Magical
How lovely. My first thought is, What Others See is ripe for illustration. My second is, how wonderful it would be if I could somehow see what you imagine as you read this fairy tale of a poem. That would be magical indeed. ~ [ 2010 ]
Not My Son
We have moved beyond genocide, to environmental suicide — women, children, butterflies. Thus we kill ourselves and think it wise. Look at me, Ma, my desk is made of gold; my toilet’s like a whale’s mouth. Yes; and thy heart is black, and thou art not my son. ~ [ 2009 ]
Don’t Renounce Me
I have to laugh: the preface sounds almost as if it means something. Ghostly storytellers and night-blue mirrors aside, it begins with a question which, for me, aptly defines the dream experience, and that of sleep and wakefulness as well. Which is which, though, remains agreeably subject to question. Of course this is familiar ground; I speak of it often; I might even say that most, if not all, of […]
What He Said
The speaker of this poem comes from a long tradition of wisdom and reverence. His face is aglow; we can see his hands; and his voice, in its calm assurance, is the instrument of a vital, timeless teaching. May the children who hear it blossom and grow, and their light shine forth ’til the end. For what he said still stands. ~ [ 2007 ]
Collected Collections
November 2016: Poems and Passages: it’s worth mentioning, I think, that each piece contained therein enjoyed its “day in the sun” when it was published individually in my previous blog, Recently Banned Literature, which I keep these days as a personal, private archive. Why I offered them less than two years later as a collection is explained in the preface, so I need not go into that here. That they […]
The Trembling Heath
Ah, for those precious moments alone, with every dream, every hope, and each imagined failing. As if for the first time, you see your house on the edge of the moor, suppertime done, the dim lamps burning; it’s almost on a hill. You close your eyes, and hug the gnarled trunk: your father, the wind in his hair. How young he once was! How old he is now! And your […]
Peace, Flight, Breath
We make our music, and play our way to dusk; when the mists gather, we seek the warm glow of the hearth. Late at night, one by one, the coals close their eyes. The train flies west. We hear it through our open window. No sleep. Only peace, flight, breath. Grandpa said he’d be right back. He was talking about the sun, I guess. ~ [ 2004 ]
Kangai
It might be coincidence, and probably is; on the other hand, why would I have awakened from a dream this morning in which I was repeating the Japanese word kangai, of all things, when I, to the best of my memory and knowledge, have never encountered the word? “Strong feelings; deep emotion,” one definition says, which is mingled with a sense of “nostalgia or contemplation.” And now I look at […]
An Imaginary Crime
Here are three favorites from my fabled pencil-and-index-card period, in which, like a demented phrenologist, I traced and embraced the divots, pits, and grain, to reveal — what, exactly, is for you to decide. A starry night? An ocean of crows? A rider that makes his own road? Look again. Take your time. Each is revealing. Each is disturbed. Each contains great hypnotic power. Are you awake? Asleep? Here? There? […]
Triumph and Tragedy
At this late date, Verses strikes me as a kind of modern-day Genesis. Of course it’s a work of memory, and is therefore autobiographical. In its making, the images arose in abundance, each seemingly rife with its own hints and suggestions, until all I could do was hang on for the ride, thinking, If this is Genesis, then I want to read the whole Bible. But for that to happen […]
William Michaelian 