William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Archive for January 2020

And What Is This Earth Ship

Back to the falls — but not the same falls, no; never have we seen the water rushing so madly; never have we heard it thundering so loudly on the rocks below; the creek in torrent, fed by laughing streams dancing across the path on one side, and spilling over ferns, moss, rocks, and downed branches on the other; a dusting of snow all around; the temperature about thirty-five degrees; […]

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Someday

All smiles late yesterday afternoon, our twelve-year-old grandson told me that earlier in the day he had looked me up on the internet — I googled you were the words he used. I said, You did? That’s funny, I didn’t feel anything — at the same time realizing that from this point on I would begin to seem a little different in his eyes, as this portion of my life […]

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Wisdom Remains

It needed many years, but when I finally realized that as a writer I would not be famous or successful in a way that would pay the bills, and when I understood what a lucky thing that was, the self-imposed burden of the idea fell away, leaving me light, free, ready, and glad for whatever may come. Painful as it was, I do not regret the process; I am not […]

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When God

Says sky to pond, Do trees go off in search of happiness? Do stones? No, the pond replies. But see how the river runs — and how it would stay, if it could.   When God When God was a little boy he threw a stone into a pond and that is the history of this world. When God was a little girl she invited everyone to tea and that […]

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The Artist With the Frozen Teeth

How quickly my life is passing — as if each day it finds new means of escape, and is even now leaking out through my hair ends and fingertips — a joyful tingling sensation, light beyond light, darkness of a depth unimaginable — new birth, a second coming of age, my honeyed childhood on fresh warm bread just as the sun goes down — voices; wings; a strange starry canvas; […]

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Holy Water

Language is a river. Cross it, swim it, pollute it, drink from it, bathe in it, use it in rituals, float on it, ride its rapids, sit calmly at its edge. Paddle upstream. Drown, and live to tell the tale.

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Winter Bath

See how she braids her rivers still — doesn’t know, doesn’t care who sees her — doesn’t come, doesn’t go, doesn’t fear — has no need of any mirror or calendar — and see how the sun bends low to please her, warms the soft green moss on her back . . .

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The Curse

In his journal entry for April 4, 1852, Thoreau begins: I have got to the pass with my friend that our words do not pass with each other for what they are worth. We speak in vain; there is none to hear. He finds fault with me that I walk alone, when I pine for want of a companion; that I commit my thoughts to a diary even on my […]

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