When I’m Broke

When I’m broke and can’t afford a drink,
When I’m down-and-out and can’t think
Of anything inside my aching head,
And everything around me is dead,
And I’m tired of the daily grind,
And I sit down trying to unwind,
Trying to stuff myself or watch TV,
But nothing seems to work to set me free,
To set me free from chains of loneliness,
I only think of her, her loveliness,
Her eyes, her hair, her lips, her skin, her dress,
How much I long to touch her, to caress
And feel her body near me once more...
Yet here I am--a poet sad and poor--
A good-for-nothing misfit like before!
O Fate! O Love! O Muse! How cold, how cruel,
How pointless and empty life can be!
What good is poetry by apparitions fueled?
Is there more to it than fantasy?
To all the work, the waiting and the tears,
To all the pain, the doubts and the fears,
To being like a sailor lost at sea--
Is there more to it?  Or can it be
That a being a poet--a true poet--means
Being torn between reality and dreams
And walking like a madman in the dark,
Not knowing where you’ve been or where you are
Or where you are going to?...
What’s false? What’s true?
Like Noah I’m sailing in my ark
Without a place to land,
What guiding hand
Will lead me to the shore?
Where is the key? Where is the secret door
To lead me out of this endless maze?...
So I write in sadness day by day,
Not knowing if I’ll ever see once more
Her graceful body and her shining face.

                                    June 10, 1990
                                 --Alexander Shaumyan