Saturday, January 8, 2011

A Rare Confession

A Rare Confession
January 8, 2011

[click to enlarge]

Yes, I am a tree. If that is hard to see,
then simply chop me down.

I’d sooner bear the scar you leave
than be a stone that sleeps

at the bottom of your pond.


Wine and Words said...

The scar you leave....

To leave a mark, or to remove oneself from it? You have me wondering here, but also knowing I would rather either option, than the rock skipped and sunk.

William Michaelian said...

Good question. Quite possibly both.

Old 333 said...

Rocks have quiet little lives of their own. The view is great once you adjust your focal depth. Now what about a rock grown into a tree? I've seen that. Do you think they talk to each other, the tree's quick quiet whispers above the slow long seven-hertz humtones of the rock? Perhaps a tree can tell a rock of a bird he once knew. Perhaps the rock would have tales of the long, slow demon-places it has been, of the warm and comforting mantle-depths, of the violent explosion of the seas which meet his kind in their battle-hot birth. Discrete, discrete - both things are discrete, and thus can communicate and make new things. I am rambling on, but you will understand me; as Sagan points out so poignantly, we are all made of star-stuff in the end.

Thanks for the thunk-full poem, William.

William Michaelian said...

And thank you, Peter, for yours, which immediately brings to mine this part of one of my own (sans formatting):


the feeling of sanctity,
in all things animate and inanimate,
though the latter category doesn’t really exist.
A rock is as much alive (I am sure of this)
as a squirrel dancing on a power line,
its compact, dense particles humming softly,
lulling us into thinking it is dead.
— like some people, in other words.

or well known institutions.
As a general rule, rocks are a lot more
subtle and dignified.


So, we are well in tune here.

Anthony Duce said...

Yes I would rather have the scares too, then be the other, to have reminders many years from now.

William Michaelian said...

Thanks, Anthony. Indeed, to forge ahead on our own terms — that’s the life (or death) for me.

Denise Scaramai said...

how beautiful!
is even better to be launched the luck...

rahina q.h. said...


William Michaelian said...

Thank you, Denise!

Rahina: {:-)~

Woman in a Window said...

I laugh, rare confession. I thought perhaps a scandal, but we already knew you were a tree:)

Is it to the acceptance of death in the face of life you speak?

I see us all as children in the back of a class and the teacher is casting a play. Little you. Little Annie. Little me. Little everyone who gathers here, I believe, jumping at the chance to be the tree. Oh, pick me! Or the rock, or the wind, water, or shore. We just so desperately want to be.


William Michaelian said...

Erin, I laughed too. Well, smiled, anyway.

The acceptance of death, not so much; just a bit of foolish defiance; you will just have to take me as I am; if you can’t, it says as much about you as it does about me.

Or something like that.

But it’s your casting scenario that I really love.

Two Tigers said...

And speaking of stones in poetry...this reminds me of the second part of Richard Wilbur's "Two Voices in a Meadow" in which the stone takes its turn to speak, right after the milkweed has had its say:

As casual as cow-dung
Under the crib of God,
I lie where chance would have me,
Up to the ears in sod.
Why should I move? To move
Befits a light desire.
The sill of Heaven would founder,
Did such as I aspire.

Okay, this isn't the point you were after, but I couldn't resist quoting this. How many poets I wonder can make dung sound so good?

William Michaelian said...

They would amount to but a small heap, most definitely.

Growing up on the farm as I did, I heard such voices frequently.

Still do, I’m pleased to say.