Reading Tristram Shandy

Reading Tristram Shandy
This poem was inspired by Laurence Sterne’s The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman. Written in the eighteenth century, Tristram Shandy is an ambitious, in-depth study of nothing in particular and everything in great detail; indeed, if there is a stone left unturned, it is only because that stone came into being after the book was completed and the author was laid to rest. Tristram Shandy is a feast of words, a lesson in patience, and a refreshing attack on conventional literary wisdom, which isn’t and has never really been wisdom at all, but, rather, a set of rules from which timid writers and readers draw comfort while the world passes them by. Note: A short review of Tristram Shandy can be found in Favorite Books & Authors. Reading Tristram Shandy Beseeching me with weary eyes, my loving bride once said, why not make yourself handy instead of reading Tristram Shandy? There is plenty you could do: the walls need paint the floor has holes the drawers won’t roll yet you scoff and take yourself off to read Tristram Shandy. Ah, but you don’t understand, I patiently explained, Tristram Shandy is like unto a riddle: no sooner does one arrive at the middle than he feels compelled to fiddle or faddle or dawdle or groan for ’tis the mystery of Tristram’s prose that once unraveled will leave the criminals exposed; ’tis the model of his ingenuity that moves the incongruity of this tired old world to a higher, nobler plane; and if ’twas not enough, he echoes the celestial laugh that first brought us here — and in such a way (I continued with warmth and enthusiasm) as to level the rocky field of which our meager yield does little to reveal the extent of our sweat and labor; and even if we set aside the glorious distractions you deride, even then, I maintain the pleasant jumble of his words does act as salve for the soul. Does this mean, said she, the color rising in her cheeks, that you would rather see the house a shambles and the children go unclothed? have ye yet to tire of beans and stains upon your jeans and shoes that reveal your toes? for ’tis the mystery of your wholesome hearty nose buried in Tristram Shandy’s prose that irks me beyond repose; nor can I understand the foolishness you embrace on behalf the sorry human race when that race has long been over and run; not to sound gloomy (said she with stains upon her apron) but ’twas my mother once warned me thus: that a man who reads in the middle of the day from him ’tis best to keep away; verily, I can hear her voice as if ’twere today. What your mother didn’t know, I declared in self-defense, and what you might well learn yourself is that Tristram felt the same way about noses and upon the subject expostulated thus: that his father once plumbed the ancients’ archives for the wisdom they contained (the noses, not the archives); how, then, I ask, should I set aside what you so carelessly deride? moreover, I warn you thus (and perhaps you have not considered): that being handy has never been, and can never be, a cure for a man who reads Tristram Shandy. 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 The Enigmatic Child What Happened to God 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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