The Clerk and the Windmill

The Clerk and the Windmill
Several days ago, when I started working on a new poem, the image of an unclaimed trunk waiting on an old wooden train platform arose in my mind. The trunk was big and black and worn, with tarnished rivets, hinges, and clasps. I was sure it belonged in the poem, but after a few failed attempts I was obliged to leave the trunk where it was. I finished the poem without it. It�s a nice poem. But I�m still wondering about the trunk. What�s inside? Why was it left behind? What happened to its owner? And what would happen if I tried to claim it myself? What are the rules pertaining to unclaimed trunks at old train stations with wooden platforms? Does the station clerk hoard them in the back room? I confess, I�m reluctant to ask. The clerk might think I�m too curious about a matter that shouldn�t concern me. He might even think I murdered the owner of the trunk. Then again, couldn�t I think the same about him? I don�t, of course. He�s a congenial sort, with a white mustache, and he�s getting up in years. In fact, he looks like he might have been born in Denmark. Hmm . . . I wonder. What if I were to walk over to the trunk � casually, as if my train won�t be in for hours � and, when no one is looking, rap lightly on the lid? Would there be an answer? I hope so. Because it seems to me that trunk has some explaining to do. The Clerk and the Windmill The clerk at the railroad station asked why my trunk was so heavy. I said it was because it was full of poems. He smiled, then told me to show him what was inside. I unlocked the trunk and raised the lid. �I don�t see anything,� he said. �It must be the trunk itself that is so heavy.� �Believe that if you must,� I said. �I have nothing to hide. Not even that old windmill.� �Windmill? What windmill?� �The one in the pasture beside the road,� I said. �Where the cows are drinking.� The clerk squinted. �Do you mean the road leading to the mountains?� �Yes,� I said, �that�s the one.� Although the truth is, I hadn�t noticed the mountains there myself. Imagine, missing something as big as a mountain! And so I got into the trunk, and followed the clerk down the road. I was eager to find out where he�d been, and what else he knew. 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 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 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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