Mihran Kalaydjian began studying the piano with great passion at the age of five.
A prize-winner of both national and international competitions. Praised for his big piano presence, Mihran has distinguished himself as a soloist and chamber musician.
Writing In The Shadows
Who am I to know?
The music eerily seeps into my soul.
The day was just by diamonds and by
diamonds they shown.
Now in the darkness my light has flown.
The diamonds have grown cold without light
locked in a box of oceans to cross.
I find solace in the words of strangers
I never meet.
How complete, when empty flees
leaving behind a hole in your soul.
Not even the cold can fill
feel…
…only the touch…the touch…not near.
Sunshine and diamonds..
love and space divided by time.
In my time…in my time…
Mihran Kalaydjian, CHA Consultant,
Writer and Strategist
Little Birds are dining
Warily and well,
Hid in mossy cell:
Hid, I say, by waiters
Gorgeous in their gaiters –
I’ve a Tale to tell.
Little Birds are feeding
Justices with jam,
Rich in frizzled ham:
Rich, I say, in oysters
Haunting shady cloisters –
That is what I am.
Little Birds are teaching
Tigresses to smile,
Innocent of guile:
Smile, I say, not smirkle –
Mouth a semicircle,
That’s the proper style!
Little Birds are sleeping
All among the pins,
Where the loser wins:
Where, I say, he sneezes
When and how he pleases –
So the Tale begins.
Little Birds are writing
Interesting books,
To be read by cooks:
Read, I say, not roasted –
Letterpress, when toasted,
Loses its good looks.
Little Birds are playing
Bagpipes on the shore,
Where the tourists snore:
“Thanks!” they cry. “‘Tis thrilling!
Take, oh take this shilling!
Let us have no more!”
Little Birds are bathing
Crocodiles in cream,
Like a happy dream:
Like, but not so lasting –
Crocodiles, when fasting,
Are not all they seem!
Little Birds are choking
Baronets with bun,
Taught to fire a gun:
Taught, I say, to splinter
Salmon in the winter –
Merely for the fun.
Little Birds are hiding
Crimes in carpet-bags,
Blessed by happy stags:
Blessed, I say, though beaten –
Since our friends are eaten
When the memory flags.
Little Birds are tasting
Gratitude and gold,
Pale with sudden cold:
Pale, I say, and wrinkled –
When the bells have tinkled,
And the Tale is told.