William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Tag Archive for ‘Joyce’

Jung and Easily Freudened, Specimen 1

I used to have dreams about work not done. I was behind on the farm, I was late, the necessity and importance of the job had completely slipped my mind. An example: suddenly it was April or May, and I realized I had forgotten to prune ten whole acres of vines. Always, or almost always, the dreams culminated in a feeling of guilt and shame. It has been many years […]

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The Poet’s Glasses

A few days ago, I paid the relatively modest sum of fourteen dollars and ninety-five cents for two pairs of reading glasses — one for books, the other for working here at the computer. The frames are round. I’ve never worn glasses with round frames before, but I’ve always liked them — not because they make me look like John Lennon, or Igor Stravinsky, or James Joyce, which they couldn’t, […]

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The Smiling Eyes of Children

Not until I’d written the last word of what follows, did it occur to me use the title of my unpublished novel. But that letter has been read — by a few, a very few — and will be safely forgotten unless someday someone summons it into the light. Come forth Lazarus! And he came fifth and lost the job.   The Smiling Eyes of Children Let’s say you’ve come […]

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A Mouthful of Marbles

At 4:55 this morning I finished the third volume of Los Hijos del Pueblo: Historia de una Familia de Proletarios a Través de Veinte Siglos, por Eugenio Sué. Only one more volume to go. The first contains 1,150 pages; the second, 912; the third, 1,070; the fourth, 962. I read ten pages every morning while having my first cup of coffee. Sometimes, later in the day, when it’s too hot […]

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Jung and Easily Freudened

When the all-pervasive scent from the grass seed fields enters the house, it is transformed into a ghost. For instance, if you visit a particular room in search of needle and thread, as soon as you enter you are sure you are not alone, or that someone was there before you and is about to return. I say transformed, but how, and by what? Does it work the magic itself, […]

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Desk, Bench, Zibaldone

For a good long stretch, I had been chipping away at Leopardi’s Zibaldone, a few lines here, a paragraph there, careful not to wrinkle the bible-thin pages. Since it is made to lie flat, I had been keeping the book open here on my mother’s desk. But the time came recently that I needed the space to accommodate more books: a complete six-volume set of Imaginary Conversations by Walter Savage […]

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