William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Tag Archive for ‘A Listening Thing’

Is the early-morning tapping of woodpeckers a form of communication? Is it song?

Is the mind’s ear the source of an echo?

And what of the mind’s eye? Is that where we go when we’re gone?

Canvas 1,176 — March 14, 2018

Canvas 1,176 — March 14, 2018

Anonymous

I see you on a swing in a doorway
between two failing timbers,

caught by an echo
in the black night beyond.

Recently Banned Literature, May 23, 2011

Canvas 1,176 — Anonymous

How Different This Dawn

As individuals we are often our own worst adversaries, asking of ourselves nothing and demanding everything. There comes, though, a day of reckoning, when our dead and wounded must be carried off the battlefield, and another, more enlightened approach considered. We may think of it as an act of personal diplomacy. And yet, as private as it might seem, our decision to listen to ourselves in light of our natural […]

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As Much Love

The rude, crude person who grates on your nerves, and who, perhaps, has even entered your family circle like a bull in a china shop — what are you to make of him? How are you to survive the onslaught of his ignorant, opinionated noise, and the upheaval he brings to your digestion? You cannot avoid him, and you certainly cannot change him, nor would you try. You take a […]

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Winter Light and the Old Royal

Winter Light and the Old Royal

Somewhere in the house — I can only guess where — there’s a sturdy flat box meant to hold a ream of paper, with a patterned lid that fits neatly over the bottom portion; this box contains a long story I wrote for adults who are children, and for children who are adults — a sort of Huck Finn lightly fictionalized family history set on the farm where my father […]

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Almost the Same

If this is a book I’m putting together, it’s already the length of a short novel — this in the space of a little more than five months. As meaningless as things like these are, I find them quite interesting. My first novel, A Listening Thing, was written in ninety days. And if I remember correctly, my second novel, The Smiling Eyes of Children, was written in fifty-four. These are […]

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Mind Over Matter

When I’m in a room full of people and everyone is talking at once, I often find myself in a kind of bodily hum, a state of vibration that is both pleasant and painful, as, say, a rock in a riverbed might feel when the spring melt has begun and it’s exposed to a new wave of sensation and song. The state is suspended when my attention is required in […]

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November Sky

Before committing these poems and pieces to cyberspace, I go over them again and again, aloud, listening for meaning, listening for ease, listening for rhythm, listening for music, listening for truth. When in my limited capacity I hear them, I open the cage and set the entries free. Some fly off right away. Others stay here in my room, roosting on the bookshelves, or gazing out the window at the […]

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Icebergs

Well, maybe it’s not exactly like that. After all, writing even a simple sentence is like navigating among icebergs. Each word is that beautiful and dangerous, with almost all of its meaning hidden. And reading the sentence is like waking from a dream to find a snake in your hands. But it doesn’t remain a snake for long. It dissolves into semblance and sense with a glass of ruddy-ripe juice, […]

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