The Painting of You

Salem author William Michaelian has released the first, in what will hopefully be a long line, of books in an Author's Press Series. I have personally seen the work and can say, without a doubt, that it is thoughtful, compassionate and poignant--a wonderful read. Click here for more information or just jump in and order your copy.


Description:
Designed and published by William Michaelian, the Author’s Press Series was conceived as a set of relatively inexpensive, uniformly designed titles meant to explore different themes and facets of his writing. The eighty entries in this first volume, The Painting of You, blend poetry and prose written in a three-year period during which the author was caring for his mother in her home while she was battling Alzheimer’s Disease. The difficulties they faced are set against a revealing backdrop of family history, daily life, and dreams, as their roles are reversed and their friendship is deepened and colored by change.

Note: An electronic version is also available.

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."

William Michaelian: In Watermelon Sugar

This short review of Richard Brautigan’s In Watermelon Sugar is also included in the Richard Brautigan Archives, an extensive wiki-based site founded, organized, and maintained by Birgit Ferran in Barcelona, Spain. The Archives contain a wealth of material on the author known for such classic works as Trout Fishing in America, The Abortion, and So the Wind Won’t Blow It All Away. Quotes, images, studies, criticism, obituaries, interviews, links, and more are included.

Reality is a poor excuse not to enjoy the work of Richard Brautigan. It is also the best excuse. Either way, I recommend you set reality aside; let it rest awhile; if you find you need it later, chances are it will still be there. If it isn’t, well, as they say, good riddance.

Brautigan’s gentle vision, melancholy humor, and ear for language are all beautifully evident in his short impressionistic novel, In Watermelon Sugar. The story begins simply and in earnest:

In watermelon sugar the deeds were done and done again as my life is done in watermelon sugar. I’ll tell you about it because I am here and you are distant.

Wherever you are, we must do the best we can. It is so far to travel, and we have nothing here to travel, except watermelon sugar. I hope this works out.

And work out it does. Effortlessly, Brautigan builds a bridge composed of dry timber and sad, sweet images, and places them beneath a colored sky and sun in a comfortable living room as big as one’s imagination will allow. One end of the bridge is at the reader’s feet. The other is in a small community of peaceful souls once shared by mournful tigers, which ate people with regret, sang, apologized in English, and offered to help the narrator with his arithmetic even as he was being orphaned. The narrator, now an adult, holds nothing against the tigers — and, indeed, nothing against anyone. Life is simply the thing it is. Not everything can be explained, nor does it need to be:

. . . Fred had something strange-looking sticking out of the pocket of his overalls. I was curious about it. It looked like something I had never seen before.

‘What’s that in your pocket, Fred?’

‘I found it today coming through the woods and up from the Watermelon Works. I don’t know what it is myself. I’ve never seen anything like it before. What do you think it is?’

He took it out of his pocket and handed it to me. I didn’t know how to hold it. I tried to hold it like you would a flower and a rock at the same time.

‘How do you hold it?’ I said.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything about it.’ . . .

To me, that simple confession, “I didn’t know how to hold it,” perfectly describes Brautigan’s feelings toward life itself. How do you hold something that is infinite, delicate, and always changing? The answer: You don’t. You write a book instead, give it to the world, and hope it takes root in watermelon sugar.

Richard Brautigan was born January 30, 1935, in the Pacific Northwest. He lived for many years in San Francisco, and was called by many “the last of the Beats.” He committed suicide in Bolinas, California, at the age of forty-nine.

William Michaelian: The Wall Poems of Leiden

If I remember correctly, I posted the following entry in the Highly Recommended section of my website about two years ago. The Wall Poems of Leiden site is definitely worth visiting. I see the Project is now complete, and that it contains 101 poems in all.

Recently in my literary Web wanderings, I stumbled onto a link to a wonderful outdoor poetry project in the Netherlands city of Leiden. The Wall Poems of Leiden gives the background of the project, which was begun in 1992, and which, when completed, will encompass 101 poems painted on walls throughout the city. The poets represented hail from all corners of the world and include such luminaries as Marina Tsevetayeva, William Carlos Williams, Pablo Neruda, Langston Hughes, Anna Akhmatova, Keats, Yeats, and Rimbaud, as well as many others I’ve never heard of and don’t know how to pronounce. What a truly great and civilized idea! Links are provided to photographs of each wall poem printed in its original language. Below the pictures are English and Dutch translations. Visitors can follow the links from one page to the next in a sort of “walking tour,” or choose links from the complete list on a separate page.

I would love to see something like that here. Maybe there are similar projects scattered around the U.S. If there are, I'd love to know where, and to find out more about them.

William Michaelian: Brain Fever

When I talked to our eldest son on the phone yesterday evening, he told me he had missed work that day because he had a fever. Naturally, I asked him if his fever was accompanied by delirium. He was pleased to report that his thoughts had indeed been running away from him, and that he had found the sensation very agreeable. He said it made him feel like a character in a Dostoevsky novel.

This is exactly what a father needs to hear from his son every now and then. After all, anyone can be ill. But to be ill in the manner of a nervous nineteenth century soul who paces, gesticulates, and wrestles with his conscience is the hallmark of genius.

Brain fever is everywhere in Dostoevsky's writing. Every character of magnitude eventually succumbs to a fortnight of raving, inspired, perhaps, by the author's wild sprees at the roulette table.

. . . I flew to the roulette table as if my whole salvation, my whole way out, was focused in it, and yet, as I’ve already said, before the prince came, I hadn’t even thought of it. And I was going to play, not for myself, but for the prince, on the prince’s money; I can’t conceive what drew me on, but it drew me irresistibly. Oh, never had these people, these faces, these croupiers, these gambling cries, this whole squalid hall at Zershchikov’s, never had it all seemed so loathsome to me, so dismal, so coarse and sad, as this time! I remember only too well the grief and sadness that seized my heart at times during all those hours at the table. But what made me not leave? What made me endure, as if I had taken a fate, a sacrifice, a heroic deed upon myself? I’ll say one thing: I can scarcely say of myself that I was in my right mind then. . . .

— from The Adolescent (also A Raw Youth)
trans. Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky
Alfred A. Knopf (2003)

Dostoevsky's writing also causes brain fever. Really: it is quite the marvelous drug. For another small dose, I recommend his short story, "The Dream of a Ridiculous Man." Once, many years ago, I read the entire piece out loud to my wife while she was making supper. It took me about forty-five minutes, and I was so worked up by the end that I broke down in tears and had chills for the next several hours. We're still married, by the way.

William Michaelian: Bound for Glory

Down in Texas, my gal fainted in the rain,
Down in Texas, my gal fainted in the rain,
I throwed a bucket o’ dirt in her face just to bring her back again.

— Woody Guthrie

There is some priceless writing in Woody Guthrie's Bound for Glory (E.P. Dutton, 1943), a book long on literary merit and full of humor, sadness, and rural wisdom. I grew up among Dust Bowl survivors and their offspring in California's central San Joaquin Valley. A year or so ago, when my youngest son, a restless guitar player in his own right, discovered and lent me the book, it was like hearing their voices all over again.

. . . One day my curiosity licked me. I said that I was going to taste a bottle of that Jake* for myself. Man ought to be interested. I drawed up about a half a mug of root beer. It was cold and nice, and I popped the little stopper out of one of the Jake bottles, and poured the Jake into the root beer. When that Jake hit that beer, it commenced to cook it, and there was seven civil wars and two revolutions broke out inside of that mug. The beer was trying to tame the Jake down and the Jake was trying to eat the beer up. They sizzled and boiled and sounded about like bacon frying. The Jake was chasing the little bubbles and the little bubbles was chasing the Jake, and the beer spun like a whirlpool in a big swift river. It went around and around so fast that it made a little funnel right in the middle. I waited about twenty minutes for it to settle down. Finally it was about the color of a new tan saddle, and about as quiet as it would get. So I bent over it and stuck my ear down over the mug. It was spewing and crackling like a machine gun, but I thought I’d best to drink it before it turned into a waterspout or a dust storm. I took it up and took it down, and it was hot and dry and gingery and spicy, and cloudy, and smooth, and windy and cold, and threatening rain or snow. I took another big swallow and my shirt come unbuttoned and my insides burnt like I was pouring myself full of home-made soapy dishwater. I drank it all down, and when I woke up I was out of a job. . . .

*Jamaica Ginger, a potent Prohibition mixture of ginger and alcohol — W.M.

During the past few months, a lot of attention has been given to Jack Kerouac and the fifty-year anniversary of the publication of On the Road, which, of course, is another kind of book altogether. That attention is deserved. But it's worth remembering, I think, that Guthrie and others zigzagged this country in harder times and rougher conditions, and some great art came of it.

William Michaelian: In Passing

Michael Lee Johnson could have been thinking any number of things when he wrote this little poem back in 1969:

She

Somewhere

she has lost
her shadow.

and now

she stands
still

with nowhere
to go.

And really, in a way, it almost doesn't matter what he was thinking. What matters most, at least to me, is that it's a good poem, and that it popped into my life on a rather strange, quiet day I had recently, after hearing that one of my dear Armenian aunties had passed on at the ripe old age of ninety-five. My blood, Johnson's poem . . . two strangers who met in passing.

William Michaelian has a huge web site. Check it out.

William Michaelian: I Hear America Singing

I still remember what I said when my friend and literary co-conspirator, John Berbrich, told me several years ago that there's a shopping mall on Long Island named after Walt Whitman: "There should have been a huge public outcry over that. What kind of people are we, that we would name a place of generic commercialism after a national treasure?"

We'd been talking about Whitman's colossal stature and my idea of declaring a national Whitman holiday. John, the Long Island-born publisher of the small press quarterly Barbaric Yawp, said — and I'm quoting directly from our conversation as it appears on my website — "Whitman is the monstrous whispering ocean moving eternally beneath the full moon, waves lapping the sand."

"Beautiful," I replied. "And so true. For me, Whitman’s confidence is like Beethoven’s. They were geniuses, creatively bursting at the seams. Their defiant laughter shakes the universe. These days especially, with the news dominated by petty minds cultivating lies, I think we should declare an international Whitman holiday and observe it for at least a year. During that time, we can take stock of ourselves, and perhaps emerge with a higher aim and purpose."

Of course, we go on like this all the time. But I still think about that holiday idea, as well as another John came up with: "I propose that all technological inventions be declared illegal for at least ten years, thereby giving us perhaps a chance to catch up a little bit. This time period may be extended if necessary."

William Michaelian has already prepared for the long nights, the rain and the snow: buy his book Winter Poems here.

William Michaelian: "Rain nails kiss the dance of the shiny road,"

a restless man named Kerouac once scribbled in his notebook. And now, more than fifty years later, I see a thousand tiny hammers hovering above the pavement and striking in rapid, silvery succession. Hammers without hands, lit from an unknown source — the sun tried and failed long ago, put out its last cigarette, they should have seen me in former years — the entire scene etched on the inside of an addict’s eyelid by Gustave Doré.

Recommended reading: Book of Sketches, by Jack Kerouac; Rime of the Ancient Mariner, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, illustrated by Gustave Doré.

William Michaelian's work appears in Cosmopsis Quarterly 1; his two books of poetry are available from Cosmopsis Books.

William Michaelian: Thoreau's "Sounds"

It has long been my feeling that the universe operates on a musical principle — that it is, in fact, a song. Consider the following excerpt from the fourth chapter of Walden:

Sometimes, on Sundays, I heard the bells, the Lincoln, Acton, Bedford, or Concord bell, when the wind was favorable, a faint, sweet, and, as it were, natural melody, worth importing into the wilderness. At a sufficient distance over the woods this sound acquires a certain vibratory hum, as if the pine needles in the horizon were the strings of a harp which it swept. All sound heard at the greatest possible distance produces one and the same effect, a vibration of the universal lyre, just as the intervening atmosphere makes a distant ridge of earth interesting to our eyes by the azure tint it imparts to it. There came to me in this case a melody which the air had strained, and which had conversed with every leaf and needle of the wood, that portion of the sound which the elements had taken up and modulated and echoed from vale to vale. The echo is, to some extent, an original sound, and therein is the magic and charm of it. It is not merely a repetition of what was worth repeating in the bell, but partly the voice of the wood — the same trivial words and notes sung by a wood-nymph.

You can find William Michaelian's two books of poetry at cosmopsis.com/michaelian.