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Alexander Shaumyan

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Member Since: Mar, 2012

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Books
· The Door: Selected Poems

· The Fuck Generation


Articles
· My Interview with Laurel Johnson in 2003


Poetry
· A Double Murder in Los Angeles

· Ask Not What You Can Do For Your Country

· O Woman, I am a Lily of the Valley...

· Reunion and Uncle Joe's Adventures in Korea

· Our Minds Were Drifting

· Ode to Mental Patients

· Pisces Girl

· Happy as a Goose

· I Don't Belong

· A Screaming Poem

         More poetry...

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The Show

by Alexander Shaumyan — Read all 180 poems by Alexander Shaumyan

It’s standard here—the goal’s uncertain,
Yet every eye is on the prize...

Monday, March 30, 2026


Poem Artwork

The Show

It’s standard here—the goal’s uncertain,
Yet every eye is on the prize,
Each day they come to raise the curtains,
Performing their vapid lies.

The stage is filled with vain performers,
Whose voices creak with assonance,
Their mush-filled intellects are dormant
In their orgiastic dance.

There is no fire, no passion,
Just words alone dull and dead—
Like some pop melody in fashion
That fills the crowd of vacant heads.

They talk of love, they talk of soul,
Of astral beings, mystic dreams,
Yet you can feel a big black hole—
The giant void that sucks you in.

Their wisdom’s like a fortune cookie
In some Chinese take-out place,
Yet to the ignorant onlookers
They look like prophets full of grace.

I’ve heard their noise and still remember
The truth of what a poet sees
In rainy days of cold November,
In empty streets and barren trees.

The winter’s coming, days grow shorter
Amidst the chatter and the lies—
The poet like a news reporter
Records the truth with distant eyes.


    November 6, 2003 
 --Alexander Shaumyan


The Door: Selected Poems



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Reviewed by Ronald Hull
Reviewed on March 31, 2026
I love The Who, but my hearing didn't allow me to for you understand the words, although I do recognize the song.

Yes there's a lot of show with no blow. It has moved from the back alley stage to streaming, with podcasting and even video channels dedicated to the stuff.

Makes me want to astral project myself into the next void.

Ron


New Poetry by Alexander Shaumyan
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