The poems grouped here were written in a nine-day period near the close of 2007 and comprise the whole of Volume 17 of Songs and Letters. To me, each word they contain is a kind of love letter. Is it any wonder, then, that, by the very act of reading them, I imagine you tying a ribbon around the whole sweet bundle? The Oldest Poem The oldest poem, […]
The Asylum Poems came into being in 2007 while I was taking care of my mother, who was battling Alzheimer’s Disease. The cycle of twenty short poems comprises the whole of Volume 15 of Songs and Letters, a much larger work begun in 2005 and completed in 2009. The poems were written early in the morning at my mother’s house, in a small bedroom facing the overgrown backyard. Fir trees, […]
This poem was written early in the morning one year ago today. It was published on Recently Banned Literature and shared on Facebook. If Not Tomorrow Then Today Sometimes I think of the bodies of friends and loved ones motionless in their graves — my mother, my father, our old neighbor the beekeeper, and even our faithful old hounds — and I feel a beautiful harvest is in, call […]
At 4:55 this morning I finished the third volume of Los Hijos del Pueblo: Historia de una Familia de Proletarios a Través de Veinte Siglos, por Eugenio Sué. Only one more volume to go. The first contains 1,150 pages; the second, 912; the third, 1,070; the fourth, 962. I read ten pages every morning while having my first cup of coffee. Sometimes, later in the day, when it’s too hot […]
On the eighth day, a starving poet awakened to find his poems had turned into fresh, warm loaves of bread. Delighted by his change in fortune, he placed one of the loaves in the middle of his work table and cut into it with a knife. But the bread did not smell like bread. It smelled like a eucalyptus tree after a fall rain. And so he tried a different […]
It was too hot yesterday evening to walk any great distance. I went to the first stop sign, turned right, then went to the next stop sign to where the fig tree is. The tree has swallowed the sign. There are ripe figs against the white letters. Letters and figs. I opened the mailbox and found one fig from my uncle, one letter from my aunt, and one stop sign […]
November 25, 2009 My friend and I were in an elevator and when the door opened we stepped out into his village in Greece. The ground was lush with soft green grass. There was dew on the grass, and a drowsy blue dragonfly on his coat. There was a small gathering of people. They were his friends and relatives, but there were also some strangers present. In halting English, a […]
October 28, 2010 A child’s doll has died. At his request, I ask his mother for permission to conduct a funeral service in a language no one understands. This she grants. The doll is in a shoe box, beneath a fastened lid. Sunlight finds us in the street outside. A lone trumpet: inside the box, the doll begins to sing. December 21, 2010 My grandfather, alive again and in […]
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 […]
Canvas 28 and Canvas 29 first appeared in
Primitive: Selected Drawings in Pixel, Pencil & Pen, in 2010.
[ 33 ]
William Michaelian 