To have in mind a line and find it in a face,
the mind must trace its grace in kind and find its place in space.
Canvas 1,229 — January 5, 2019
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Tag Archive for ‘Art’
Ancient Andy Lace and Heavy Metal Pews
Speaking of past lives, it must be one of mine that brings Andy Lace to mind. As for “Heavy Metal Pews,” I stand willingly accused of variety. And I still have not cut my hair, even though there is time, or something that quaintly resembles it. Heavy Metal Pews So, John, I hear you guys just finished a new CD. Tell me, how’d it go in the studio? […]
On its side in a trailer at the curb, one bare Christmas tree.
Or is it a casket in a hearse, and a human tree?
The Last Day of the Year — 2018
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The Last Day of the Year — 2018
He’s a Shakespeare of sorts, demented, plumed, and proud,
but he answers to Quixote when no one else is around.
A Shakespeare of Sorts
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A Shakespeare of Sorts
This gentle soul came into being this past Christmas Eve.
But of course he has always been with us.
And it’s not hard to believe he always will be,
Or to conceive that love, is all, we need.
Christmas Canvas — 2018
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Christmas Canvas — 2018
Cold Days
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 ]
2010
From Primitive: Selected Drawings in Pixel, Pencil & Pen
I look more like this drawing now than I did then.
Winter Sun
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Winter Sun
Canvas 1,228 — November 23, 2018
If I had not fallen from my horse
she might never have licked my face
hay on her breath
ice through my back
a shout to the hearse
at the edge of the pond
go home our tongues are on fire
“If I Had Not Fallen from My Horse”
Poems, Slightly Used, January 28, 2011
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If I Had Not Fallen from My Horse
After the Storm
We hear time and again of artists cut down in the eternal youth of their prime — painters, writers, poets, musicians — and wonder at the gifts they leave behind. And I think, thank goodness they did not put off doing the work they were born to do. I feel the same about mothers and fathers, farmers, caregivers, teachers, and everyone else who meets their fears and answers the call. […]
I remember working on a story once for eight days, with the steadily growing realization that it was bad. But I stayed with it, and when the story was finally done, it was even worse than I’d thought. Eight days. Hours and hours. Time spent. Pages and pages, into the bin. It was grand.
Canvas 1,227 — November 3, 2018
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William Michaelian 