Poems, Slightly Used
The poems are presented in the order they were written. New work will be added to the bottom as it’s posted in my blog.
— William Michaelian, Salem, Oregon, October 2008
Spring Haiku
The earth rolls over
in her sleep — an old woman
whose breath is still sweet.
Original Entry
Spring Haiku, Poem 2
Snow on the lilac —
my mother has already
forgotten that day.
Original Entry
Spring Haiku, Poem 3
The cat ate a bird
but left behind these feathers,
raised by the cool wind.
Original Entry
I Find Him Eating Butterflies
I find him eating butterflies. They’re beautiful, he says.
If I eat enough of them, I’ll be beautiful too.
He stuffs a monarch in his mouth,
fuzz clinging to his lips.
I hear the flowers weep.
He begins to eat them too,
stray petals on his shoes.
A hummingbird arrives —
dips her bill into his eye,
takes a long, melancholy drink.
What to think — is he crazy,
or is he wise? Does beauty mind? Should I?
Original Entry
The Poet’s Glasses
Washed, dried,
returned to their place
halfway down his nose —
to find bright flowers
blooming madly
in the sink.
Original Entry
In the half-lit damp I see a face
In the half-lit damp I see a face —
that which remains after storm and smoke
have passed its way, then drifted on.
What becomes a man,
are the little things he does;
what defines him,
is all he loves.
In the half-lit damp I see a face —
so much older than it was,
an archeology of thoughts and dreams.
Beyond my touch, it records
the evening cry of birds,
the scent of dusk,
the beating of wings.
Original Entry
Little Girl, Blunt Trauma
A little girl, blunt trauma
to the head. We handle her
as tenderly as we can.
Take pictures of what her
father did. Assemble evidence.
Put her in again. Zip up the body bag.
Go home to kids, who for all the world
look like flowers about to bloom.
And later, sleepless,
beg outside their rooms.
For an old friend who works in Radiology.
Original Entry
Taking Care of My Mother
Early morning. She’s sound asleep.
Passing through the quiet house,
I pause, extend my arms —
To stretch, I think — and then,
Suddenly, I’m lifted by the breeze.
Far below, the vineyard rows of home.
Now I walk the valley ground,
Inhale the scent of earth and weeds,
Stop — look up at what I was —
A bird, alone, circling.
Original Entry
A Mansion on the Hill
Your knowledge
is a mansion on the hill;
my hut has a hole in its roof;
could it be the things I see at night
are things you never will?
Original Entry
An Absurdist Play
The stage isn’t really a stage;
but then again the sky isn’t the sky either,
unless there happens to be a light rain falling,
dripping from a pine or from the edge
of a tall gray building.
Dawn, or at least a suggestion of it.
Reminder: Talk to the person who handles the lighting.
The cast consists of two characters,
who for the entire play alternate between
looking skyward and exchanging helpless glances;
their expressions might indicate the end of the world,
or perhaps the arrival of a space ship,
or, if they happen to be farmers,
concern over the weather.
Note: The actors are to have complete latitude in what,
if anything, their expressions indicate, the type and number
of emotions they wish to convey or feel helpless to prevent;
also, the play can be of any length; it can take a lifetime,
if necessary.
Periodically, someone sleeping in the next room
is awakened by the sound of people laughing;
he looks up and sees how early in the day it is;
the audience is also with him in the room;
poor souls — they would be free to leave,
if there were any exits.
Curtain.
Original Entry
The Trick
The trick, one poet said to another,
is to make your long lines seem short
and your short lines seem long —
then, let your words echo like freight cars.
That’s no trick, the other poet replied,
it’s just plain common sense.
The talk that followed
was drowned out
by the sound
of a passing train,
thank God.
Original Entry
Where Poems Come From
My mother, in the hallway, up early from a dream,
asking, “Am I supposed to go home today?”
And then the next night, calling out, “Are you there?”
followed by my dead father’s name.
Original Entry
Gray
I love this time of year,
how she marvels at the fall colors,
and then colors her hair.
“Must you always be so . . . gray?”
Yes, I must. The artist who painted me
was melancholy, and used only gray;
go ahead — take my picture.
“My god, you are gray!”
I gave her a leaf. It had turned gray in my hand;
but it was a lovely gray — a gray with veins,
a gray of ten thousand subtle shades,
a gray inside gray still becoming gray,
a deep gray well in which gray voices
echoed the glad gray eternity of our names.
“Not to mention crazy.”
Original Entry
Crickets
How strange this silence
would seem without
these crickets
here to explain.
Original Entry
A Dramatic Interlude
“Silly, you aren’t supposed to eat the flower, you’re supposed to wear it.”
All his life, it seemed, he’d been looking for the right buttonhole. There were thousands from which to choose, a staggering number of sizes and designs, and yet not one of them felt exactly right, and so he finally decided that he’d much rather eat the flower than put it in the wrong one.
“Oh, well. Come on. We’ll be late.”
Soon after they arrived, they were in the lobby when he heard a woman whisper to her, “He looks cute with those petals on his coat.” And she laughed and said, “Yes, he’s my very own flower child. I don’t know why he carries on so. But I love him. I really do.”
Later, after they were seated and the play had begun, he was surprised to find that the main character was a man who was obsessed with eating flowers. But he was surprised when he heard the audience laughing. And so without warning, he stood up, stepped past the people in the seats between his and the aisle, and followed the aisle down to the stage. Then, without hesitation, he went onto the stage and embraced the man, scattering petals everywhere. The audience erupted with applause.
In the newspaper the following morning, there was a picture of him on the stage, looking up with a puzzled smile.
“My hero,” she said — and her kiss reminded him of crushed marigolds — “that was your best performance ever.”
Original Entry
Afternoon Nap
Even in his sleep,
our little grandson
is imagining
the world.
Original Entry
Endgame
They were smart. They had their emotions printed on little cards. She handed him one to express her doubt. He handed her one to indicate his surprise, then quickly followed it with his standard disappointment card. She read them both and was about to reply with her “Are you really that blind?” card when she decided to break with form and speak instead. When she did speak, he was so shocked by the sound of her voice that he fumbled madly amongst his cards, sifted through them, turned some of them over, and dropped others. Finally, he found the card he was looking for: his “hurt and bewildered” card. He held it out to her, but she refused to take it. And again she spoke: “I’m so tired of these cards. Can’t we just talk instead? Like normal people?” He immediately searched through his cards again — this time to no avail. He tried to move his lips, but his mouth was so dry that it felt like he’d been eating feathers. For a desperate moment, he even wondered if he should have feather cards printed. But that feather-feeling — did it really count as an emotion?
Original Entry
Tenderness
From space
the earth a fishbowl
eager mouths
against the glass
a curiosity
at best
“They look so sad,” she said, “I’ll take it.”
Original Entry
Morning Notes: Three Short Poems
Come, let us sit
beside the fire
and find out
who we really are.
* * *
The sheet I used to protect
my mother’s jade plant
from the frost
now smells like
the still autumn night.
* * *
Before my bath
I set out clean clothes —
gently, now, as if
buttons are
eyes.
Original Entry
Pappy
At one end of a long haul,
his truck is parked
on a Fresno side street
outside an old Basque hotel.
“Leave it. A city needs its monuments.”
For an old friend, whose father has died.
Original Entry
Your Letter
At last, your letter has arrived —
in the form of a butterfly.
Isn’t that just like you?
And now, everywhere I go,
I hear children say,
“Look — that man is whispering in color.”
Original Entry
Fire
For Vassilis Zambaras
When I was very young
I thought, why not try
rubbing two words together?
Original Entry
Maps
One held up a leaf,
the other his bare white hand.
“The asylum is that way,
friends.”
Original Entry
The Early Years
Use this word in a sentence, the teacher said, and I was incredibly torn, because I loved to write but hated being told what to do — yes, even
then — and yet I felt it my sacred duty to give the word a good home, to give it a place of honor on the rough blank gray sheet of paper, and so I began to write, and after writing for what felt like the whole joyous first day of summer vacation, I looked up and the teacher was standing beside another student’s desk saying That’s very good in a fraudulent meaningless tone, That’s very good in a way that proved I knew her better than she knew herself, That’s very good with no clue as to how or why — and then it was my turn, and before she could speak I said That’s very good, and was immediately sent to the principal’s office, a man with hair on his fingers who said That’s very bad in the same fraudulent meaningless tone, and I wondered if he and the teacher were married, and what words they used in sentences when they were home and their tasteless supper was cold, and if they ever, ever listened to themselves.
Original Entry
Lara’s Theme
My mother, Laura,
listening, frowning,
no longer recalls
that tune.
“I should, I know.”
Original Entry
The Art of Loneliness
Serious
practitioners
know how
to make
it new.
Original Entry
Now and Then
In our old public library, a patron died reading in her chair. I was there. As gently as she could, the librarian removed the book from the widow’s hand, closed it, and set it on the table. Then she wrote a number on her cooling palm, nodded for my help, and together we shelved her in the reference section. She’s been there ever since. And when I hunger for the knowledge she possessed, I carefully take her down — a volume mute, but never dumb, her faded skirt and blouse, her rigid spine, her yellowed teeth and bones.
Original Entry
Jung and Easily Freudened
Specimen 1
The patient didn’t know
he was the patient
the doctor didn’t know
he was the doctor
I didn’t know
either of them
so I turned away
from the mirror —
yes I said I turned away,
turned away from the mirror.
Specimen 2
Imagine an ordinary pincushion full of pins, and that this pincushion has been left undisturbed for quite some time, and that microscopic beings of great intelligence have built an advanced harmonious civilization among the pins, and that an old woman on her way through the room happens to notice the pincushion and decides for a vague sentimental reason that she needs a pin, and that with her thumb and index finger she destroys the civilization’s archives, killing the director and his leading scholars, and also topples several buildings, trapping thousands of microscopic beings in silent transparent elevators while ruining a major portion of their solar-powered transportation system, causing also a cataclysmic dust storm, and that one brave, intrepid member of this microscopic race manages to record the entire event though it brings about his own death, and that the few surviving beings flee to a wool cap hanging on a doorknob several light years from the pincushion. Then imagine hearing the woman say, “My goodness. What on earth did I come in here for?”
Original Entry
Foiled Again
The murder of the imagination was seen as great progress. “Now,” they said, “if we could just do something about these children — you know, nip it in the bud.” But then, before anything was decided, the bud grew, and it opened, and its cloud-sized petals nearly smothered them all. It was a symphony, out on the town. “We’ve failed somehow.” And there was laughter from one mountaintop to another, and the rattling of tin cans tied to the bumper of an old Cadillac — not another wedding! The driver had plans of his own. “Call me on Tuesday.” Tuesday arrived: a card shoved under the door. “The baby’s eating something he shouldn’t.” An éclair? A worm? “No, far worse. Sorry, sir. We’ll pay for your leg.” The imagination: ah! — what a curse.
Original Entry
In Confidence
The same dream
over and over
a crazy woman
giving me a candle
then one night
I realize
I’m not dreaming
it’s the crazy woman
who’s dreaming
and she’s given me
her last candle
and she says now
what will I do
will you help me
and then she turns
into a candle
and that explains
these burns
on my face
on my hands
on my arms
Original Entry
Mind Over Matter
If each sense is a window,
what about those birds
singing madly in the attic?
Original Entry
Pitchfork Poem
About halfway through a ream of paper,
a perfect page of overlapping impressions
shows the poet’s vigor and control,
a braille constellation many
stars beyond its time,
distance bound
by restless
minds.
Original Entry
It’s a Wonderful Life
By the time he’d analyzed his feelings for her, they were gone, and so was she. The distance between the bridge and the water that morning was particularly tempting: he passed through it on his way to better understanding. A police diver fished him out. She identified him at the morgue. Remembered their last night together. Their last dull argument. A short time later, in their apartment, she found a note in his handwriting on the kitchen counter. It said, “Are we out of eggs?” She thought a moment, then turned it over and wrote out this response: “Why don’t you stay home today?” He looked up from his newspaper. “I was thinking the same thing,” he said. “I’ll call the office, then I’ll get out of these wet clothes and mop the floor.” Soon, she heard him call out from down the hall: “Elizabeth? This is amazing. Did you know we have children?”
Original Entry
Zen the Hard Way: A Drama in One Act
Master, I have swept
last night’s snow from the step.
It is now safe for you
to pass.
And the snow in the road?
Will you sweep that as well?
Rises. Starts toward door.
Master! Surely, you are not going out.
Oh? It seems you’ve given me little choice.
Our coats. We’ve a rough journey ahead.
I only meant ...
I know what you meant.
Hence, our journey.
And if we should die along the way?
If? Is that not the reason for our going?
Well, I, for one ...
You, for one — such impertinence
from a tiny snowflake! Can you imagine
what would happen if all the snowflakes
rebelled?
Yes. A blizzard.
Here is your coat, then.
Opens door.
Brrr! I’ve reconsidered. I’m old, not crazy.
But what of our journey?
Patience, my son. You see,
at least we’ve made a beginning.
Resumes his seat. Falls asleep.
Student also sits, begins writing in journal.
“Today, I tricked him again.”
Looks up, smiles, unaware he is melting.
Original Entry
Triptych: For a Melting Snowman
To his right
the deaf
the blind
to his left
and Christ with
a lamb in his arms.
We regret to inform you that your son
To his right
the dead
blind
to the red
letter edition.
To his right
the dread
left
unsaid
Christ with
a pained expression.
And there appeared a bright star
To his right
The shepherds kept their watch
To his left
And Billy and Tommy and Prissy and Jen
could not put
poor Jesus
together again.
Original Entry
At the Poem Museum
The other day, I went to the poem museum. There were poems of all colors, shapes, and sizes. Some were made of words and others were physical objects, or word-extensions that very closely resembled physical objects — I couldn’t always tell.
One that I really liked was a small piece of wood that had been carved into the shape of a poem. The sign beneath it said, “Poems of this type were often used in ancient rituals.” I tried hard to imagine a ritual that would require the use of a wooden poem. Had I been able to touch it and hold it in my hands, I might have had better luck. But at the bottom of the sign it said, “Do not touch.”
In the next room, I saw a clay figure of a man sitting beside a fire under the stars. I couldn’t see the fire or the stars, but I knew they were there because of the way the man was sitting. I thought it was a very nice poem indeed.
Awhile later, I overheard two people talking about language. “That doesn’t prove anything,” one of them said. They were standing in front of a very large, beautifully wrought word-poem, arguing. After they had moved on, a custodian quietly swept their argument into his dustpan.
For a brief time, a poem that looked exactly like a fly buzzed around me.
Another display was called “Common Poems for the Common Man.” It was a real live family sitting around a table, eating soup and bread. But I must have gotten a little too close, because their dog bit me. Very effective.
Original Entry
Sorry I Missed You
Sorry I missed you. I had disguised myself as a spoon and was in the silverware drawer. Had you opened the drawer instead of calling my name ... but, of course, how were you to know.
It reminds me of the time you were a piano. Do you remember? If you hadn’t been ticklish that day, and if I hadn’t been a piece of sheet music ... well, I think we were both surprised when we found out the burglar was a musician.
Original Entry
Saving Grace
Today it’s the rain,
and the way it finishes
every sentence.
Original Entry
Postscript
I was quite happy being a cloud, until one day in the post office I heard someone in line tell her friend that she wished she was a cloud, because clouds were never homesick. Then and there, I became a bundle of letters.
“Look at him,” she said. “Pretending he’s not a cloud.”
Original Entry
POETRY COLLECTIONS IN PRINT
Available from Cosmopsis Books of San Francisco
Winter Poems
by William Michaelian
ISBN: 978-0-9796599-0-4
US $11.95; $8.95 at Cosmopsis Books
52 pages. 6x9. Paper.
Includes one drawing.
San Francisco, June 2007
Signed, numbered & illustrated copies
Winter Poems displays the skills and abilities of Mr. Michaelian at their most elemental level, at the bone. Wandering amidst a barren world, a world scraped bare, he plucks the full moon like fruit from the winter sky, goes mad and befriends a pack of hungry wolves, burns his poems to keep warm. He is a flake of snow, a frozen old man, a spider spinning winter webs. Spring is only a vague notion of a waiting vineyard, crocuses, and ten-thousand babies. The author is alone, musing, reflecting, at times participating. But not quite alone, for he brings the lucky reader along. I’ve been there, to this winter world, and I plan to go back.
— John Berbrich, Barbaric Yawp
Another Song I Know — Short Poems
by William Michaelian
ISBN: 978-0-9796599-1-1
US $13.95; $10.95 at Cosmopsis Books
80 pages. 6x9. Paper.
Includes Author’s Note.
San Francisco, June 2007
Signed, numbered & illustrated copies
Another Song I Know is a delightful collection of brief, resilient poems. Reading them, one by one by one, is like taking a walk through our common everyday world and suddenly hearing what the poet hears: the leaves, a coffee cup, chairs — and yes, even people, singing their songs of wisdom, sweetness, and light.
— Tom Koontz, Barnwood poetry magazine
Also by William Michaelian
POETRY
Winter Poems
ISBN: 978-0-9796599-0-4
52 pages. Paper.
——————————
Another Song I Know
ISBN: 978-0-9796599-1-1
80 pages. Paper.
——————————
Cosmopsis Books
San Francisco
Signed copies available
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