al-majus

Coleridge’s clock

made of marble and of stone

with a little man who strikes the hour

Azrael in his cloak of rag and bone.

‘Beware! Beware!’

he cries from the top of the stair.

High up in the Great Chamber

of a fine country manor,

a rickety old elevator will take you there.

They’ve built a cafeteria now too,

overlooking the lawn and the wood,

for the tourists

and the students

who wish to stand where he once stood,

that great poppy-tongued poet of Xanadu;

a copper plaque commemorates him still.

And there is his old notebook,

and there, his half-wilted quill,

next to a sign selling pies and scones

with little cups of clotted cream.

If they were ever open, I might dine there.

But I keep waiting,

night after night,

dream after dream.

written by Alaleh Mohajerani