William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Archive for September 2018

The Second Act

The Second Act

According to my notes, this poem was written long ago after I awoke one morning from a troubling dream I couldn’t quite remember, and with a terrible sinus headache. If the dream was the first act, the poem is the second, and reading it is the third. Or maybe writing the poem was the second act, and the poem is the third, making reading the fourth — unless the poem […]

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Forty Days, Forty Nights

This poem is not about the rain, but it’s probably because of it. In my mind, rain shouldn’t be wasted. But I promise not to talk about it.                      — the rain, I mean. we all know what rain is, what it does, the havoc it wreaks.                      — the benediction it brings. the feeling of sanctity, in all things animate and inanimate, though the latter category doesn’t really exist. A rock […]

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Friends

This poem, too, was written about twenty years ago. If I still have the original typescript, it’s in a crate in one of our closets. Sometime after it appeared on my first website, I’m Telling You All I Know, it was noticed by a writer in France, who took it upon herself to translate the poem into French. “Friends” also appeared in a little magazine called The Synergyst.   Friends […]

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What Will I Give You?

All these many years later, I no longer ask myself if I’m worthy, or if my poems are good. I ask, Is my life a labor of love? Then I shake my head and laugh. And then I sleep, and then I work. So goes this essay in the dark. So goes my funny little life. So it goes, even without words.   What Will I Give You? Trouble, mostly. […]

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Said One Mountain to Another

Clouds, but no rain. It’s not that they’re stingy. Or early. Or late. Gray is their way of saying they have more thinking to do. And the time that it takes is the look on your face when we’re waiting, love. Such is fall. And somehow, we remember it all. And we will. And we are. And we do.   [ 114 ]

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Home

Certainly one of the greatest gifts we receive, and can bestow, is brevity.   Home The crack, in your face, where a flower grows. Recently Banned Literature, October 26, 2014   [ 113 ]

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Hope

One thing I love about this poem now, twenty years after it was written, is that it goes forth without a bit of armor — with scarcely a veil, in fact. It lives in sixteen simple everyday words, with no need for pride or courage or anything else to hide behind. Reading it is almost like passing through a tiny town you didn’t know was there. Once upon a time, […]

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He Knows

This poem was written April 20, 1999. I don’t know why I didn’t send it to more magazines back in the day, because it was published all three times I offered it. Who knows — maybe an alert editor will see it here and ask to publish it. Or maybe he or she will simply smile, and wonder what the other editors could have possibly seen in a poem so […]

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Verb or Noun

Every day, I notice how worn our broom has become. I suppose it might take a little longer to sweep the same space, I really don’t know. And when I finish, and the walk and steps are clean, I might be a little older than I would have been had I been using a new broom. Or I might be a little younger. Time, if it exists, is such a […]

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