William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings


There are mornings when the mind has no particular need or desire for clarity. Or it might not be the mind at all; it might be the world that has no need or desire to show herself — as if she’s just out of the bath, her skin fragrant and naked and warm, and in no hurry to put on the day. How foolish the mind would be to say, Come on, now, we’ll be late, we must be going. Going where? Back to the old thoughts? Back to worn-weary problems that would just as soon remain unsolved, fade away, or solve themselves?


Sometimes I find them
drifting through the house.

They linger in the hall,
obscure a high shelf or valance.

When they part, I half expect
a goat to come bounding down,
or a wayfarer begging alms.

Here and there a village,
warm bricks, a familiar hearth,
old women carding wool
and making bread.

Wheels turning under clouds,
trees and wet green fields,
solemn roads that lead away,
a stranger who somehow
knows my name.

Songs and Letters, May 24, 2006

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Categories: Everything and Nothing, New Poems & Pieces, Songs and Letters

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