A Poet in His Early Twenties

vladimir mayakovsy

Walking aimlessly in rubber sandals,

White baggy faded jeans, shirt tucked inside,

He stops at the curbstone and marvels

At the drifting clouds.


Carrying Kierkegaard’s, Fear and Trembling, 

And Nietzsche’s, The Gay Science, he goes

From café to café, the books clenched,

Bulging like biceps.


Reading a page here and there

Without understanding a word,

He sighs and wonders at the dead

Autumn branch outside the window.

Succumbing himself to long bouts of silence,

He broods, searching for metaphors.


Fame and immortality stand at his doorstep,

A lichen-encrusted bust breathes in his cupboard,

Staring at him with the eyes of an old heron

Through the swirl of dingy, foul air.


Bohemian lifestyle gently taps on his shoulders,

The rented room, like rotten eggs, stinks.

He lets his hair grow, he ignores his razor.


Thin and pimply, sweaty palms, breath sour

From smoking too many Camels,

He haunts the streets searching for his own face.


The fire in his eyes is unsettling.

The storm in his heart is raging.


He imagines himself in a reading,

Long cigarette holder held in styled affectation,

Surrounded by dewy-eyed college girls,

Marveling at their sleek black dresses

And protruding asses.


Smoking and drinking, drinking and smoking,

He zonks-out on the couch.

Kierkegaard falls on his chest,

Nietzsche slips from his palm—


Yet deep inside he’s happy and content

Because he knows that he’s a poet,

And right now he’s too exhausted to give a damn

To what I have to say.


Twitter @bibek_writes


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