The body, in its wisdom, carries the mind along. The mind carries the body. Each is in, and of, the other: the mind is in the body, the body is in the mind. When the mind falls to rust, the body becomes an historical monument, an old cracked liberty bell, venerable, purposeless, inspiring sympathy and awe. When the body falls to rust, the mind becomes a storyteller whose face is […]
As an old farmer of the written word, I know that in my deepest cultivation I’m really just scratching the surface, and that the strange crops I bring forth, the cactus and the flower, are food of brief duration, and that when I’m gone, the land I care for and hold dear will be safe harbor for my feeble literary bones. Once, many years ago, while we were engaged in […]
Above rooftops and trees, between clouds, there is a familiar collection of stars and planets — a small gathering of faithful friends, inspiring and nonjudgmental. And yet how many millions of miles and years are between them? And what of the space between us? Surely, it is imagined. Discovery Late one night, when he was very old, they found the great astronomer holding a ruler at arm’s length, measuring […]
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, […]
Inheritance — February 8, 2019
Inheritance
Every winter,
we pruned
the same
long
rows
of vines.
Now we’re older;
some of us have died.
I see the vineyard in my mind:
the brush is tangled, leafless, waiting.
Songs and Letters, February 4, 2007
Winter Poems, Cosmopsis Books, 2007
[ 283 ]
Old poems, buried here, and here, and here. I wonder at their names and birth dates, and the lives they must have led. And I wonder if they will live again, and if what they say was ever really said. Obituary I was by there yesterday Someone left a light on in the house Does the neighbor have a key Or was it someone else Mercy me Her poor […]
A few days ago, a red-tailed hawk swooped past the window and landed in the small bare maple opposite the front door. Not a very large bird, it was still too big for its chosen perch. With each move it made, it was poked and brushed by twigs. Finally it braved the maze and dropped to the ground. After investigating the muddy dahlia bed, it flew off across the driveway […]
I suppose it would not be far from the truth if I were also to refer to this growing collection of oddities and notes as my papers, because I am definitely proceeding with the idea that everything that ever was and will be of lasting importance to me can be found in these pages. Each department is its own neatly labeled crate of material. All that’s missing, really, is a […]
Cold Days Yes, if I were an artist, I would paint you exactly like that, with snow in your hair. And the poor statue tried to answer, but could not. Songs and Letters, December 23, 2008 [ 233 ]
If thoughts left visible trails, then perhaps more of us would see how we are bound by them. Imagine a web at once dangerous and beautiful, so dense it darkens the sky — cloud rooms, passages, caves, precipices, dungeons, veils — and that this is not only between us, but between ourselves and a deeper understanding of how we really can fly. Curious When I open the blinds, spirits […]
William Michaelian 