Day-Drunk Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

Day-drunk

Of myself
Of papers
(On my desk, on table
All around by windows,
On the floor, everywhere
With some notes, sometimes signs
Scratched in Red-Black or Blue,)
I’m tired...I’m tired...I’m tired
What the hell is a poet?

Sensitive
Thin, active
With rack-shelves filled with books
No grounds; in the air
Baselessly in dancing
Like Dervish for Rumi
Piece of cloud...
I’m tired...I’m tired...I’m tired
What the hell is a poet?

Where is night?
I hate day and the sun
A goblet full of wine
Like Hafez and Khayyam
I want night, I want night
With my wine, preferred if gifted
Then mixing feet with head, left with right
I’m tired...I’m tired...I’m tired
What the hell is a poet?