Review of Winter Poems

Many thanks to Doug Holder of Ibbetson Street Press for publishing Irene Kornonas's thoughtful review of William Michaelian's Winter Poems. We wish Doug, whom the City of Somerville must certainly consider poet laureate, much luck with the latest issue of the Bagel Bards anthology.

William Michaelian: Recently Banned Literature

It’s been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon — oops. Wrong script. I meant to say, it’s been a busy month in Oregon. Among other things, I’ve launched Recently Banned Literature, a blog that contains poetry, notes, and other literary odds and ends that I’ve chosen to classify as “marginalia,” mostly because I like the word. Almost all of the entries are mercifully short — as I vow this one will be. They contain links to updated pages on my main website (there are currently 1,023 pages), as well as others to sites of genuine literary interest. I’ve even included an archival portrait (a wonderful pencil sketch done by a complete stranger) from 1982.

William Michaelian reads on Armenian Poetry Project

A recording of William Michaelian reading his poem, “I Can Imagine,” has been added to the Armenian Poetry Project. The archived page can be accessed here. The poem is part of his Songs and Letters, an extensive collection of poetry and prose he began in 2005.

William Michaelian: "No symbols where none intended."

The following paragraphs about Samuel Beckett (Waiting for Godot; The Unnamable) are taken from the March 3, 2008, edition of a daily newsletter I receive from www.todayinliterature.com, a worthwhile website that I heartily recommend.

Samuel Becket's Watt was published on this day in 1958. The “Addenda” which Beckett attaches to the end of the novel begins with this instruction: “The following precious and illuminating material should be carefully studied. Only fatigue and disgust prevented its incorporation.” The Addenda concludes with a playful and cryptic counterpoint: “no symbols where none intended.” Taken together, these statements reflect Beckett’s career-long attempt to tease his interpreters — in these program notes for Endgame, for example:

"Endgame does not want to be anything but a mere play. Nothing less. No thought, therefore, as to riddles, solutions. For such serious stuff we have universities, churches, coffee houses, etc."

Beckett scholar Raymond Federman says that one passage from Watt “may be Beckett’s best explanation of his own work.” It describes Watt standing transfixed before a painting of an almost-complete circle and a blue spot, the myriad possible meanings overwhelming Watt “to the point of bringing tears of incomprehension to his eyes.” Watt wonders if the circle and the spot were “the playthings of chance,” or if they might “eventually pause and converse, and perhaps even mingle, or keep steadfast on their ways, like ships in the night”…:

And he wondered what the artist had intended to represent (Watt knew nothing about painting), perhaps a circle and its centre in search of each other, or a circle and its centre in search of a centre and a circle respectively, or a circle and its centre in search of its centre and a circle respectively, or a circle and its centre in search of a centre and its circle respectively, or a circle and a centre not its centre in search of its centre and its circle respectively, or a circle and a centre not its centre in search of a centre and a circle respectively, or a circle and a centre not its centre in search of its centre and a circle respectively, or a circle and a centre not its centre in search of a centre and its circle respectively, in boundless space, in endless time (Watt knew nothing about physics), and at the thought that it was perhaps this, a circle and a centre not its centre in search of a center and its circle respectively, in boundless space, in endless time, then Watt’s eyes filled with tears that he could not stem, and they flowed down his fluted cheeks unchecked, in a steady flow, refreshing him greatly.

William Michaelian: The Addison Street Poetry Walk

A while back, I mentioned The Wall Poems of Leiden, an outdoor poetry project in the Netherlands. A similar project is the Addison Street Poetry Walk, located in downtown Berkeley, California. A 296-page companion volume featuring the commentary of former Poet Laureate Robert Hass was also released by Heyday Books in 2004.

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. The complete review is available at Amazon.com and on the Powell's Books website.

We are not living in an age of poetry, sad but true. The greatest lines of our most famous poets no longer enter our everyday vernacular. Shakespeare and Robert Frost, among others, still remain in our vocabulary, but the age of technology and the omnipresence of mass corporate culture has replaced the role of the poet in our society.

When one discovers an original poetic voice, a voice that actually matters, it is reason to take notice, to take out the iPod earbuds and try once again to read a book of poetry and enjoy it. This time, you will not be overwhelmed by obscurity, nauseated by pretentiousness and bored by irrelevance.

William Michaelian is a poet that matters, and most of all, he is a poet who communicates what matters, those small parts of everyday life that are the finest moments of our lives — moments of observation, insight and awakening.

William Michaelian: John Anderson, My Jo

Music, anyone? I found this poignant little poem in Songs from Robert Burns, a pocket-sized volume I picked up a couple of months ago at a used bookstore here in Salem. The book is old, but it has no copyright or printing information. The publisher's name: Collins' Clear-Type Press, London and Glasgow. It has a marbled leather cover and marbled endpapers. A nice companion for a shivery winter day.


John Anderson My Jo

John Anderson my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo!

John Anderson my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither,
And monie a canty day, John,
We’ve had wi’ ane anither;
Now we maun totter down, John,
And hand in hand we’ll go,
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson my jo!

William Michaelian: Reading Tristram Shandy

Digressions are the sunshine of reading. — Laurence Sterne

Not long ago, I discovered that a poem of mine, "Reading Tristram Shandy," is linked in the introduction to a paper by Thomas Steele on Tristram Shandy as a forerunner to hypertext, and author Laurence Sterne's influence on writers such as Joyce, Stein, Woolf, and Vonngeut. In his paper, Steele discusses Sterne's creative use of language and page layout, his non-linear approach to storytelling, and how they seem to anticipate today's blogs and projects like Wikipedia. Along the way, Steele furnishes a number of links (of course!) to some fascinating examples and references.

Tristram Shandy, meanwhile, is a wonderful book. Sterne's vocabulary is impressive, his wit is keen, his sense of humor is delightfully wicked, and the way he breaks rules is potent medicine for readers and writers feeling trapped or bored by conventional literary "wisdom."

Sarah Friend: Writer's Block

Writer's block. Imbued with previous forward movement, we've all run, full-force, against that merciless brick wall, rebounding back. It sends us reeling, and leaves us messily sprawled on the ground, rubbing our heads, unsure as to what happened or how to proceed. This was my state of mind one recent morning, as I sat, coffee mug in one hand, pen in the other, when I remembered the timeless advice: Just keep writing, no matter what. My what wandered into, whatever happened to sugar cubes as a form of coffee sweeteners?

(Sugar) Cane Mutiny

In the days of yore, sugar cubes were daily liquidated
In London, Paris and New York from human cares they faded

Yet there lived a gallant sugar cube in a tin-box,
Who one fine morning found his home free of locks

The dangers of the world unbeknownst to him still
He shuffled outside to his dreams of adventure fulfill

But there upon the kitchen table, what did he see?
His dear old aunt drown in a cup of boiling tea.

Outraged, he spoke to bananas and pills and the like,
Describing in gory detail the horror of the Fourth Reich.

Rage against sugar cube cruelty grew in fame,
Which explains why today, we use aspartame.