Poetry, notes, and drawings by William Michaelian
Simple and profound, my friend. It brings to mind W. S. Merwin's poem called "Habits":Even in the middle of the nightthey go on handing me aroundbut it’s dark and they drop more of meand for longerthen they hang onto my memorythinking it’s theirseven when I’m asleep they takeone or two of my eyes for their socketsand they look around believingthat the place is homewhen I wake and can feel the black lungsflying deeper into the centurycarrying meeven then they borrowmost of my tongues to tell methat they’re meand they lend me most of my ears to hear them
Mr. Whiliam Michaelian I am Navid nikkar from http://www.myfootnotes.blogsky.comhttp://www.Navidnikkar.iri found your thanks note to me, as i linked to your short stories page.if you give permission to me, i want post your stories in my blog.i am student of english language in open university of shiraz - IRAN my persian blog is about translation and i write about the basis of translation between farsi and english and i write english poems, persian and english essay about language and translation.with the best regardnavid nikkarhttp://www.navidnikkar.irhttp://email@example.com
Thanks, Joe, and thanks for posting the excellent poem. It seems you and I have both lived long enough to know that even habits have habits of their own....Navid, thanks very much for your note, and for the new links on your websites. I will write you at your email address shortly.
Joseph: I would be interested in your take on Merwin's poem.Michael: I would be cautious about what I shared on the internet in Iran right now.
Oops. Fooked that one up pretty good, DinnI?Here's what I hate: I'm on dial-up. It take about two lunar years to pull up a website, but click 'publish' on a screwed up post and BAM! it's gone that very second. No time to cancel.Sorry. I shouldn't be drinking this early on Sunday anyway. :-)Geraldword verification: awfieWhat's it all about, Awfie?
Gary, I’m glad to hear you’re whooping it up this morning. Anymore, dial-up is like a bad hangover. I was about to say that I appreciate your advice, but that publishing online is, by very definition, a worldwide endeavor. The Web is out of our hands. And not sharing, which is very contrary to my nature, can also have unintended consequences. Anyway, my writing has been linked all over. If that means there’s a file on me, then so be it.
Good for you, William! You are a courageous man!Actually, I’m just very depressed this morning and in one of those malignant moods (not really drunk, either…Momma won’t let me drink until noon). I am taking it out on the electronic world. I am very frustrated re: poetry. It took me forty-five years and six books to finally realize what a complete waste of time it is. Selling poetry is like trying to sell roof-thatching or two-oxen plow blades. It’s like being ‘buried on a hill’. I just go right on talking.
Gary, if writing and reading poetry brings you pleasure, then how can it be a waste of time?And here’s a question: how many books do you feel you need to sell in order for your poetry not to be a waste of time? How many readers would it take? Because it seems to me that when we think in terms of numbers, we devalue and underestimate the readers and book-buyers who value us, whether they are many or few.I know it’s complicated — or that we have convinced ourselves that it is. And that goes for everyone, not just poets. The gap between what we want or think we want and what we have is a constant source of grief.
.Wasted timeis undefinedfor time is time to each,and spending timecreating rhymeis time wasted some would teach.To others wasteis in the chasefor riches and success,but short is life, and soon to end,and the value of the time we spendis anybody’s guess.Copyright 2005 – Evolving–Poems 1965-2005, Gary B. Fitzgerald.Wasted time isnow definedand I've got forty yearsto prove it.Time to eachis only timeand who among uscould disprove it?But to think our timehas been well spentin writing poetry(for time is time to each)and not in seeking fortune,riches and successis a reach.Copyright 2009 – Ponds and Lawns, Gary B. Fitzgerald
And, since I’m feeling especially cynical (and loquacious) today, here’s my favorite. This one’s about 20 or so years old (ca. 1988)..My Old Friend JoeMy old friend Joe can take a stoneand a chunk of flint that’s brownish-red,and striking with precision forma perfect, pointed arrowhead.With an ancient skill he quickly shapesa tool of stone with a glancing wave,with an edge so fine and thin and sharpthat with it a man would gladly shave.My poor friend Joe, whose time is spentin efforts quaint and obsolete,shaping stones for hunting gamethat bullets now make into meat.So poor old Joe makes his useless stonesand time wasted it may be,but I understand because I’m like him…I write poetry..Copyright, etc. etc.
Sorry, William.I'm through now. I'm off to harass another other blog. Thank's for indulging me on a bad day.GBFP.S. Actually, my Grand-dad's name was William, as was his Dad's. Sort of a family name. It turns out that my (father's) family went to England with William the Conquerer. Then to Ireland.P.P.S. My brother, the PhD, looked this up...don't ask me.
"another other blog"...Jeez! Is this fun, or what?:-)Obviously, I need another other beer!
And he picked himself up, dusted the poems from his shirt, and rode away....
Sometimes you've just got to get it out of your system.I think I broke a window over at Harriet.
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