Common speech is what we hear when we do not listen. Common words are what we use when we do not think. Everything else is poetry — the restless, bountiful, uncommon common. And the poem itself is a reminder, a way of changing "I've heard it all before" to "I may never hear this again."
William Michaelian
Some mornings
the silence
in this house
is so profound,
I wonder
if my mother
will ever wake again.
Will I be the one
who finally opens
her bedroom door,
or will she?
Eight o’clock, nine,
ten — and yet instinct,
or something like it,
tells me it will not
end this way.
If her mind
doesn’t wake her,
her body will.
When at last I hear
her toilet flush,
I feel the strangest
sense of grief.
I feel the pain
of disappointment,
and the joy
of pure relief.
August 25, 2006
William Michaelian’s newest release is The Painting of You, the first volume in his Author’s Press Series. He is the author of two poetry collections, Winter Poems and Another Song I Know, published in 2007 by Cosmopsis Books. His other books include Songs and Letters, a 716-page collection of poetry and prose; A Listening Thing, a novel published here in its first complete online edition; No Time to Cut My Hair, a collection of seventy stories; and One Hand Clapping, a daily journal in two volumes. Michaelian’s stories, poems, and drawings have appeared in many literary magazines and newspapers, including Ararat, a quarterly that features literary and historical work on Armenian subjects. His work has been translated into Armenian, published in Armenia’s leading literary periodicals, and read on Armenian National Radio. His artwork continues to capture attention, and is used widely online; one of his drawings is included in a William Saroyan centennial edition released by Heyday Books in 2008. The author lives with his wife and family in Salem, Oregon.
To purchase copies of the book, click here.
Poet. n. 1. A rare bird, distinguished by its ability to sing after death. 2. A term often used humorously to designate a person who rejoices and starves.
William Michaelian
Kiss each other
in the shade
after you’ve
eaten
a juicy
ripe peach.
No shade,
imagine the tree.
No peach,
imagine the taste.
No one, no one
with a heart
out
of reach.
William Michaelian, Summer 2009
The old man told me
he himself had died
a long, long time ago.
He pointed to a distant plain,
a tide of earth that once
bled mountains of their loam.
The harvest there is rich,
he said, it never ends,
the fingers, limbs, and skulls.
In the sun beside his hut,
an ancient cart trembled
beneath a village of bones,
A genocide of sightless eyes
that sang the wind
proud and low and long,
An insane congregation
borne by wooden wheels,
a cemetery without a home.
From out across the plain,
the old man touched
my fleshless, bleached-white arm.
From out across the plain,
I too became
a keeper of the bones.
October 8, 2005
From Songs and Letters, reprinted with the author’s permission.
Inside the flower, down the stem,
into the roots — a dark hum:
that’s where we learn about desire,
that’s where the sun can’t hear
what we’re whispering.
But I have other ways of finding out —
And the wind blows, and it leaves us
with nothing but hard, dry clods,
pale lips, coffin wood . . .
and no flowers to lay upon them.
I wrote about it in a letter once;
it came back unopened,
like a pack of unclaimed seed.
I tore off the end;
the sun was laughing . . .
I cursed until it rained.
September 2, 2008
From Songs and Letters, reprinted here with the author’s permission.
“Seeds” is one of three short poems* by William Michaelian translated into Greek by poet Vassilis Zambaras. The translation first appeared in the author’s blog, Recently Banned Literature.
Seeds
While my mother
drinks her tea,
I eat a tangerine.
My dish is full
of pale-hard seeds.
She tells me
I should plant them.
I see her in a garden
on her knees,
waiting, looking down.
Καθώς η μάνα μου
πίνει το τσάι της,
τρώω ένα μανταρίνι.
Το πιάτο μου γεμάτο
χλωμά σκληρά σπόρια.
Μου λέει
πρέπει να τα σπείρω.
Την βλέπω σ’ ένα κήπο
γονατισμένη,
να περιμένει, και να κοιτάζει
κάτω.
Kathόs e mάnna mou
pinei to tsάee tis,
trόο έna mandarίni.
To piάτο mou gemάto
hlomά sklirά spόria.
Mou lέi
prέpei na ta spίro.
Tin vlέpo sέna kίpo
gonatίmeni,
Na perimέni, ke na kitάzi
kάto.
* From Another Song I Know, Cosmopsis Books (2007).
Greek translation and transliteration © 2008 by Vassilis Zambaras. Published here with the poet’s kind permission.
Vowel pronunciation guide: i as in letter “e”; e as in “eh” — without “h” sound; a as in “ma”; o as in “OK”; ou as in “balloon”.
To be an autumn leaf
pressed between the pages
of a lover’s notebook
and hear her say
“He must be gray by now.”
I was going to write this letter a century ago,
but I wasn’t born yet, so I didn’t. I had to wait instead.
Finally, when my impatience got the best of me,
I was born, only to realize I was approximately
one million letters behind.
I’ve been writing letters ever since,
just to clear a path to this one.
Picture me blowing on some dandelion fluff:
that’s the moment I’m trying to describe.
Now it’s night; the dandelions have eyes.
July 21, 2007
August days
are a recipe for longing:
they bring scented dust
and dew, the first
nocturnal kiss
upon veined leaves
that are beginning
to resemble
my mother’s hands.
Though much
of summer lies ahead,
autumn is creeping in,
feigning patience
with vineyard rows,
gently coaxing
the fruiting bough,
Soft the yellows,
purples, reds,
soft the folds upon
her unmade bed,
soft the light
on her faded gown,
My mother holds
them in her hands,
until they wither
and die upon
the ground,
Then wonders
where August days
have gone, and forgets
the ones she’s found.
August 5, 2005
The first rose — so red
even the light is surprised
and you are humming
as I follow you
through the room.
April 30, 2008
William Michaelian
For the past three years, poet-principal Shahe Mankerian and his eighth grade students at St. Gregory A. & M. Hovsepian School in Pasadena, California, have observed National Poetry Month with their own Café Poetry Night. For the event, the students choose poems written by contemporary Armenian-American poets, memorize them, and then recite them before an audience of family and friends. The students don’t stop there; they also write their own poems inspired by those they’ve chosen. And then, to complete the circle, poets who live in the area attend and read the students’ poems.
This year’s Café Poetry Night will be held Saturday, April 19, 2008, at eight o’clock in the evening. The school is located at 2215 E. Colorado Boulevard.
The students will be reciting work by the following poets: Yeva Adalyan; Alan P. Akmakjian; Ara Babaian; Beatriz Badikian; Lory Bedikian; Sylva Dakessian; Tina Demirdjian; Gregory Djanikian; Alec Ekmekji; Jacques Hagopian (trans. Ruth Touryan); Armine Iknadossian; Arpine Konyalian Grenier; Shahe Mankerian; Victoria Melekian; William Michaelian; Sona Ovasapyan; Arto Payaslian; Aram Saroyan; Leon Z. Surmelian (1905-1995); and Alene Terzian.
Since I won’t be able to attend, I’ve published “Home Service,” the poem of mine that was chosen for the event, along with “House Keeping,” the wonderful poem based on mine by Arman Seuylemezian, as the April installment of the Collected Poems section on my website. The poems are reprinted here, accompanied by two informal home recordings.
— William Michaelian
Home Service
If I were a child
I would reach out
touch the deacon’s robe
while he sings softly
in Armenian
a lullaby for my father
while he sleeps.
Click here to listen to the audio clip of Home Service read by William Michaelian.
“Home Service” has was first published in Ararat; it became part of the Armenian Poetry Project on July 22, 2007.
Click here to listen to the audio clip I can imagine read by the author William Michaelian.
I can imagine waking up one morning
to find I have become older than my mother,
and I can imagine her not noticing.
I can imagine her admiring my cane
without wondering at the need.
I can imagine her looking out the window
at the street and waiting for my return,
even though I stand beside her, waiting for hers.
I can imagine her in a lush green meadow
eating bowls of cereal with butterflies in her hair.
I can imagine her memories waiting at the door,
hoping this day she will let them in.
I can imagine them dying of hunger and neglect
amid a pile of brittle leaves, and a curious cat
sniffing at their pungent remains.
I can imagine an ancient tree where there once
was none, and I can imagine words
of a forgotten language carved into its bark.
I can imagine reading them, and I can imagine
being the only person who knows what they mean.
I can imagine the familiar hand that held the knife
that echoed the spirit that inspired the breath that
warmed the lips that uttered the sound that spoke
the joy that moved the heart to direct the hand
to press harder, harder, harder. . . .
Copyright William Michaelian. Appears here by kind permission of the author.
Je peux imaginer qu’un jour
me réveillant, je serai
encore plus vieux que ma mère
qui je peux l’imaginer
ne l’aurait pas remarqué
Elle admirerait ma canne
sans la remettre en question,
surveillerait mon retour
dans la rue, par la fenêtre
bien que moi-même à son côté
Je sois à guetter son retour
Je peux l’imaginer mangeant
Thank you. Thank you very much. This is truly an honor. I don't know what to say, except that I would still like to learn photography someday. But first I'd better learn to write.
Simplicity, Sincerity, Sonority: A New Voice in American Poetry
The following excerpt is from an excellent review of William Michaelian's two books of poetry, Winter Poems and Another Song I Know, posted recently online. The review is by Russ Allison Loar, a journalist, writer, and poet who lives in Claremont, California.
"Michaelian has a way of reflecting on so many familiar yet untranslated parts of our lives with a language that is clear, crystalline and communicative. It is a language that does not seek to impress either literary colleagues or pretentious poetry devotees. It is a language that seeks to communicate. As Robert Frost once described himself, there is no doubt that Michaelian is also 'one of those poets who wants to be understood.' He is willing to shed the literary egotism of the academic crossword-puzzle poets of our age in order to be understood."
The complete review is available at Amazon.com and on the Powell's Books Website.
Forty years ago, when we went roaring down
that San Francisco hill in our cousin's little Volvo,
Willie and Archie had Death laughing so hard
tears were running down his face.
But when they pushed him out at a turn,
oh, how Death's expression changed.
When Saroyan went to Hayastan,
he said, "Ah . . . hello, Yerevan,"
and the wise old city smiled.
Now, half his ashes are there.
When Archie Minasian put out his last cigar,
he softly said, "Look at your tiger now."
Since then, Death has looked for ways to kill himself.
January 25, 2008
Copyright William Michaelian. Used here by kind permission of the author.
Someday I think I’d like to wear it in Ireland,
And maybe even be buried in it there.
I could fall asleep while leaning on its sturdy
Unfaded elbows, surrounded by strangers in a pub,
And then simply not wake up — as if I’d lost
My train of thought, or managed to forget
The most important thing. Perdóneme,
What did you say again? Ah. He’s dead.
But what a fine sport coat.
That same train is calling in the wilderness.
Now it’s moving slowly past the docks.
Men look up: the beast sniffs along the track,
But knows not where to stop.
Six years ago, when I helped lay my dear Basque
Mother-in-law to rest, I was wearing this coat.
Her grave is beside her husband’s
In a cemetery adjacent to an onion field.
Earlier, in the church,
The man who rented her vineyard
Looked at me as if I were strange.
Jealous of the coat, I thought,
Or puzzled by my hair and beard.
And now, he is dead.
His tractor is calling in the wilderness.
Now it’s moving slowly past the docks.
Men look up: the beast sniffs along the furrow,
But knows not where to stop.
I taught three sons how to drive
While wearing this old black coat:
Country roads, parking lots, residential streets.
I taught them how to use their mirrors
And to back up along a curb.
Hills were easier, they learned,
In first or second gear.
Frequently, along the way, I remembered
When my father had taught me.
After our youngest son got his license,
I was wearing this coat when the two of us
Stopped at a tobacco shop after buying his insurance.
I bought a cigar and smoked it in this coat,
To celebrate what he’d done, but also in memory
Of my old man,
Who somehow became lost in the wilderness.
Now he’s walking slowly past the docks.
Men look up: maybe they know him.
But if they did, wouldn’t they call out?
When I held my grandson for the first time,
I was wearing this coat. Outside, rain.
Along a scented, night-black street,
I walked away from the hospital in this coat,
Pleased and wondering what it meant.
You never know who you’ll meet in the wilderness.
Copyright William Michaelian, November 26, 2007
Click here for the audio segment The Fall of the Ten Thousand read by Lola Koundakjian.
The fig tree wears
ten thousand yellowed leaves,
each a mortal distance
from the ground.
Through the window,
I see another one is down.
When this war is over,
frightened blood-sick soldiers
will contemplate their deeds,
then count them all.
Through the window,
I see another one is down,
another one . . . is down.
October 7, 2006
This poem is taken from William Michaelian's Songs and Letters, and appears with the author's permission.
APP and its producer, Lola Koundakjian, retain the right to accept or reject any poetry submission(s) based on the criteria provided by the project description.
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