William Michaelian discusses his influences, work habits, personal philosophy, and more in an extensive interview in the Fall 2007 issue of Cosmopsis Quarterly, a literary journal published in San Francisco. The interview is also available on the publisher's website.
Click the link:
to read the interview.
Do you see that woman sitting there? In a thousand years
or so I will cross the street — it takes that long when
I'm in this state of mind — and buy all the flowers
she has left so she can go home and get an
early start on making supper while
I recall the lines in her face
and the pain and joy
that put them
there.
Copyright William Michaelian. Used here by kind permission of the author.
When Zaroohi the shoemaker's widow
sang Amen yev unt hokvooyt koom
with my friend from Yozgat
on hot summer Sundays
I imagined eagles
somewhere
far away
circling
above
a church
without a dome.
I imagined I was home,
a blade of grass beside a stone.
And the stone whispered terrible things.
August 24, 2007
Copyright William Michaelian. Used here by kind permission of the author.
Like a haunted wind blown across a map
of three mad centuries, the smell of rehan and onions
still reminds me of my grandmother — half Moush,
half Bitlis, half batz hatz, half Highway 99,
as if she were a poem written
in four old languages,
each of them
mine.
Even dead,
she is more alive
than many people I know,
whose anger is trite and canned
and tasteless to themselves.
But it's not their fault. They need only ripen
like tomatoes to their full extent,
until they fall and begin
to live.
Not everyone is lucky enough
to be ravaged by history.
The real curse is a prolonged death,
with the taste of candy
on your lips.
More salt. Tender lamb.
I am crucified again, and again, and again . . .
Copyright William Michaelian. Used here by kind permission of the author.
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.
Copyright William Michaelian. This poem has appeared in Ararat, Summer 2000
Click here to hear the audio clip of Sanctuary read by the author William Michaelian.
At last you've found
my room, this sunless cave
with writing on
the walls.
Be careful, now,
don't disturb the bones.
But heed the moans,
heed the moans.
"Sanctuary" also appears in Another Song I Know, a collection of short poems by William Michaelian released in June 2007 by Cosmopsis Books in San Francisco.
Author's Note
When Lola asked me to read some of my poems for the audio portion of the Armenian Poetry Project, I was both flattered and thrilled. Since two of my sons are musicians, I knew their home studio equipment would be perfect for the job. With their help, I soon learned how to record, save, and send files. But when I was finally on my own and I began to read, I was appalled by the results. No matter what I tried, I ended up committing murder: tone of voice, emphasis, volume -- there was always something wrong. Then I remembered: when I was writing the poems, and testing them periodically with my voice as I always do, I was whispering them . . . which leads me to believe that this is the way they should be read -- at least by me. If someone else were to read them, I'm sure they would sound fine in full voice. Or, if I were to read them before a live audience -- but, because of the rather strange, reclusive life I lead, that is something I've never done. Oh, well. Now you know. So, on to the poems. . . .
I will be remembered
as a lesser poet,
if at all — a clumsy ox
who fell from my wobbly
ladder while picking apples
I thought were stars.
Pitied, perhaps, as one
not quite in my right mind,
condemned to spend
my days this way.
See him writing on his prison walls:
he thinks he's at the Parthenon,
poor fool, or that he's a holy beggar
wandering the sun-bleached ruins
of an abandoned Asia Minor town.
See him holding court
with no one in the room,
see him in the street
speaking languages unknown,
a child in ragged clothes,
an old man all alone,
see him in his field sowing
seeds on rocky ground.
As a lesser poet he is sadly unaware,
patience yields the richest gems:
he picks up any twig and calls it grand,
talks to spiders and grains of sand,
counts the fingers on each hand
and finds new meaning there.
If only he could see what's real
and frame it all in thoughtful words:
we might believe him then.
If only he would tell us what
we truly need to know: how to live,
how to be, what to think,
the meaning of our dreams,
then a greater poet he would be.
William Michaelian, a regular contributor to the Armenian Poetry Project, has just announced the release of two new poetry collections by Cosmopsis Books, a publisher based in San Francisco.
You can read more about the books, Winter Poems and Another Song I Know, on William's website, and purchase them at a discount at the publisher's site.
I remember an old olive grove
north of the tiny town
of Sultana, California,
where Road 104
turns right and becomes
drowsy Floral Avenue
at the hill.
I wonder if the trees
are still there.
A beautiful grove it was,
muscular, sacred,
immaculately groomed,
a restful scene Jesus
could admire from
a rugged stone
on the grassy hill,
while the snakes coiled
and the buzzards circled
slowly overhead,
waiting for God
to sacrifice his son.
There were tomatoes
before the turn,
and oranges across the road.
Greek farmers on one side,
Armenian on the other.
Ali Baba, the champion wrestler,
held court in his house
hidden from the road,
rubbed the twisted backs
of tired, hurting men,
boiled weeds and wild herbs
to rid them of disease,
told stories to make them laugh
and ease their troubled minds.
His real name? Harry Ekizian.
An Old Country legend
who did two thousand
push-ups a day
and made cameo appearances
in his seventies wearing
swimming trunks
and a straw hat at the bank
a few miles west in Dinuba,
the town where I grew up,
thinking such things
were normal.
Now I wish they were.
Ali Baba, don't wake up.
If you do, stay home,
and I will bring your supper.
We'll sit in the dusk
and watch the pheasants scatter,
one shot of moonshine
at a time.
We'll remember the old names
come in anger,
then walk out to the olives
where they lay roaring
in unmarked graves.
Who knows?
It might even bring
a smile to the face
of the shepherd on the hill.
Something tells me
he is up there still,
crying for the strange, sad world
that is man.
May 23, 2005.
Copyright William Michaelian. Used here by kind permission of the author.
If you could hear
someone's heart breaking,
it would sound like this.
Or a mythic waterfall,
splashing upon stones
near a hermit's cave.
Or a widow's sigh,
when war is done,
and she is all alone.
Copyright William Michaelian. This poem appears courtesy of the author.
Lesson 1
Set aside paper and pen.
Peel an onion, then examine.
Lay a slice upon your tongue.
Close your eyes, then visualize
Your madness.
Lesson 2
Make a loaf of bread.
Converse with someone dead.
Remember what was said,
Then go about your business.
Lesson 3
Be kind to those you love
And true to all that matters.
When it’s easier said than done
And you find yourself alone,
Make the most of sadness.
Published here by kind permission of the author.
It comes upon me suddenly
while eating my favorite
Armenian bread:
I am an orphan,
standing at the sink.
Crumbs, crumbs, crumbs:
dry crumbs, pale grief.
March 9, 2007
Copyright William Michaelian 2007
Reprinted with the author's permission.
Don’t go. Please.
You mustn’t leave just now.
There are too many ghosts on the road.
I know. I’ve seen them. I’ve been out.
Their lanterns have all gone cold.
You’ll only want to help.
Please. Don’t go.
Don’t.
January 18, 2007
Reprinted from Songs and Letters with the author's permission
In the summer,
they were dusty outside
and damp inside,
warm, sour.
Late at night,
they whispered softly
about concerns
of their own.
January 31, 2007
Reprinted from Songs and Letters with the author's permission
I feel them all around me:
spring is the moment
when the dead begin to dance.
February 23, 2007
Reprinted from Songs and Letters with the author's permission
Tired but sociable,
I strike up a conversation
with a grain of dust
sitting on my work table.
We share a smoke, talk politics,
solve the world's problems.
Little by little,
the sun goes down,
the room darkens.
My friend stretches, yawns,
says it's time for bed.
Another day tomorrow, he says.
We both sigh.
I open the window for some air,
then hear a tiny aaaaaaahh!
followed by
the faintest, saddest
thud imaginable.
January 10,2002.
Copyright William Michaelian; used here by kind permission of the author.
On the sidewalk
the old woman sits
at a small table
talking to her dog.
She sips coffee,
offers him crumbs
from her paper plate.
Croissant, she says,
and the dog answers
with a sneezy little bark
that sounds exactly
like the word flaky.
They smile at each other,
then pause for a moment
to scratch at their fleas.
The morning sun rises
above the brick building
across the street.
It is a good sun,
full of understanding
and ancient wisdom.
March 7, 2002
Copyright William Michaelian; used here by kind permission of the author.
Friends first appeared in The Synergyst.
AMIS
Sur le trottoir,
La vieille femme est assise
Devant une petite table.
Elle parle à son chien;
Elle boit un café,
Elle lui donne des miettes
De son assiette en carton
"Croissant" dit-elle
Et le chien répond
Par un petit aboiement
Un éternuement
Qui ressemble exactement
Au mot "flocon".
Ils se sourient,
Puis s’arrêtent un instant
Pour gratter leurs puces.
Le soleil se lève
Au-dessus du bâtiment de brique
En face dans la rue.
C’est un bon soleil
Plein de compréhension
et d’ancienne sagesse.
William MICHAELIAN
Traduit de l'anglais par Louise Kiffer
William Michaelian’s newest releases are two poetry collections, Winter Poems and Another Song I Know, both published in paperback by Cosmopsis Books in San Francisco. His other books include his steadily expanding Songs and Letters, a current work in progress; 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. The author lives with his wife, Denise, and their family in Salem, Oregon.
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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