired by The Rime of the Ancient Mariner By Samuel Taylor Coleridge. If I am not mistaken, I read it in class when I first wrote it. I don’t remember much else… Anyway, it’s been collecting dust for many years now, and there’s no reason for me not to share it. Note that some lines in the third part of this poem are taken from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. )

On Water I Stood

It comes to thee at night
When thou least expect a fright.
Like a spider’s web it grows,
Whilst thy body’s paralyzed!

From beneath the seven seas,
It brings forth nine mysteries;
One of which becomes a dream
To be dreamt this night of sin.

Here the music rests in peace.
‘Tis where the saddest silence speaks!
Come! Let it tell thee what it should
‘Tis all for the better good!

Now, the muses came to thee –
‘Tis thy turn to make a speech.
“Tell us, please, what the mariner sees
And we shall tell thee what it means.”

***

Here is my spirit in the mariner’s psych.
The mariner’s asleep; the winds are alright.
Thus I float in an ocean of dreams
And, so far, I have seen what I see.

But suddenly an albatross,
A dead bird I came across
Then a monster from underwater
Warned me to go no further –

“Why?” Said I. “Dost thou,” said he
“Wish to see the devil’s burning eyes?”
“No!” Cried I, “But why, tell me,
Does the devil so dwell here?”

The sea-monster gave no answer
And like it came, it disappeared.
So I quickened pace, walked on water,
And left it all behind me.

On water I stood, ‘tis true.
Yes! So did Jesus, too.

***

‘Tis said that the ancient mariner passes,
Like night, from land to land, he passes
And till his ghastly tale is told
This heart within him burns with cold.

But suddenly an albatross
A good omen he came across
Yet, once again, with his cross-bow
He shot the albatross!

“Why?” Said I. And the mariner laughed.
“Time’s a circle, can’t you tell?”
“No!” Cried I, “but why, tell me,
Didst thou make the same mistake?”

The ancient mariner had to answer
And so he came a little closer
And to my heart with a silent whisper
He spoke… his final treasure!

On water I stood, ‘tis true.
Yes! So did Jesus, too.

***

I dreamt that I woke up from a dream
But in the dream of a dream I still
Hear the mariner scream: –
“Keep thy books for ever open, for we all deserve to live!
Even though we live to make – and tell! –
The same mistakes again.”

It’s Poetry When

It’s poetry when you read it
more than once
and your coffee gets cold.

It’s poetry when no one knows it is
but you read it aloud anyway
because of how it sounds.

It’s poetry when the greatest poet
says it’s not
but you write it down anyway
and he tries to stop you
so you run with it
like a chicken with a pen
up its butt.

A Pint of Blood

“Poetry is the devil’s inbox.”

But daytime was no time to philosophize.
So we hung about cheap coffee shops
Sipped espressos on dirty sidewalks.

We, five poets with empty wallets,
The modern prophets,
Lived our lives in between big brackets,
Smoked cigarettes,
Wasted sunsets,
Et cetera, et cetera…

Now Time
For the sun to sink into the silver sea
And die.

Time
For the son of sin to feel her skin
For the snake to slither between her thighs
And why
Not post it on Facebook
Or be a Twitter god?

And Time
For us, the poets with bad habits,
To invade the pubs and bars of Hamra Street
Looking here and there if someone’s rolling
Weed, hashish, or Red Lebanese…

But nighttime was no time to philosophize either.
So we hung about cheap bars and pubs
Drinking beer on dirty sidewalks.

And then the girls with no names came,
Their laughter: sex notes
And R&B
Champagne and pain
And misery

“I think that one’s from A.U.B.
I did her at the dorms in November.
She needed money
to pay for her courses.”

“You bastard! That’s my sister.”
A non-poet cried right then
and broke that poet’s nose.

Blood in the beer
A pint of blood!
A toast for our brave, bare sister.
Knives and chairs and broken beer bottles…
A fight
A war
A massacre
In which I did not take part.

And all this time, I was thinking,
Eyes wide open, without blinking,
About how a fellow poet
Could pay so much to fuck
When I was paying for his beer.

Also published on Volkov Is Thinking