Kevin was kind enough today to share one of his poems with us. He is one of the first poets to respond to the Dubai call out for the poetician events and has a gorgeous, deep and powerful voice. Pleasure having him read his strong words with us. His bio is under the page on poets. Enjoy.

First poem from one of our regular and favored poets. Bio is found under the page on top titled “Poets.”
The opinions in this poem do not necessarily reflect any human opinions aside from those of the questionably human author of those words.
:p

Excerpt from “I Be The Poet!”

I be the poet
Look
I be having all the scars to prove it
Look here
This be done while muttering curses at my loved one
This be done in the bathtub after I grew tired of living
And this, oh this, this horrible this, it be done while shaving

Yes
Being a poet be very very hard my little rascals you
But I
Not content to just poet around
I be happen to be a bad bad poet
Not bad as in “oh that is so baaaad” kind of poet but more of “oh that is so baaaaaaaaaad” kind of poet

For I be the poet…

Being a sick poet as I be
I would have to have a sick muse with me, No? I say yes.
So most of the times because I be a poet
I stay at home to look after my sick muse

I never leave home
I have responsibilities you know
Wetting the napkin over and over
And placing it on the head of my muse
And she refuses
Hallucinating and imagining health
“I be fine.” My muse says to me “Walla, ya poete maudit, 3anjad, I be fine.”
So I hold the feet of my muse and massage them
Then I decide to have a walk
So I leave my lair pour changer un peu d’air in my usual debonair air, and hek hek I’m out, I decide to buy some needs
And while I’m at it
I make sure I pass by the baddest of streets
To say hi to all the whores I never dared to touch
And when I get back
With hundreds of whores laughing at me
And when I get back
Under a wave of derision
After that a heart has been pierced with so much precision
I go back home and cook for my muse

I be the poet I tell you
And I’m only washing the dishes now because…. Because there’s so much of it lying around

I go out
I go to see my favorite nun
Impress her with an innuendo and a sexual pun
Make her all red as I tell her poems about things I’ve never done
About things I read
And after we’re done, me and my nun
I go back home
And wait for the sun to rise

I be the poet
So I stay at home
I never leave home
I have responsibilities you know.

Welcome to the Poeticians’ new site, a place where you can find local poets from the Levant and the Gulf, readings, video of our events and links to poems we love from around the world. Plus whatever silliness we decide should be inflicted on the world.

It is impossible to decide on a favorite poem. One would have to look through over 30 years of being imbued with various influences and moments and differing needs and tastes. But if i had to pick- and obviously I dont HAVE to pick, I just want to- it would be the poem below by a certain Margaret Atwood, who is a literary genius.

Variations on the Word Sleep.

By Margaret Atwood.

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen
I would like to watch you
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway

again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.