MICHAEL MINASSIAN - POEMS

MICHAEL MINASSIAN’s poems have appeared recently in such journals as The Broken Plate, Comstock Review, Evansville Review, Main Street Rag, and Third Wednesday. He is also a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online magazine. A chapbook of his poems The Arboriculturist was published in 2010. For more information: https://michaelminassian.com

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​FROZEN, NOT RAIN

​In the beginning, you were wearing a dress
which I could not define so called winter
in honor of the cold wind I felt & the color
 
of clouds hanging like icicles tinkling
when you turned to smile & the words
poured from your mouth:
 
lacking an adequate translation
the sub-titles full of misspellings
& bad grammar; snow blowing
 
across the sidewalk, your white
lace gloves, fluttering
like wounded gardenias
 
whose scent reached
me before the elegant
cursive of your lips
 
leaving a red scar
like a frost bitten
winter stain.
 
 
 

​POSTCARD FROM FRANCE

My first time in Paris
I befriended a young
college student
from the Midwest,
spending a few days
haunting the Louvre
and running up the steps
of Montmartre
then rushing into
some bakery to buy
crusty bread and croissants,
hoping to discover
a brilliant new artist
painting along the Seine
until her boyfriend
showed up one Sunday,
spoiling our picnic plans
and taking her away
to Versailles and points South.
 
I never saw her again
but years later
a postcard arrived
sent to my mother’s house –
a painting of the Eiffel Tower
on front of the card
and a brief message
saying she had moved
to France to study art
at the Sorbonne
“Paris isn’t the same
without you,” she wrote,
“but my memory
floats along, a watercolor
I can still see
no matter how many
times I paint it over.”

​

ELEVATOR
​

The man in the elevator
shuffles along in his bathrobe,
taking his bathroom breaks
between the first and second floors.
 
Sleeping in the corner,
greeting the morning riders,
scratching his bare feet,
while still brushing his teeth.
 
He claims he’s not homeless
but won’t leave,
saying the elevator
is better than the street,
 
feasting on stale coffee
and sandwiches,
taken from the ground
floor dumpster.
 
Lately, he’s started
to write poetry
covering the walls
with his words.
 
His best work, he says,
written between
the 12th and 14th floor
somewhere
 
on the metaphysical plane,
before descending,
falling and floating
in a pocket of air
 
reciting his verse
and holding an empty
bowl, begging
from floor to floor.
​

ANTI-MANIFESTO OF 17 DELINQUENTS ​

​It’s not that I’m against the calendar,
    but I don’t like Fridays;
dreading the weekend,
    & weeping on Wednesdays.
 
It’s not that I’m against poetry,
    but I don’t like mixed metaphors,
the tyranny of the workshop,
    or beating the crap out of poems.
 
It’s not that I’m against torture,
    but I don’t like literary conventions,
the Continental Congress,
    or the right to bear automatic weapons.
 
It’s not that I’m against crowds,
    but I don’t like the political discourse,
or being told to cut a line, rhyme,
    attend open readings or poetry slams.
 
It’s not that I’m against performance,
    but I don’t like quantum physics,
the theory of relativity,
    or the idea of divine intervention.
 
It’s not that I’m against searching for a deity,
    but my cab driver in the Bahamas
told me he knows where God resides:
   “there, up there,” he said, pointing towards the sun.
 
 
 

THE LOVER’S LAMENT
​

​I dream of you:
I am obsessed
with your snowy
volcanic
voluptuousness.
 
I am possessed by
your nouns and verbs,
your personal pronouns,
your stories,
your catalogues
of truths and lies.
 
I tear at my hair,
rub my eyes with my fists,
taste salt, snot, and blood;
 
if I were not alone,
I would walk off a cliff
smashing the earth
 
until it split
like the bloody lip
of an unrepentant companion.