William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Tag Archive for ‘Writing’

Library Break

I’m still here, and all is well. I’ve drifted into what I might call an extended library break, which is inevitable from time to time, since I write, draw, and play in a room that contains three thousand books. Authors open at the moment where natural light best reaches them are Thoreau, Leopardi, Dante, and Rachel Carson. Along with my thanks, this note comes with a quiet confession. Immediately upon […]

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Why I Write

Every bit as much as I love writing, I love not writing. Each love illuminates, energizes, and inspires the other. Each is an indispensable part of the other. Each is the other. To put it another way, I couldn’t love writing if I didn’t also love not writing. I say this because it’s impossible to remove some love and leave the rest. Love is indivisible. It is whole. In the […]

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Teacher, Teacher (and a note)

We sat in rows in classrooms. We laughed and squirmed and raised our hands. Pretty girls, awkward boys. Pretty boys, boyish girls. Dervish whirls and eyes. Teacher, teacher, tell us true. You have seen us, bright and blue. We were meek and we were wise. You taught us, and we taught you. Some were lies, some were true. Teacher, teacher. Teacher, teacher, teacher. * I don’t resolve, but I do […]

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Reunion

As my fingertips on one hand traced the lines of the open palm of the other, I suddenly recognized them both as old childhood friends. It felt like years since I’d seen them. I held them up. They looked at each other, then at me. There were many things I could have asked them, but they seemed so sensitive and shy, I only nodded and kept silent, thinking, Perhaps another […]

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Your Answer

What do they mean? Do you ever ask the words themselves? Or do you expect them to do as you tell them? If they were your children, would you demand their rigid compliance, or would you give them the freedom and space they need to blossom? Your answer reveals the kind if writer, speaker, thinker, dreamer you are. If you’re sure the words you use are at your command, then […]

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Unnamable The

Not many days ago, and an equally uncertain number of nights, I read backward and aloud the last page of Samuel Beckett’s The Unnamable. Standing before our big front window, paced by the commas, I read the words slowly and with feeling. When I reached the top of the page, I wondered if the author might not have done the same thing himself. It’s possible he could even have written […]

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Scratches

Sometimes I look at the last scratch and think this is no way to end, and then I scratch, and scratch, and scratch again. Sometimes I look and think this is the perfect way to end, and then I scratch, and scratch, and scratch again. Sometimes I look and I do end, only to find myself scratching again. And then I look at them. I look at them, and think […]

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