James Joyce Singing

James Joyce Singing
By and large, my poems have always been easy to understand. A polite handful require a bit of extra effort, but, in my opinion, at least, the effort is pleasant and has its rewards. Someday, perhaps, I will write something truly difficult like James Joyce�s Ulysses or Finnegans Wake. Indeed, I might even invent a whole new language. But for now I�m content to write poems about James Joyce. Actually, I have only one in that category. It�s called �James Joyce Singing.� It was written April 5, 2005, and is the thirteenth entry in my current work-in-progress, Songs and Letters. For those who might have missed it, I�m pleased to present it here. If you�ve read it before, who knows? � maybe it will make more sense this time around. James Joyce Singing Like his wife, I can only understand him when he sings. But when he speaks, that is when I understand myself. �Nora,� I said, �you must be more forgiving of your old man. He has imagined his death ten thousand times, But dying now is no easier than it was in the beginning. If you don�t believe me, try it yourself.� She took me literally � quite decidedly so. I tendered an apology while her husband sang on. This city is so dark, so dirty, boats line the shore Waiting for coffins full of piano keys. If the singing stops, So will everything else, except for killing and commerce, Which go about spitting like cheerful, illiterate cousins. Another glass was offered. I accepted as I always do, Paid gladly with a curse, toasted the hole in my pocket, Whispered a prayer for my mother, buried the memory Of my father, sailed across the ocean to America, And found my brother at the graveside of his taken bride � Spent she was, had coughed up the bloody lung. Sunny Jim sang on. �I belong here,� he said, �not one bit More than you.� And do you know, it were every word As true as if we had both been left for dead. Two children There be, one a small-year-old, a son, and a little daughter Still finding her way down from the misty mountain. That�s how my brother explained his grief. �Of sorrow I�ve had my fill,� said he, and I helped him Up to his knees. His poor coat was all with mud, His shirt pocket lacked tobacco. I gave his boy a lump Of bread and a swallow from my glass. Said, �Sit beside me, lad, �til your father�s said good-bye.� When he heard Jim singing, he looked him in the eye. Then Nora came around. �He is not himself this evening. Lord, I�m afraid he�ll write another book� � spoken as if he The man were got with child, and she the woman were defiled. �Go down to the grave,� sang Sunny Jim, �go ye down,� As dear sweet Nora sadly wrung her hands. But the lad, oh, the motherless lad, he was smiling. 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 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 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) Caf� 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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