Poetry, notes, and drawings by William Michaelian
Remember man that thou art dust and unto dust though shalt return. And thereafter shall arise 'this tiny seedling'. Thanks, William.
a tiny seedfrom scortched earthunconsoledpierces greenpushing forthsomethingfrom nothing
As in life, where the fire brings forth the birth of the tiny seedling that would otherwise lie dormant on the forest floor deep in sleep...Beautifully said William.
Thanks, Elisabeth. And the same goes for the mighty redwoods....Ah, yes, Annie. Desolation is in the eye and mind of the beholder, and nothing is fertile ground indeed.Janice, thank you. And it occurs to me that the poem might also be called “Family Album.”
"...They planted a seed over his grave. The seed became a tree. Moses said his father became a part of that tree. He grew into the wood, into the bloom. And when a sparrow ate the tree's fruit, his father flew with the birds. He said... death was his father's road to awe...."
Nice. But there you go, making me look up things again.... So, The Fountain, eh? Really, I should get out more often. For instance, I hear that theaters have more than one screen now. Multiplexes, I think they call them. And the screens are quite small. I grew up watching movies on huge screens in old brick theaters that had stages and balconies and chandeliers. Doctor Zhivago’s nostril wouldn’t even fit on one of today’s screens.... Eh? What’s that you say?
Sorry! I suppose I should have noted the reference :) Yes, it's a strange movie, albeit intriguing. The kind that made the half dozen or so of us watching it sit silently through the credits and even after someone had pushed stop, we just sat there, thinking. I remember having the distinct feeling that I was completely isolated yet immersed in the universe at the moment. As for the theaters, I don't go too often; although I think we can all agree that Doctor Zhivago needs to be seen on a screen that large...
so especial this one William
Oh my god,, i am still so childish such as for getting moved when thinking on the end. Nevertheless, some times while drinking a coffee and watching how the ray of light is defeated again by the shadow of the night, i think, that the end, is the only certain promise for the leaving creature and the only valid and definitive solution, for the problem the existance sometimes become. The end and the existance, memories of a dream experienced, at the edge of the eternity. Regards William friend.
Thank you, dear Laura.And my best to you, Alberto. I think we carry the end and the beginning inside us, and that they are with us and part of each moment wherever we go. There is nothing to be solved, really. Life is the answer, and it’s also the question. Life is its own perfect riddle. Death seems final because we fear it. But death is part of life. Even when we end our lives voluntarily, our tragedy is consumed by life and becomes part of life’s fabric. Our end is someone else’s beginning, or someone’s key to understanding, someone’s open door. Or so it seems to me this morning.
Thank you, Momo Luna.
Post a Comment