William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Tag Archive for ‘Poems’

Lost in San Francisco

Where does a dream end, and the act of remembering it begin? That’s like asking the storyteller if he knows he’s a ghost. The observer is observed, observing the observer, in a succession of night-blue mirrors. And the eyes in them are stars. Some are moving away, others drawing near. And here is the imagined space between them.   Lost in San Francisco Lost in San Francisco, I met a […]

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What They Said About Light

Early each morning, the people quietly arose, then emerged from their cottages with their pitchers to fill them with light. It was wonderful to see them gathered at the well — mothers first with their children, each child with a pitcher of its own, infants with tiny thimbles old men trembling to keep hold, farmers, midwives, poets. There was a wise saying in those days:               First, let us bring light. […]

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November 2016: Poems and Passages

When one posts blog entries almost daily for ten years, there are inevitable changes — in mood, certainly, but also in subject matter, style, and approach. And yet, written as they are by the same hand, they are familiar and recognizable. It’s a bit like visiting a waterfall during different times of the year: now the music is heightened; now the rocks are more exposed; and while the distance from […]

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Rainbows and Windmills

I think I’ve already mentioned somewhere that I tend to forget poems almost as soon as they’re written. It’s interesting, because so many, like this one, are memory-driven, and each verse is its own childhood or family album.   Rainbows and Windmills Sometimes we leave with rainbows in our pockets, and sometimes we travel without them, knowing there are always rainbows about; and yet a crumpled rainbow is its own […]

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1                          at the center of which is Man, said the woman unto him, laughing, her symphony a breath of hands. 2   There were walls in those days: 3   The cotton patch on one side, impossible to mend; her father at the window, plotting murder; her mother knitting sandwiches: 4   Bolls, half open, scratchy to retrieve; the failed blood of […]

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An Absurdist Play

The stage isn’t really a stage; but then again the sky isn’t the sky either, unless there happens to be a light rain falling, dripping from a pine or from the edge of a tall gray building. Dawn, or at least a suggestion of it. Reminder: Talk to the person who handles the lighting. The cast consists of two characters, who for the entire play alternate between looking skyward and […]

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