The Enigmatic Child

The Enigmatic Child
Yet another unplanned, unexpected work, “The Enigmatic Child” was written in three sittings over the space of several hours on a single day. It will take much longer, though, to figure out what the poem means, or might possibly mean to those afflicted with intelligence or a disciplined mind. The Enigmatic Child 1. The enigmatic child born, winking, full of light is a father in miniature, a mother in kind an eruption of stars upon the trodden path a jubilant expression of problematic survival a volatile grain of earth stranded in fissured rock a messenger of mad brotherhood and sisterhood graceful, unbending, moving, knowing, ignorant, wise blind as a soft petal, fragrantly veiled by seductive health murdered of its numb surreal past and its revolution in the womb delivered from its ancient mariner’s language and volcanic warmth into the abysmal stupidity of accumulated knowledge the stolid certainty of dammed rivers and subdued continents where great herds of blind creatures in contentment graze goes forth the teacher, the singer, the carpenter, or poet returns the thief, liar, or crucified genius of his time stunned by the miracle of himself, drunk beneath the bow lustful, insistent, preoccupied, arrogant, hungry, gentle, kind a seer of noble passions ruled by inherited values one shoulder against time, the other an angry mate’s rebuff of the mutual plundering of surrendered, forbidden senses oceanic, earthbound, airborne, solemn, mercilessly alone five fingers upon each hand, five toes upon the foot wandering to and fro and back again, weary, errant, despised object of jealous riddance hoarded and preserved roasted over flame, relieved of bone, a remnant of distraction proclaimed in satisfied accomplishment for the record we the people, being of sound mind and body do hereby bequeath this momentarily appropriated heaven in styled increments according to your predetermined worth all rise before you descend, crushed by the ungrateful weight of our divine, resplendent, unfathomable love we give you this day your daily bread and bid you joyous welcome. 2. It is not I, or you, the child replied in warning nor when, or who, but the very firmament that brings me here a troubled mourner banished from another realm nor any worm dreaming sanely in the warmly crusted earth you so foolishly ignore, but an answer to my mother’s breast revealed while she is here, to my father’s paralyzing dream-desire while he is here, to their misunderstood quest while they are here nor any drifting thought-cloud of omniscient passion or displeasure trimmed wick of reason, dry river bed, tamed forest, or shrill night-call that passes over nameless graves polluted by the riven and the shorn silent in translation, devoid of meaning, speechless in unbecoming dumb nor vaguely documented unproof repeated and passed down or well traveled road withered by a pilgrim’s stern, demented gaze but a sweet expression of holy madness, the logic of undeniable life the sorrow and torture of regret, the unawaited, unexpected, unimagined recurrence of that which is good, and which springs eternal not I, or you, yet as powerfully victorious, pathetic, and inevitable nor when, or who, but anxious with helplessness and remorse an open door, a tavern heaving with revelers at dawn, a ship on the horizon suspended between meadowed home and dismal yon brave Odysseus counting sighs, rubbing balm on blistered hands repenting darkness to laugh again and shed his bitter tears to try again though it be certain folly, to believe again in the simplest reasons and notions, to speak his name again as if it held meaning as if the mountains were young again and the gods had descended as if the arrow through his bleeding heart had only now arrived as if the breeze that had borne him here had not forever died these and a thousand other gloried forgottens and unknowns that sleep behind his roaring eyes, his ears cupped to ocean’s sound, the shell of his battered heart a lipless, unbellowed horn while all else in exalted dim sobriety waits, gathers in a mist of minds binding self to raging self like a chain of undiscovered islands where I wait and forever bide my time. Note: Poems, Slightly Used, a growing collection of work first published in my blog, Recently Banned Literature, can be found here. POETRY COLLECTIONS IN PRINT Available from Cosmopsis Books of San Francisco *Winter Poems* by William Michaelian ISBN: 978-0-9796599-0-4 US $11.95; $8.95 at Cosmopsis Books 52 pages. 6x9. Paper. Includes one drawing. San Francisco, June 2007 *Signed, numbered & illustrated copies* *Winter Poems* displays the skills and abilities of Mr. Michaelian at their most elemental level, at the bone. Wandering amidst a barren world, a world scraped bare, he plucks the full moon like fruit from the winter sky, goes mad and befriends a pack of hungry wolves, burns his poems to keep warm. He is a flake of snow, a frozen old man, a spider spinning winter webs. Spring is only a vague notion of a waiting vineyard, crocuses, and ten-thousand babies. The author is alone, musing, reflecting, at times participating. But not quite alone, for he brings the lucky reader along. I’ve been there, to this winter world, and I plan to go back. — John Berbrich, Barbaric Yawp *Another Song I Know — Short Poems* by William Michaelian ISBN: 978-0-9796599-1-1 US $13.95; $10.95 at Cosmopsis Books 80 pages. 6x9. Paper. Includes Author’s Note. San Francisco, June 2007 *Signed, numbered & illustrated copies* *Another Song I Know* is a delightful collection of brief, resilient poems. Reading them, one by one by one, is like taking a walk through our common everyday world and suddenly hearing what the poet hears: the leaves, a coffee cup, chairs — and yes, even people, singing their songs of wisdom, sweetness, and light. *— Tom Koontz, Barnwood* poetry magazine**	Also by William Michaelian POETRY Winter Poems ISBN: 978-0-9796599-0-4 52 pages. Paper. —————————— Another Song I Know ISBN: 978-0-9796599-1-1 80 pages. Paper. —————————— Cosmopsis Books San Francisco Signed copies available Main Page Author’s Note Background Notebook A Listening Thing Among the Living No Time to Cut My Hair One Hand Clapping Songs and Letters Collected Poems Early Short Stories Armenian Translations Cosmopsis Print Editions Interviews News and Reviews Highly Recommended Let’s Eat Favorite Books & Authors Useless Information Conversation Flippantly Answered Questions E-mail & Parting Thoughts *Poetry, Notes & Marginalia:* Recently Banned Literature Collected Poems by William Michaelian A Larger Life Monastery of Psalms Revelation Friends (includes French translation) Summer of Dreams Hunger Is It His Coat? The Boy Who Wrote Letters Forty Days, Forty Nights Papa’s Song (clam chowder blues) The Pilgrim’s Way A Christmas Wish The Teacher The Literary Awakening of America The Healer What Happened to God Reading Tristram Shandy A Prefix of Obscure Meaning He Knows My Only Friend The World I Know We Do Not Need a Poem Three Short Poems The More We Are Looking For I Hear the Earth What Will I Give You? Great Minds Think Alike The Age of Us All I Met My Spirit Claim Denied Summer Days Greek Peppers Another Hard Day James Joyce Singing How Many Stones? At the Armenian Home The Peace Talks The Eggs of March Armenian Music If Poems Were Days Once Again I Lied Frogs One Last Thing Everywhere I Go Up Here On the Hill Pumpkins Winter View What December Said to January Winter Poems Spring Haiku How to Write a Poem, In Three Lessons The Walls Have Ears Why I Don’t Buy Grapes To French Vanilla and All the Other Flavors It Was Early Morning Haiku Someone’s Mother Fall Questions My Old Black Sport Coat The Clerk and the Windmill Roadside Distress, Part 2 Magical Realism (First Prize) Café Poetry Night: Two Poems Short Poem for Spring Short Poem for Summer I Find Him Eating Butterflies For the Sister I Never Had An Absurdist Play The Second Act Essay Of Poets and Other Things
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