Was I Serious?

Canadian geese are up ahead,
and I was wondering what you
were saying, while I was daydreaming
lost in a maze of my drifting thoughts —
I thought you were talking about
horses, galloping like children
over the horizon —
I thought you were saying that
poetry is a serious endeavor
that’s nothing to toy with —
and poor me — I was so confused,
lying here in my sunlit valley,
imagining roosters raining from heaven,
swept away by the flight of Canadian
geese up ahead —
yes, poetry is a serious business
which should not be attempted by jokers
like myself, floating like driftwood
in the ocean of chance,
scattered among smiles of lovers
and the hair of mermaids,
forging my secret plans
to drown in the stars.

But then again, poetry is just
poetry, nothing more and nothing less,
worn like a T-shirt over the hearts
of lovers, planted like a kiss
on the smiles of children
and etched like a declaration of
love on the aging tombstones.

And so I flung myself pointlessly
into the sun.


   August 7, 2005 
--Alexander Shaumyan