EpigramsA Poem by Michael R. Burch Epigrams and Early Poems/Juvenilia by Michael R. Burch EPIGRAMS and EARLY POEMS by Michael R. Burch Styx This is one of my early poems, written as a teenager. I believe it was my first epigram after "Bible Libel." Bible Libel by Michael R. Burch . . . qui laetificat juventutem meam . . . I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I believe this early poem was my first translation. Liquid Assets by Michael R. Burch And so I have loved you, and so I have lost, accrued disappointment, ledgered its cost, debited wisdom, credited pain... My assets remaining are liquid again. This is an early poem, written as a teenager during a college accounting class. Bound
by Michael R. Burch
Now it is winter ― the coldest night. And as the light of the streetlamp casts strange shadows to the ground,
I have lost what I once found
in your arms.
Now it is winter ― the coldest night. And as the light of distant Venus fails to penetrate dark panes,
I have remade all my chains
and am bound.
This is an early poem, written around age 14 or 15. It was published as “Why Did I Go?” in my high school journal, The Lantern. Ironic Vacation by Michael R. Burch Salzburg. Seeing Mozart's baby grand piano. Standing in the presence of sheer incalculable genius. Grabbing my childish pen to write a poem & challenge the Immortals. Next stop, the catacombs! Fahr an' Ice by Michael R. Burch (apologies to Robert Frost and Ogden Nash) From what I know of death, I'll side with those who'd like to have a say in how it goes: just make mine cool, cool rocks (twice drowned in likker) , and real fahr off, instead of quicker.
Divinity: a Nod to the Master of the Epigram Form
If every witty thing that’s said were true, The Whole of Wit If brevity is the soul of wit Conformists (Winner of the National Poetry Month Couplet Competition)
(T)rue Gold
Nun Fun Undone by Michael R. Burch Saving Graces
Life’s saving graces are love, pleasure, laughter ...
Laughter’s Cry Because life is a mystery, we laugh
Because death is a mystery, we cry Negligibles Negotiables Skalded Fierce ancient skalds summoned verse from their guts;
Vice Squad There’s no need to rant about Al-Qaeda and ISIS.
Lance-Lot
Preposterous bird!
Until the great & mighty heron Less Heroic Couplets: Murder Most Fowl! “Murder most foul!” cried the mouse to the owl. “Friend, I’m no sinner; you’re merely my dinner. the wise owl replied as the tasty snack died. (Published by Lighten Up Online and in Potcake Chapbook #7) What is life? Are mayflies missed by mountains? Do stars applaud the glowworm’s stellar mimicry? ―Michael R. BurchThat country wench bewitches your heart? Hell, her most beguiling art's hiking her dress to seduce you with her ankles' nakedness! ―Sappho, fragment 57, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Sinking by Michael R. Burch for Virginia Woolf Weigh me down with stones ... fill all the pockets of my gown ... I’m going down, mad as the world that can’t recover, to where even mermaids drown ... Arse Brevis, Emendacio Longa by Michael R. Burch The Donald may tweet from sun to sun, but his spellchecker’s work is never done. Birdsong Birdsong relieves Elevate your words, not their volume. Rain grows flowers, not thunder. ―Rumi, translation by Michael R. Burch while the sage (who has to duck his head whenever the moon glows) keeps dispensing keys all night long to the beautiful, rowdy, prison gang. ―Hafiz, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch While nothing can save us from death, still love can redeem each breath. ―Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch An unbending tree breaks easily. ―Lao Tzu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Once fanaticism has gangrened brains the incurable malady invariably remains. ―Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Religion is the opiate of the people.―Karl Marx Religion is the dopiate of the sheeple.―Michael R. Burch Little sparks may ignite great Infernos.―Dante, translation by Michael R. Burch No wind is favorable to the man who lacks direction.―Seneca the Younger, translation by Michael R. Burch You can crop all the flowers but you cannot detain spring.―Pablo Neruda, translation by Michael R. Burch A man may attempt to burnish pure gold, but who can think to improve on his mother?―Mahatma Gandhi, translation by Michael R. Burch Warmthless beauty attracts but does not hold us; it floats like hookless bait.―Capito, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Love distills the eyes’ desires, love bewitches the heart with its grace.―Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch The danger is not aiming too high and missing, but aiming too low and hitting the mark.―Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch AIM HIGH If we shoot for the stars to only end up on Mars, that's still quite a trip. The choice is ours. �"Michael R. Burch He who follows will never surpass.―Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch Nothing enables authority like silence.―Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch Blinding ignorance misleads us. Myopic mortals, open your eyes!―Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch It is easier to oppose evil from the beginning than at the end.―Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch Time is sufficient for anyone who uses it wisely.―Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch My objective is not to side with the majority, but to avoid the ranks of the insane.―Marcus Aurelius, translation by Michael R. Burch Truths are more likely discovered by one man than by nations.―René Descartes, translation by Michael R. Burch To know what we do know, and to know what we don't, is true knowledge.―Confucius, sometimes incorrectly attributed to Nicolaus Copernicus, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Where our senses fail, reason must prevail. ―Galileo Galilei, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Booksellers laud authors for novel editions Fools call wisdom foolishness.―Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch
Religion is the dopiate of the sheeple.―Michael R. Burch
Improve yourself by others' writings, attaining freely what they purchased at the expense of experience. �" Socrates, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Chiasmus and Spoonerisms To avoid being a hack writer, hack away at your writing.―Michael R. Burch To fall an inch short of infinity is to fall infinitely short.―Michael R. Burch Love is either wholly folly Love's full of cute paradoxes When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced. Native American Proverb Childless by Michael R. Burch How can she bear her grief? Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight of one fallen star. Stormfront by Michael R. Burch Our distance is frightening: a distance like the abyss between heaven and earth interrupted by bizarre and terrible lightning. Autumn Conundrum by Michael R. Burch It's not that every leaf must finally fall, it's just that we can never catch them all. (Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, this poem has been translated into Russian, Macedonian, Turkish and Romanian) Piercing the Shell by Michael R. Burch If we strip away all the accouterments of war, perhaps we'll discover what the heart is for. (Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea, this poem has been translated into Russian, Arabic, Turkish and Macedonian) Love is either wholly folly, Despite my stormy demeanor, Not Elves, Exactly by Michael R. Burch Something there is that likes a wall, that likes its pikes’ sharp rows of teeth (wherever they come from, far or wide) 15 Seconds Our president’s sex life―atrocious! His "briefings"―bizarre hocus-pocus! Politics―"a shell game. My brief moment of fame?
Long Division by Michael R. Burch All things become one
Meal Deal by Michael R. Burch Love is a splendid ideal
Self-ish by Michael R. Burch Let’s not pretend we “understand” other elves Bible Libel by Michael R. Burch since GOD created u so gullible Multiplication, Tabled (for the Religious Right) “Be fruitful and multiply”? by Michael R. Burch Sound the awesome cannons. Recite their names to the heavens When I learned there’s an American military organization, the DPAA (Defense POW/MIA Accounting Agency), that is still finding and bringing home the bodies of soldiers who died serving their country in World War II, after blubbering like a baby, I managed to eke out this poem. Sex Hex by Michael R. Burch Love's full of cute paradoxes (and highly acute poxes) . (Published by Asses of Parnassus and Lighten Up) Kin
what do we know of love, The Greatest of These ...
Angelic flesh, now parchment, But her undimmed eyes still embrace me; I can almost believe such unfathomable love escape! for anaïs vionet to live among the daffodil folk . . . Piecemeal by Michael R. Burch And so it begins―the ending. The narrowing veins, the soft tissues rending. Your final solution is pending. (A pale Piggy-Wiggy will discount your demise as no biggie.) Fleet Tweet: Apologies to Shakespeare by Michael R. Burch @mikerburch A tweet by any other name would be as fleet. Fleet Tweet II: Further Apologies to Shakespeare by Michael R. Burch @mikerburch Remember, doggonit, heroic verse crowns the Shakespearean sonnet! So if you intend to write a couplet, please do it on the doublet! Midnight Stairclimber by Michael R. Burch Procreation is at first great sweaty recreation, then―long, long after the sex dies― the source of endless exercise. Teddy Roosevelt spoke softly and carried a big stick; Donald Trump speaks loudly and carries a big shtick. by Michael R. Burch Roses are red, Daffodils are yellow, But not half as daffy As that taffy-colored fellow! Cameo
by Michael R. Burch
Breathe upon me the breath of life;
gaze upon me with sardonyx eyes.
Here, where times flies
in the absence of light,
all ecstasies are intimations of night.
Hold me tonight in the spell I have cast;
promise what cannot be given.
Show me the stairway to heaven.
Jacob's-ladder grows all around us;
Jacob's ladder was fashioned of onyx.
So breathe upon me the breath of life;
gaze upon me with sardonic eyes . . .
and, if in the morning I am not wise,
at least then I’ll know if this dream we call life
was worth the surmise.
This early poem was written around age 21. Mongrel Dreams These nights bring dreams of Cherokee shamans Cherokee Travelers' Blessing I I will extract the thorns from your feet. Cherokee Travelers' Blessing II Happily may you walk Cherokee Travelers' Blessing III May Heaven’s warming winds blow gently there, Native American Travelers' Blessing Let us walk respectfully here Native American Prayer Help us learn the lessons you have left us here Cherokee Prayer As I walk life's trails This prayer makes me think of Native Americans walking the Trail of Tears with far more courage and dignity than their “civilized” abusers. Cherokee Proverb Before you judge Sioux Vision Quest A man must pursue his Vision Native American Proverbs The soul would see no Rainbows if not for the eyes’ tears. A brave man dies but once, a coward many times. When you were born, you cried and the world rejoiced. A woman’s highest calling is to help her man unite with the Source. I translated these blessings, prayers and proverbs when my father, Paul Ray Burch Jr., chose to end his life by declining to submit to dialysis treatments. Earthbound Tashunka Witko, better known as Crazy Horse, had a vision of a red-tailed hawk at Sylvan Lake, South Dakota. Like a bird, This is an early poem written in my late teens or early twenties. When Pigs Fly On the Trail of Tears, When we lie in our graves, Native Americans understood the "circle of life" better than their white oppressors ... In My House This poem looks back to the dark days of slavery and the Civil War it produced.
Manifest Destiny? This is my song, When you are in my house, I feel the song We were wrong. I feel my tongue We were wrong; Published by Black Medina The Complete Redefinitions Faith: falling into the same old claptrap.―Michael R. Burch Religion: the ties that blind.―Michael R. Burch Salvation: falling for allure: hook, line and stinker.―Michael R. Burch Trickle down economics: an especially pungent golden shower.―Michael R. Burch Canned political applause: clap track for the claptrap.―Michael R. Burch Baseball: lots of spittin' mixed with occasional hittin'.―Michael R. Burch Lingerie: visual foreplay.―Michael R. Burch A straight flush is a winning hand. A straight-faced flush is when you don't give it away.―Michael R. Burch Lust: a chemical affair.―Michael R. Burch Believer: A speck of dust / animated by lust / brief as a mayfly / and yet full of trust.―Michael R. Burch Theologian: someone who wants life to “make sense” / by believing in a “god” infinitely dense.―Michael R. Burch Skepticism: The murderer of Eve / cannot be believed.―Michael R. Burch Death: This dream of nothingness we fear / is salvation clear.―Michael R. Burch Insuresurrection: The dead are always with us, and yet they are naught!―Michael R. Burch Marriage: a seldom-observed truce / during wars over money / and a red-faced papoose.―Michael R. Burch Is “natural affection” affliction? / Is “love” nature’s sleight-of-hand trick / to get us to reproduce / whenever she feels the itch?―Michael R. Burch The Least of These... What you do to the refugee you do unto Me! ―Jesus Christ, translation/paraphrase by Michael R. Burch The Church Gets the Burch Rod How can the Bible be "infallible" when from Genesis to Revelation slavery is commanded and condoned, but never condemned?―Michael R. Burch If God is good half the Bible is libel. ―Michael R. Burch I have my doubts about your God and his "love": If one screams below, what the hell is "Above"? ―Michael R. Burch If God has the cattle on a thousand hills, why does he need my tithes to pay his bills? ―Michael R. Burch The best tonic for other people's bad ideas is to think for oneself.―Michael R. Burch Hell hath no fury like a fundamentalist whose God condemned him for having "impure thoughts."―Michael R. Burch Religion is the difficult process of choosing the least malevolent invisible friends.―Michael R. Burch Religion is the opiate of the people.―Karl Marx Religion is the dopiate of the sheeple.―Michael R. Burch An ideal that cannot be realized is, in the end, just wishful thinking.―Michael R. Burch God and his "profits" could never agree on any gospel acceptable to an intelligent flea. ―Michael R. Burch To fall an inch short of infinity is to fall infinitely short.―Michael R. Burch Most Christians make God seem like the Devil. Atheists and agnostics at least give him the "benefit of the doubt."―Michael R. Burch Hell has been hellishly overdone since Jehovah and his prophets never mentioned it once. ―Michael R. Burch (Bible scholars agree: the word "hell" has been removed from the Old Testaments of the more accurate modern Bible translations. And the few New Testament verses that mention "hell" are obvious mistranslations.) Wonderland We stood, kids of the Lamb, to put to test Clodhoppers by Michael R. Burch If you trust the Christian "god" you're―like Adumb―a clod. If every witty thing that's said were true, Oscar Wilde, the world would worship You! ―Michael R. Burch Questionable Credentials by Michael R. Burch Poet? Critic? Dilettante? Do you know what's good, or do you merely flaunt? (Published by Asses of Parnassus, the first poem in the April 2017 issue) Dry Hump by Michael R. Burch You came to me as rain breaks on the desert when every flower springs to life at once, but joy is an illusion to the expert: the Bedouin has learned how not to want. Lines in Favor of Female Muses by Michael R. Burch I guess Asses of Parnassus are okay... But those Lasses of Parnassus? My! Olé! (Published by Asses of Parnassus) Meal Deal by Michael R. Burch Love is a splendid ideal (at least till it costs us a meal) . Long Division by Michael R. Burch as Kim Cherub All things become one Through death's long division And perfect precision. i o u by mrb i might have said it but i didn't u might have noticed but u wouldn't we might have been us but we couldn't u might respond but probably shouldn't Mate Check by Michael R. Burch Love is an ache hearts willingly secure then break the bank to cure. Incompatibles by Michael R. Burch Reason's treason! cries the Heart. Love's insane, replies the Brain. (Originally published by Light) Death is the ultimate finality of reality. ―Michael R. Burch Stage Fright by Michael R. Burch To be or not to be? In the end Hamlet opted for naught. Grave Oversight I by Michael R. Burch The dead are always with us, and yet they are naught! Grave Oversight II by Michael R. Burch for Jim Dunlap, who winked and suggested “not” The dead are either naught or naughty, being so sought! Feathered Fiends by Michael R. Burch Fascists of a feather flock together. Why the Kid Gloves Came Off by Michael R. Burch for Lemuel Ibbotson It's hard to be a man of taste in such a waste: hence the lambaste. Housman was right... by Michael R. Burch It's true that life's not much to lose, so why not hang out on a cloud? It's just the bon voyage is hard and the objections loud. Descent by Michael R. Burch I have listened to the rain all this morning and it has a certain gravity, as if it knows its destination, perhaps even its particular destiny. I do not believe mine is to be uplifted, although I, too, may be flung precipitously and from a great height. Reading between the lines by Michael R. Burch Who could have read so much, as we? Having the time, but not the inclination, TV has become our philosophy, sheer boredom, our recreation. Imperfect Perfection by Michael R. Burch You're too perfect for words― a problem for a poet. Expert Advice by Michael R. Burch Your breasts are perfect for your lithe, slender body. Please stop making false comparisons your hobby! Biblical Knowledge or "Knowing Coming and Going" by Michael R. Burch The wisest man the world has ever seen had fourscore concubines and threescore queens? This gives us pause, and so we venture hence― he "knew" them, wisely, in the wider sense. Snap Shots by Michael R. Burch Our daughters must be celibate, die virgins. We triangulate their early paths to heaven (for the martyrs they'll soon conjugate) . We like to hook a little tail. We hope there's decent a*s in jail. Don't fool with us; our bombs are smart! (We'll send the plans, ASAP, e-mail.) The soul is all that matters; why hoard gold if it offends the eye? A pension plan? Don't make us laugh! We have your plan for sainthood. (Die.) I sampled honeysuckle and it made my taste buds buckle. ―Michael R. Burch The State of the Art A poet may work from sun to sun, but his editor's work is never done. The editor's work is never done. The critic adjusts his cummerbund. While the critic adjusts his cummerbund, the audience exits to mingle and slum. As the audience exits to mingle and slum, the anthologist rules, a pale jury of one. Prose Epigrams
• We can't change the past, but we can learn from it.―Michael R. Burch • When I was being bullied, I had to learn not to judge myself by the opinions of intolerant morons. Then I felt much better.―Michael R. Burch • Intolerance is unsuccessful because one cannot argue successfully against success.―Michael R. Burch • The most common cliché in contemporary poetry is: "Show, don't tell / no ideas but in things / fear abstractions." Unfortunately, someone forgot to inform Shakespeare and Milton.―Michael R. Burch • The craziest fantasy of all is that human beings will ever act in their own and the planet's best interests.―Michael R. Burch • How can we predict the future, when tomorrow is as uncertain as Trump's next tweet?―Michael R. Burch • Poetry is the art of finding the right word at the right time.―Michael R. Burch • Love is exquisite torture.―Michael R. Burch (written after reading "It's Only My Heart" by Mirza Ghalib) • Poetry is the art of finding the right word at the right time.―Michael R. Burch • Poetry moves the heart as well as the reason.―Michael R. Burch • Poetry is the marriage of ideas and emotions, begetting music.―Michael R. Burch • The best epigrams delight us into wisdom.―Michael R. Burch The editors of Poetry know no more about poetry than I do about basket-weaving, except that I know a good basket when I have it in my hands.―Michael R. Burch The Golden Rule is much easier to recite than observe.―Michael R. Burch
Consider a Golden Mean when the Golden Rule is employed. Some people are much harder on themselves than on others.―Michael R. Burch
by Michael R. Burch To write an epigram, cram. Brief Fling II “Epigram” Brief Fling III No one gives a damn about my epigram? The Whole of Wit for and after Richard Moore If brevity is the soul of wit Ars Brevis, Proofreading Longa Poets may labor from sun to sun,
Love is her Belief and her Commandment by Michael R. Burch for Beth Love is her belief and her commandment; in restless dreams at night, she dreams of Love; and Love is her desire and her purpose; and everywhere she goes, she sings of Love. There is a tomb in Palestine: for others the chance to stake their claims (the Chosen Ones), but in her eyes, it’s Love’s most hallowed chancel where Love was resurrected, where one comes in wondering awe to dream of resurrection to blissful realms, where Love reigns over all with tenderness, with infinite affection. While some may mock her faith, still others wonder because they see the rare state of her soul, and there are rumors: when she prays the heavens illume more brightly, as if saints concur who keep a constant vigil over her. And once she prayed beside a dying woman: the heavens opened and the angels came in the form of long-departed friends and loved ones, to comfort and encourage. I believe not in her God, but always in her Love. The Communion of Sighs by Michael R. Burch There was a moment without the sound of trumpets or a shining light, but with only silence and darkness and a cool mist felt more than seen. I was eighteen, my heart pounding wildly within me like a fist. Expectation hung like a cry in the night, and your eyes shone like the corona of a comet. There was an instant . . . without words, but with a deeper communion, as clothing first, then inhibitions fell; liquidly our lips met ―feverish, wet― forgotten, the tales of heaven and hell, in the immediacy of our fumbling union . . . when the rest of the world became distant. Then the only light was the moon on the rise, and the only sound, the communion of sighs. Oasis
I want tears to course down in the heart of a desert. to a nomad who A Surfeit of Light
We were all pioneers of the modern expedient race, We were never quite sure of your silver allure, You told us that night―your wound would not scar. The black moment passed, then you were no more. The day of your funeral, I ripped out the crown mold. Completing the Pattern
and manicured green lawns. The sky’s azure, Yasna 28, Verse 6
by Michael R. Burch Toss this poem aside Strike my name, of night is in the despairing skies; and my heart sighs with her― The moon appears; the arms of the wind lift her, are beings of hurried and harried despair. Cornsilk tassels the moonbright air. Originally published by Romantics Quarterly Shock It was early in the morning of the forming of my soul, that I cried out through the tumult of the raging storm on high This is one of my early poems, written in my teens. It was published by Penny Dreadful, The Eclectic Muse, Fullosia Press, Raider’s Digest, Voices in a Midnight Mind and Poetry Life & Times Farewell to Faith I
Farewell to Faith II Confronted by the awesome thought of death, Original Prose Epigrams
We cannot change the past, but we can learn from it.―Michael R. Burch When I was being bullied, I had to learn not to judge myself by the opinions of intolerant morons. Then I felt much better.―Michael R. Burch Thanks to politicians like George W. Bush, Sarah Palin, Michelle Bachmann and Donald Trump, we now have a duh-mock-racy.―Michael R. Burch Time will tell, as it always does in the end.―Michael R. Burch Experience is the best teacher but a hard taskmaster.―Michael R. Burch The best tonic for other people's bad ideas is to think for oneself.―Michael R. Burch An ideal that cannot be realized is, in the end, just wishful thinking.―Michael R. Burch Intolerance is unsuccessful because one cannot argue successfully against success.―Michael R. Burch Poetry is the art of finding the right word at the right time.―Michael R. Burch The best epigrams delight us into wisdom.―Michael R. Burch Wayne Gretzky was pure skill poured into skates.―Michael R. Burch Cassidy Hutchinson is not only credible, but her courage and poise under fire have been incredible.―Michael R. Burch Cassidy Hutchinson is a modern Erin Brockovich except that in her case the well has been poisoned for the whole country.―Michael R. Burch One man's coronation is another man's consternation.―Michael R. Burch The most dangerous words ever uttered by human lips are 'Thus saith the LORD.'―Michael R. Burch Hell has been hellishly overdone.―Michael R. Burch
What is life?
I didn’t mean to love you, but I did. Best leave the rest unsaid, hid- den and unbidden. ―Michael R. Burch You imagine life is good, but have you actually understood? ―Michael R. Burch Living with a body ain’t much fun. Harder, still, to live without one. Whatever happened to our day in the sun? ―Michael R. Burch How little remains of our joys and our pains. How little remains of our losses and gains. How little remains of whatever remains. ―Michael R. Burch Sometimes I feel better, it’s true, but mostly I’m still not over you. ―Michael R. Burch Don’t let the past defeat you. Learn from it, but don’t dwell. Have no regrets at “farewell.” ―Michael R. Burch Haughty moon, when did I ever trouble you, insomnia’s co-conspirator! ―Michael R. Burch Every day’s a new chance to lose weight, but most likely, I’ll ... procrastinate ... ―Michael R. Burch Big Ben Boner by Michael R. Burch Early to bed, hurriedly to rise makes a man stealthy, and that’s why he’s wealthy: what the hell is he doing behind your closed eyes? Friend, how you’ll squirm when you belatedly learn that you’re the worm! Pecking Disorder by Michael R. Burch Love has a pecking order, or maybe a dis-order, a hell we recognize if we merely open our eyes: the attractive win at birth, while those of ample girth are deemed of little worth from Nottingham to Perth. Nottingham is said to have the most beautiful women in the world. Tease by Michael R. Burch It’s what you always say, okay? It’s what you always say: C’mon let’s play, roll in the hay, It’s what you always say. Ole! But little do you do, it’s true. But little do you do. A little diddle, run to piddle ... we never really screw! That’s you! Observance (II) by Michael R. Burch fifty years later... The trees are in their autumn beauty, majestic to the eye. Whoever felt as I, whoever felt them doomed to die despite their flamboyant colors? They seem like knights of dismal countenance ... as if, windmills themselves, they might tilt with the bloody sky. And yet their favors gaily fly! KEYWORDS/TAGS: epigram, epigrams, love, life, living, fun, sun, joy, pain, past, sad, sadness
ERINNA Erinna is widely regarded, at least by those who have read her, as second only to Sappho among the ancient Greek female poets. Little is known about her life; Erinna has been called a contemporary of Sappho and her most gifted student, but she may have lived up to a few hundred years later. Excerpts from "Distaff" by Erinna loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch … the moon rising … … leaves falling … … waves lapping a windswept shore … … and our childish games, Baucis, do you remember? ... ... Leaping from white horses into the deeper waves, running on reckless feet through the great courtyard. "You're it! ' I cried, ‘You're the Tortoise now! " But when your turn came to pursue your pursuers, you darted beyond the courtyard, dashed out deep into the waves, splashing far beyond us … … My poor Baucis, these tears I now weep are your warm memorial, these traces of embers still smoldering in my heart for our silly amusements, now that you lie ash … … Do you remember how, as girls, we played at weddings with our dolls, pretending to be brides in our innocent beds? ... ... How sometimes I was your mother, allotting wool to the weaver-women, calling for you to unreel the thread? ... … Do you remember our terror of the monster Mormo with her huge ears, her forever-flapping tongue, her four slithering feet, her shape-shifting face? ... ... Until you mother called for us to help with the salted meat... ... But when you mounted your husband's bed, dearest Baucis, you forgot your mothers' warnings! Aphrodite made your heart forgetful... ... Desire becomes oblivion... ... Now I lament your loss, my dearest friend. I can't bear to think of that dark crypt. I can't bring myself to leave the house. I refuse to profane your corpse with my tearless eyes. I refuse to cut my hair, but how can I mourn with my hair unbound? I blush with shame at the thought of you! … ... But in this dark house, O my dearest Baucis, My deep grief is ripping me apart. Wretched Erinna! Only nineteen, I moan like an ancient crone, eying this strange distaff... O Hymen! ... O Hymenaeus! ... Alas, my poor Baucis! Translator’s note: Baucis is also spelled Baukis. Keywords/Tags: elegy, eulogy, child, childhood, death, death of a friend, lament, lamentation, epitaph, grave, funeral Here only a voice’s useless echo reaches Hades where there is not an ear among the unseeing dead. �"Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This portrait is the work of sensitive, artistic hands. See, noble Prometheus, you have human equals! For if whoever painted this girl had only added a voice, she would have been Agatharkhis entirely. �"Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Passing by, passing by my oft-bewailed pillar, shudder, my new friend to hear my tragic story: of how my pyre was lit by the same fiery torch meant to lead the procession to my nuptials in glory! O Hymenaeus, why did you did change my bridal song to a dirge? Strange! �"Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You, my tall Columns, and you, my small Urn, receptacle of Hades’ tiny pittance of ash�" remember me to those who pass by my grave, as they dash. Tell them my story, sad as it is: that this grave sealed a young bride’s womb; that my name was Baucis and Telos my land; and that Erinna, my friend, etched this poem on my Tomb. �"Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Stele, inscription and lamentable urn containing my meager remains, now property of Hades, tell passersby my story, sad as it is: how this mausoleum sealed a young bride’s womb; that my name was Baucis, Telos my land; and that my friend Erinna etched this epigram on my Tomb. �"Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Erinna engraved this epigram on my tombstone. �"Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch On a Betrothed Girl by Erinna loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I sing of Baucis the bride. Observing her tear-stained crypt tell Death who dwells underground: "Thou art envious, O Death!" Her monument reminds passersby of the bitter misfortune of Baucis �" how her father-in-law burned the poor girl on a pyre lit by bright torches meant to light her marriage train home. While thou, O Hymenaeus, transformed her harmonious bridal song into the mournful wail of the threnos. Hymen! O Hymenaeus! threnos: threnody, a wailing ode, song, hymn or poem of mourning composed and/or performed as a memorial to a dead person. ANYTE Anyte of Tegea (fl. 300 BC) was a Hellenistic poet from Tegea in Arcadia. Little is known of her life, but 24 epigrams attributed to her appeared in the Greek Anthology, with 19 generally considered authentic. Anyte was one of nine outstanding ancient female poets listed by Antipater of Thessalonica in the Palatine Anthology. Anyte has been credited with inventing the pastoral epigram and her invention may have influenced Theocritus and was adapted by later poets, including Ovid. Stranger, rest your weary legs beneath the elms; hear how coolly the breeze murmurs through their branches; then take a bracing draught from the mountain-fed fountain; for this is welcome shade from the burning sun. �"Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Here I stand, Hermes, in the crossroads by the windswept elms near the breezy beach, providing rest to sunburned travelers, and cold and brisk is my fountain’s abundance. �"Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Sit here, quietly shaded by the luxuriant foliage, and drink cool water from the sprightly spring, so that your weary breast, panting with summer’s labors, may take rest from the blazing sun. �"Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This is the grove of Cypris, for it is fair for her to look out over the land to the bright deep, that she may make the sailors’ voyages happy, as the sea trembles, observing her brilliant image. �"Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch For her grasshopper, the night-fiddler, and her tiny oak-dwelling cicada, little Myro built a funeral mound then shed a maidenly tear, for unpersuadable Hades had made off with her playmates! �"Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Often lamenting at the tomb of her daughter, Cleina, the mother, cried out for her dear dead child, departed too soon. Entreating the soul of understanding Philaenis, who had crossed the pale Acheron unmarried. �"Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch According to Nicole Loraux, no public comment on a woman’s death was considered acceptable in classical Athens. The standard of public silence for an unmarried woman who died would have been even more severe. I mourn the maiden Antiba, for whom many men came courting to her father’s house, attracted by her beauty and wisdom, but alas annihilating Fate hurled her beyond their reach. �"Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Forgoing a bedchamber and marriage’s warm rites, your mother placed upon this cold albescent tomb a maiden statue, having your form and likeness, so that you, Thersis, can yet be remembered and saluted. �"Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You perished beside a deeply-rooted bush, Locris, swiftest of the ebullient noisesome puppies, as a speckle-necked snake injected its cruel poison into your nimble limb. �"Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The young men buried you, their captain, Pheidias. Dying, you doomed them to dark grief, like children for their mother. And yet your headstone sings this beautiful song … That you died fighting for your beloved country. �"Anyte, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Here “noisesome” is a bit of a coinage as I mean both noisy and bothersome, although I’m sure Anyte would have been glad to get that bit of frisky trouble back. NOSSIS Nossis (fl. 300 BC) was a Hellenistic poet from Epizephyrian Locris in Magna Graecia. Probably well-educated and from a noble family, she had twelve epigrams in the Greek Anthology, with one possibly written by another poet in imitation of her style, which would have made her a poet of note at that time. There is nothing sweeter than love. All other delights are secondary. Thus, I spit out even honey. This is what Gnossis says: Whomever Aphrodite does not love, Is bereft of her roses. �"Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Most reverend Hera, the oft-descending from heaven, attend your Lacinian shrine fragrant with incense and there receive the linen mantle your noble child Nossis, daughter of Theophilis and Cleocha, has woven for you. �"Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Apparently Theophilis was Nossis's mother and Cleocha her grandmother. Stranger, if you sail to Mitylene, her homeland of beautiful dances, to indulge in the most exquisite graces of Sappho, remember I also was loved by the Muses, who bore me and reared me in Locris. My name, never forget it!, is Nossis. Now go! �"Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Pass me by with ringing laughter, then award me an appreciative word: I am Rhinthon, scion of Syracuse, the Muses’s smallest nightingale; yet with my tragic burlesques I was able to pluck an ivy, uniquely my own. �"Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Rhinthon was a parodist in an age when the laurels went to dramatists like Aeschylus, Euripides and Sophocles. Let’s visit Aphrodite’s shrine to see her statue, finely wrought and embellished with gold, which Polyarchis the courtesan dedicated to her, having made a fortune from her body’s splendor! �"Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Aphrodite will receive this gift, joyfully, I think, it being Samthya’s own headdress, for it’s elaborate and fragrantly perfumed. With it she also anoints the beautiful Adonis. �"Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Sabaethis’s image is known from afar due to its stature and beauty. Even here we recognize her prudence, her kindness. Godspeed, blessed lady! �"Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This tablet portrays Thaumareta, aptly conveying the ripeness and pride of the tender-eyed girl. Even your watchdog would wag its tail, thinking her its mansion’s mistress! �"Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Melinna is finely wrought. Her tender face! See how she seems to gaze at us benignly! How splendidly the daughter resembles her mother! Isn’t it nice when children duplicate their parents? �"Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The Bruttians flung these shields aside as they fled from the fleet-footed Locrians. Now hung from temple ceilings, the shields praise the Locrians’ valor. Nor do they desire the arms of the cowards they deserted. �"Nossis, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch CALLO In the next poem Callo, a female poet, dedicates her picture to Aphrodite: Callo placed this tablet in blonde Aphrodite’s temple, a portrait she painted, faithful in every regard. See how tenderly she stands! See how her charm blossoms! May she flourish, for her conduct is blameless. �"Callo, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch CORINNA Corinna or Korinna was an ancient Greek poet who lived in Tanagra, Boeotia, where she wrote in the Boeotian dialect of Greek and achieved wide fame sometime between the fifth and third centuries BC. Her work survives only in fragments and in several shorter pieces quoted by ancient grammarians. She wrote primarily about Boeotian mythology. According to one source, she defeated Pindar in five poetry competitions! I come to sing of heroes' and heroines' courageous deeds.�"Corinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Mount Helicon, father of fair offspring, friend of the wayfarer, beloved of the Muses!�"Corinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Terpsichora calls me to sing beautifully of heroes for Tanagra's white-clad daughters and my city rejoices, hearing my clear, evocative voice. �"Corinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Terpsichora was the Muse associated with the choral dance. I indeed censure even sweet-voiced Myrtis, for, having been born a woman, she chose to compete against Pindar! �"Corinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch THE SINGING CONTEST OF HELICON AND CITHAERON by Corinna loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The text in brackets was missing and has been filled in imaginatively. The chorus gathered well-garlanded atop Olympus as the musicians tuned their lyre-strings to the mountains’ great height and rarefied air, while tribes of asses brayed and jockeyed for position, as always a discordant family. Then Cithaeron sang of how the Curetes had sheltered the goddess’s sacred offspring in a cave without the knowledge of crooked-minded Cronus, since blessed Rhea had stolen him away, winning great honor from the Immortals. Such was Cithaeron’s song that, when it was done, the Muses immediately instructed the Blessed Ones to cast their secret ballot-stones into gleaming gold urns. Then they all rose together, declaring Cithaeron the winner, whereupon Hermes heartily proclaimed Cithaeron victorious with a loud cry, and the Blessed Ones, rejoicing, decorated him with garlands as he danced with joy. But Helicon hurled down ten thousand boulders in disgust! According to Greek mythology, the Curetes (aka Korybantes, Corybantes, Corybants and Kurbantes) were armed and crested dancers who worshipped the Phrygian goddess Cybele with drumming and dancing. The holy babe stolen by Rhea was Zeus. MOERO Moero or Myro (fl. 300 BC) was a Byzantine poet who was highly regarded in antiquity. Meleager mentioned her with Sappho and Anyte in the opening catalogue of his Garland, while Antipater of Thessalonica ranked her among the top nine ancient female poets. You lie here, grapes, beneath Aphrodite’s golden portico, full to the brim with Dionysus’s nectar, but your mother-vine can no longer lovingly wrap her branches around you, nor protect you beneath her tender leaves. �"Moero, Greek Anthology 6.119, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Hamadryad Nymphs, river-daughters, ambrosial beings treading the depths with rose-petaled feet, hail!, and may you always remember and safeguard Kleonymos, who placed these lovely votive images beneath the pines for you, O goddesses! �"Moero, Greek Anthology 6.189, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Mnemosyne by Moero translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Zeus was nursed to manhood on Crete where none of the Blessed Ones knew him, yet he continued to grow in strength and vigor. Secure inside a sacred cave, he was nurtured by timid doves bearing ambrosia from the Ocean streams. Meanwhile a great eagle drawing nectar from a rock brought it continually in its beak for prudent Zeus to drink. Thus after he had conquered his father Cronus, victorious Zeus made the eagle immortal, bequeathing him heaven. He likewise bestowed honour on the timid doves, making them heralds of summer and winter. Moero seems to be alluding to an observation by Circe in the Odyssey: No winged creatures passed through the way of the Clashing Rocks, not even timid doves bearing ambrosia to father Zeus! �"Homer, translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch SULPICIA TRANSLATIONS Sulpicia is one of the few female poets of ancient Rome whose work survives, and she is arguably the most notable. I. At Last, Love! by Sulpicia loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it It's come at last! Love! The kind of love that, had it remained veiled, would have shamed me more than baring my naked soul. I appealed to Aphrodite in my poems and she delivered my beloved to me, placed him snugly, securely against my breast! The Goddess has kept her promises: now let my joy be told, so that it cannot be said no woman enjoys her recompense! I would not want to entrust my testimony to tablets, even those signed and sealed! Let no one read my avowals before my love! Yet indiscretion has its charms, while it's boring to conform one’s face to one’s reputation. May I always be deemed worthy lover to a worthy love! A signatis tabellis was a letter written on wooden tablets and sealed with sealing-wax. II. Dismal Journeys, Unwanted Arrivals by Sulpicia loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it My much-hated birthday's arrived, to be spent mourning in a wretched countryside, bereft of Cerinthus. Alas, my lost city! Is it suitable for a girl: that rural villa by the banks of a frigid river draining the fields of Arretium? Peace now, Uncle Messalla, my over-zealous chaperone! Arrivals of relatives aren't always welcome, you know. Kidnapped, abducted, snatched away from my beloved city, I’d mope there, prisoner to my mind and emotions, this hostage coercion prevents from making her own decisions! Arretium is a town in Tuscany, north of Rome. It was presumably the site of, or close to, Messalla’s villa. Sulpicia uses the term frigidus although the river in question, the Arno, is not notably cold. Thus she may be referring to another kind of lack of warmth! Apparently Sulpicia was living with her overprotective (in her eyes) Uncle Messalla after the death of her father, and was not yet married. III. The Thankfully Abandoned Journey by Sulpicia loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it Did you hear the threat of that wretched trip’s been abandoned? Now my spirits soar and I can be in Rome for my birthday! Let’s all celebrate this unexpected good fortune! IV. Thanks for Everything, and Nothing by Sulpicia loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it Thanks for revealing your true colors, thus keeping me from making further fool of myself! I do hope you enjoy your wool-basket w***e, since any female-filled toga is much dearer to you than Sulpicia, daughter of Servius! On the brighter side, my guardians are much happier, having feared I might foolishly bed a nobody! Upper-class Roman women did not wear togas, but unfree prostitutes, called meretrices or ancillae, did. Here, Sulpicia is apparently contrasting the vast difference in her station to that of a slave who totes heavy wool baskets when not sexually servicing her masters. Spinning and wool-work were traditional tasks for virtuous Roman women, so there is a marked contrast here. Sulpicia doesn’t mention who is concerned about her, but we can probably intuit Messalla was one of them. V. Reproach for Indifference by Sulpicia loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it Have you no kind thoughts for your girl, Cerinthus, now that fever wilts my wasting body? If not, why would I want to conquer this disease, knowing you no longer desired my existence? After all, what’s the point of living when you can ignore my distress with such indifference? VI. Her Apology for Errant Desire by Sulpicia loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch for Carolyn Clark, who put me up to it Let me admit my errant passion to you, my love, since in these last few days I've exceeded all my foolish youth's former follies! And no folly have I ever regretted more than leaving you alone last night, desiring only to disguise my desire for you! Sulpicia on the First of March by Sulpicia loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch “One might venture that Sulpicia was not over-modest.” �" MRB Sulpicia's adorned herself for you, O mighty Mars, on your Kalends: come admire her yourself, if you have the sense to observe! Venus will forgive your ogling, but you, O my violent one, beware lest your armaments fall shamefully to the floor! Cunning Love lights twin torches from her eyes, with which he’ll soon inflame the gods themselves! Wherever she goes, whatever she does, Elegance and Grace follow dutifully in attendance! If she unleashes her hair, trailing torrents become her train: if she braids her mane, her braids are to be revered! If she dons a Tyrian gown, she inflames! She inflames, if she wears virginal white! As stylish Vertumnus wears her thousand outfits on eternal Olympus, even so she models hers gracefully! She alone among the girls is worthy of Tyre’s soft wool dipped twice in costly dyes! May she always possess whatever rich Arabian farmers reap from their fragrant plains’ perfumed fields, and whatever flashing gems dark India gathers from the scarlet shores of distant Dawn’s seas. Sing the praises of this girl, Muses, on these festive Kalends, and you, proud Phoebus, strum your tortoiseshell lyre! She'll carry out these sacred rites for many years to come, for no girl was ever worthier of your chorus! Every Day You Play by Pablo Neruda loose translation by Michael R. Burch Every day you play with Infinity’s rays. Exquisite visitor, you arrive with the flowers and the water. You are vastly more than this immaculate head I clasp tightly like a cornucopia, every day, between my hands... Other Pablo Neruda Translations You can crop all the flowers but you cannot detain spring. ―Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch While nothing can save us from death, still love can redeem each breath. ―Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch As if you were set on fire from within, the moon whitens your skin. ―Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Please understand that when I awaken weeping it's because I dreamed I was a lost child searching the leaf-heaps for your hands in the darkness. ―Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I'm no longer in love with her, that's certain... yet perhaps I love her still. Love is so short, forgetting so long! ―Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I love you only because I love you by Pablo Neruda loose translation by Michael R. Burch I love you only because I love you; I am torn between loving and not loving you, Between apathy and desire. My heart vacillates between ice and fire. I love you only because you're the one I love; I hate you deeply, but hatred Bends me all the more toward you, so that the measure of my variableness Is that I do not see you, but love you blindly. Perhaps January's frigid light will consume my heart with its cruel rays, robbing me of any hope of peace. In this tragic plot, I am the one who dies, Love's only victim, And I will die of love because I love you, Because I love you, my Love, in fire and blood. Love Sonnet XVII by Pablo Neruda loose translation by Michael R. Burch I do not love you like coral or topaz, or the blazing hearth's incandescent white flame: I love you as obscure things are loved in the dark, secretly, in shadows, unnamed. I love you like shrubs that refuse to bloom while pregnant with the radiance of mysterious flowers; now thanks to your love an earthy fragrance lives dimly in my body's odors. I love you without knowing how, when, why or where; I love you forthrightly, without complications or care: I love you this way because I know no other. Here, where "I" no longer exists, nor "you"... so close that your hand on my chest is my own, so close that your eyes close gently on my dreams. Love Sonnet XI by Pablo Neruda loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. I stalk the streets, silent and starving. Bread does not satisfy me; dawn does not divert me from my relentless pursuit of your fluid spoor. I long for your liquid laughter, for your sunburned hands like savage harvests. I lust for your fingernails' pale marbles. I want to devour your breasts like almonds, whole. I want to ingest the sunbeams singed by your beauty, to eat the aquiline nose from your aloof face, to lick your eyelashes' flickering shade. I pursue you, snuffing the shadows, seeking your heart's scorching heat like a puma prowling the heights of Quitratue. The Book of Questions by Pablo Neruda loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Is the rose nude or is that just how she dresses? Why do trees conceal their spectacular roots? Who hears the confession of the getaway car? Is there anything sadder than a train standing motionless in the rain? In El Salvador, Death by Pablo Neruda loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Death still surveils El Salvador. The blood of murdered peasants has never clotted; time cannot congeal it, nor does the rain erase it from the roads. Fifteen thousand were machine-gunned dead by Martinez, the murderer. To this day the coppery taste of blood still flavors the land, bread and wine of El Salvador. If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I need you to know one thing... You know how it goes: if I gaze up at the glowing moon, if observe the blazing autumn's reddening branches from my window, if I touch the impalpable ash of the charred log's wrinkled body... everything returns me to you, as if everything that exists ―all aromas, sights, solids― were small boats sailing toward those isles of yours that await me. However... if little by little you stop loving me then I shall stop loving you, little by little. And if you suddenly forget me, do not bother to investigate, for I shall have immediately forgotten you also. If you think my love strange and mad― this whirlwind of streaming banners gusting through me, so that you elect to leave me at the shore where my heart lacks roots, just remember that, on that very day, at that very hour, I shall raise my arms and my roots will sail off to find some more favorable land. But if each day and every hour, you feel destined to be with me, if you greet me with implacable sweetness, and if each day and every hour flowers blossom on your lips to entice me, ... then ah my love, oh my only, my own, all that fire will be reinfernoed in me and nothing within me will be extinguished or forgotten; my love will feed on your love, my beloved, and as long as you live it will be me in your arms... as long as you never leave mine. Sonnet XLV by Pablo Neruda loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Don't wander far away, not even for a day, because― how can I explain? A day is too long... and I'll be waiting for you, like a man in an empty station where the trains all stand motionless. Don't leave me, my dear, not even for an hour, because― then despair's raindrops will all run blurrily together, and the smoke that drifts lazily in search of a home will descend hazily on me, suffocating my heart. Darling, may your lovely silhouette never dissolve in the surf; may your lashes never flutter at an indecipherable distance. Please don't leave me for a second, my dearest, because then you'll have gone far too far and I'll wander aimlessly, amazed, asking all the earth: Will she ever return? Will she spurn me, dying? My Dog Died by Pablo Neruda loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch My dog died; so I buried him in the backyard garden next to some rusted machine. One day I'll rejoin him, over there, but for now he's gone with his shaggy mane, his crude manners and his cold, clammy nose, while I, the atheist who never believed in any heaven for human beings, now believe in a paradise I'm unfit to enter. Yes, I somehow now believe in a heavenly kennel where my dog awaits my arrival wagging his tail in furious friendship! But I'll not indulge in sadness here: why bewail a companion who was never servile? His friendship was more like that of a porcupine preserving its prickly autonomy. His was the friendship of a distant star with no more intimacy than true friendship called for and no false demonstrations: he never clambered over me coating my clothes with mange; he never assaulted my knee like dogs obsessed with sex. But he used to gaze up at me, giving me the attention my ego demanded, while helping this vainglorious man understand my concerns were none of his. Aye, and with those bright eyes so much purer than mine, he'd gaze up at me contentedly; it was a look he reserved for me alone all his entire sweet, gentle life, always merely there, never troubling me, never demanding anything. Aye, and often I envied his energetic tail as we strode the shores of Isla Negra together, in winter weather, wild birds swarming skyward as my golden-maned friend leapt about, supercharged by the sea's electric surges, sniffing away wildly, his tail held erect, his face suffused with the salt spray. Joy! Joy! Joy! As only dogs experience joy in the shameless exuberance of their guiltless spirits. Thus there are no sad good-byes for my dog who died; we never once lied to each other. He died, he's gone, I buried him; that's all there is to it. Tonight I will write the saddest lines by Pablo Neruda loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Tonight I will write the saddest lines. I will write, for example, "The night is less bright and a few stars shiver in the distance as I remember her unwarranted light..." Tonight I will write her the saddest lines: that I loved her as she loved me too, sometimes, all those long, lonely nights when I held her tight and filled her ears with indecipherable rhymes... Then she loved me too, as I also loved her, compelled by the spell of her enormous eyes. Tonight I will write her the saddest lines as I ponder love's death and our mutual crimes. Outside I hear night―silent, cold, dark, immense― as these delicate words fall, useless as dew. Oh, what does it matter that love came to naught if love was false, or perhaps even true? And yet I hear songs being sung in the distance. How can I forget her, so soon since I lost her? I seek to regain her, somehow bring her closer. But my heart has been blinded; she will not appear! Now moonlight and starlight whiten dark trees. We also are ghosts, by love's failing light. My love has failed me, but how I once loved her! My voice... this cursed wind... what use to recite? Another's. She will soon be another's. Her body, her voice, her infinite eyes. I no longer love her! And why should I love her when love is sad, short, mad, fickle, unwise? Because of cold nights we clung through so closely, I'm not satisfied to know she is gone. And while I must end this hell I now suffer, It's sad to remember all love left undone. Petals I amass with such tenderness prick me to the quick. ―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Dark-bosomed clouds pregnant with heavy thunder ... the water breaks ―Michael R. Burch As I slept in isolation my desired beloved appeared to me; therefore, dreams have become my reality and consolation. ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Submit to you―is that what you advise? The way the ripples do whenever ill winds arise? ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Sad, the end that awaits me― to think that before autumn yields I'll be a pale mist shrouding these rice fields. ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Now bitterly I watch fierce winds battering the rice stalks, suspecting I'll never again find anything to harvest. ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch So cruelly severed, a root-cut reed ... if the river offered, why not be freed? ―Ono no Komachi (KKS XVIII:938), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Wretched water-weed that I am, severed from all roots: if rapids should entice me, why not welcome their lethal shoots? ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch If fields of autumn flowers can shed their blossoms, shameless, why can't I also frolic here― as fearless, wild and blameless? ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch There are more Ono no Komachi translations later on this page. Do not ask, mariner, whose tomb this may be, but go with good fortune: I wish you a kinder sea. ―attributed to Plato, translated by Michael R. Burch Does my soul abide in heaven, or hell? Only the sea gull in his high, lonely circuits, may tell. ―Glaucus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Be ashamed, O mountains and seas, that these valorous men lack breath. Assume, like pale chattels, an ashen silence at death. ―Parmenio, translation by Michael R. Burch Stripped of her stripling, if asked, she’d confess: “I am now less than nothingness.” ―Diotimus, translation by Michael R. Burch Passerby, Tell the Spartans we lie Lifeless at Thermopylae: Dead at their word, Obedient to their command. Have they heard? Do they understand? ―Simonides, translation by Michael R. Burch Blame not the gale, nor the inhospitable sea-gulf, nor friends’ tardiness, mariner! Just man’s foolhardiness. ―Leonidas of Tarentum, translation by Michael R. Burch Blame not the gale, nor the inhospitable sea-gulf, nor friends’ tardiness, mariner! Just man’s foolhardiness. ―Leonidas of Tarentum, translation by Michael R. Burch Here he lies in state tonight: great is his Monument! Yet Ares cares not, neither does War relent. ―Anacreon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Wall, I'm astonished that you haven't collapsed, since you're holding up verses so prolapsed! ―Ancient Roman graffiti, translation by Michael R. Burch This world of dew is a dewdrop world indeed; and yet, and yet ... ―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Both victor and vanquished are dewdrops: flashes of light briefly illuminating the void. ―Ouchi Yoshitaka, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch The childless woman, how tenderly she caresses homeless dolls ... ―Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When no wind ruffles the Kiri tree leaves fall of their own free will. ―Nozawa Boncho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The herons stand, sentry-like, at attention ... rigid observers of some unknown command. ―Michael R. Burch Dance With Me now gently at your garments pull. Renée Vivien, born Pauline Mary Tarn (1877-1909), was a British poet and high-profile lesbian of the Belle Époque who wrote French poems in the style of the Symbolistes and Parnassiens. Undine by Renée Vivien loose translation/interpretation by Kim Cherub aka Michael R. Burch Your laughter startles, your caresses rake. Your cold kisses love the evil they do. Your eyes―blue lotuses drifting on a lake. Lilies are less pallid than your face. You move like water parting. Your hair falls in rootlike tangles. Your words like treacherous rapids rise. Your arms, flexible as reeds, strangle, Choking me like tubular river reeds. I shiver in their enlacing embrace. Drowning without an illuminating moon, I vanish without a trace, lost in a nightly swoon. Song by Renée Vivien loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When the moon weeps, illuminating flowers on the graves of the faithful, my memories creep back to you, wrapped in flightless wings. It's getting late; soon we will sleep (your eyes already half closed) steeped in the shimmering air. O, the agony of burning roses: your forehead discloses a heavy despondency, though your hair floats lightly ... In the night sky the stars burn whitely as the Goddess nightly resurrects flowers that fear the sun and die before dawn ... Amazone by Renée Vivien loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch the Amazon smiles above the ruins while the sun, wearied by its struggles, droops to sleep. murder’s aroma swells Her nostrils; She exults in blood, death’s inscrutable lover. She loves lovers who intoxicate Her with their wild agonies and proud demises. She despises the cloying honey of feminine caresses; cups empty of horror fail to satisfy Her. Her desire, falling cruelly on some wan mouth from which she rips out the unrequited kiss, awaits ardently lust’s supreme spasm, more beautiful and more terrible than the spasm of love. “Nous nous sommes assises” (“We Sat Down”) by Renée Vivien loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Darling, we were like two exiles bearing our desolate souls within us. Dawn broke more revolting than any illness... Neither of us knew the native language As we wandered the streets like strangers. The morning’s stench, so oppressive! Yet you shone like the sunrise of hope... *** As night fell, we sat down, Your drab dress grey as any evening, To feel the friendly freshness of kisses. No longer alone in the universe, We exchanged lovely verses with languor. Darling, we dallied, without quite daring to believe, And I told you: “The evening is far more beautiful than the dawn.” You nudged me with your forehead, then gave me your hands, And I no longer feared uncertain tomorrows. The sunset sashayed off with its splendid insolence, But no voice dared disturb our silence... I forgot the houses and their inhospitality... The sunset dyed my mourning attire purple. Then I told you, kissing your half-closed eyelids: “Violets are more beautiful than roses.” Darkness overwhelmed the horizon... Harmonious sobs surrounded us... A strange languor subdued the strident city. Thus we savored the enigmatic hour. Slowly death erased all light and noise, Then I knew the august face of the night. You let the last veils slip to your naked feet... Then your body appeared even nobler to me, dimly lit by the stars. Finally came the appeasement of rest, of returning to ourselves... And I told you: “Here is the height of love…” We who had come carrying our desolate souls within us, like two exiles, like complete strangers. absinthe sea by michael r. burch i hold in my hand a goblet of absinthe the bitter green liqueur reflects the dying sunset over the sea and the darkling liquid froths up over the rim of my cup to splash into the free, churning waters of the sea i do not drink i do not drink the liqueur, for I sail on an absinthe sea that stretches out unendingly into the gathering night its waters are no less green and no less bitter, nor does the sun strike them with a kinder light they both harbor night, and neither shall shelter me neither shall shelter me from the anger of the wind or the cruelty of the sun for I sail in the goblet of some Great God who gazes out over a greater sea, and when my life is done, perhaps it will be because He lifted His goblet and sipped my sea. I seem to remember writing this poem in college just because I liked the sound of the word “absinthe.” I had no idea, really, what it was or what it looked or tasted like, beyond something I had read in passing somewhere. Am I by Michael R. Burch Am I inconsequential; do I matter not at all? Am I just a snowflake, to sparkle, then to fall? Am I only chaff? Of what use am I? Am I just a feeble flame, to flicker, then to die? Analogy by Michael R. Burch Our embrace is like a forest lying blanketed in snow; you, the lily, are enchanted by each shiver trembling through; I, the snowfall, cling in earnest as I press so close to you. You dream that you now are sheltered; I dream that I may break through. This is an early poem written around age 18 or 19. As the Flame Flowers by Michael R. Burch As the flame flowers, a flower, aflame, arches leaves skyward, aching for rain, but it only encounters wild anguish and pain as the flame sputters sparks that ignite at its stem. Yet how this frail flower aflame at the stem reaches through night, through the staggering pain, for a sliver of silver that sparkles like rain, as it flutters in fear of the flowering flame. Mesmerized by a distant crescent-shaped gem which glistens like water though drier than sand, the flower extends itself, trembles, and then dies as scorched leaves burst aflame in the wind. Ashes by Michael R. Burch A fire is dying; ashes remain . . . ashes and anguish, ashes and pain. A fire is fading though once it burned bright . . . ashes once embers are ashes tonight. I wrote this poem either in my late teens or early twenties: I will guess somewhere around age 18-19, but no later than age 21 according to the dated copy I have. This is a companion poem to “As the Flame Flowers,” perhaps written the same day. Am I
For what reason am I here? Am I just a ripple in a pool that once was clear? Am I insignificant? Will time pass me by? Am I just a flower, to live one day, then die? Am I unimportant? Do I matter either way? Or am I just an echo― soon to fade away? This is one of my very earliest poems; if I remember correctly, it was written the same day as “Time,” which appeared in my high school sophomore poetry assignment booklet. If not, it was a companion piece written around the same time. The refrain “Am I” is an inversion of the biblical “I Am” supposedly given to Moses as the name of God. I was around 14 or 15 when I wrote the two poems. The Beautiful People by Michael R. Burch They are the beautiful people, and their shadows dance through the valleys of the moon to the listless strains of an ancient tune. Oh, no ... please don't touch them, for their smiles might fade. Don’t go ... don’t approach them as they promenade, for they waltz through a vacuum and dream they're not made of the dust and the dankness to which men degrade. They are the beautiful people, and their spirits sighed in their mothers’ wombs as the distant echoings of unearthly tunes. Winds do not blow there and storms do not rise, and each hair has its place and each gown has its price. And they whirl through the darkness untouched by our cares as we watch them and long for a "life" such as theirs. Because You Came to Me by Michael R. Burch for Beth Because you came to me with sweet compassion and kissed my furrowed brow and smoothed my hair, I do not love you after any fashion, but wildly, in despair. Because you came to me in my black torment and kissed me fiercely, blazing like the sun upon parched desert dunes, till in dawn’s foment they melt ... I am undone. Because I am undone, you have remade me as suns bring life, as brilliant rains endow the earth below with leaves, where you now shade me and bower me, somehow. I wrote the first version of this poem around age 18, then revised it 30 years later and dedicated the new version to my wife Beth. Be that Rock by Michael R. Burch for my grandfather George Edwin Hurt Sr. When I was a child I never considered man’s impermanence, for you were a mountain of adamant stone: a man steadfast, immense, and your words rang. And when you were gone, I still heard your voice, which never betrayed, "Be strong and of a good courage, neither be afraid ..." as the angels sang. And, O!, I believed for your words were my truth, and I tried to be brave though the years slipped away with so little to save of that talk. Now I'm a man― a man ... and yet Grandpa ... I'm still the same child who sat at your feet and learned as you smiled. Be that rock. This is an early poem, written around age 18. Childhood's End by Michael R. Burch How well I remember those fiery Septembers: dry leaves, dying embers of summers aflame, lay trampled before me and fluttered, imploring the bright, dancing rain to descend once again. Now often I’ve thought on the meaning of autumn, how the rainbows’ enchantments defeated dark clouds while robins repeated ancient songs sagely heeded so wisely when winters before they’d flown south ... And still, in remembrance, I’ve conjured a semblance of childhood and how the world seemed to me then; but early this morning, when, rising and yawning, I found a gray hair ... it was all beyond my ken. Describing You by Michael R. Burch How can I describe you? The fragrance of morning rain mingled with dew reminds me of you; the warmth of sunlight stealing through a windowpane brings you back to me again. This is an early poem of mine, written around age 16. Desdemona by Michael R. Burch Though you possessed the moon and stars, you are bound to fate and wed to chance. Your lips deny they crave a kiss; your feet deny they ache to dance. Your heart imagines wild romance. Though you cupped fire in your hands and molded incandescent forms, you are barren now, and―spent of flame― the ashes that remain are borne toward the sun upon a storm. You, who demanded more, have less, your heart within its cells of sighs held fast by chains of misery, confined till death for peddling lies― imprisonment your sense denies. You, who collected hearts like leaves and pressed each once within your book, forgot. None―winsome, bright or rare― not one was worth a second look. My heart, as others, you forsook. But I, though I loved you from afar through silent dawns, and gathered rue from gardens where your footsteps left cold paths among the asters, knew― and strangled hope, where love dies too. Dust (II) by Michael R. Burch We are dust and to dust we must return ... but why, then, life’s pointless sojourn? Dust (III) by Michael R. Burch Flame within flame, we burned and burned relentlessly till there was nothing left to be consumed. Only ash remained, the smoke plumed like a spirit leaving its corpse, and we were left with only a name ever common between us. We had thought to love “eternally,” but the wick sputtered, the candle swooned, the flame subsided, the smoke ballooned, and our communal thought was: flee, flee, flee the choking dust. Easter, in Jerusalem by Michael R. Burch The streets are hushed from fervent song, for strange lights fill the sky tonight. A slow mist creeps up and down the streets and a star has vanished that once burned bright. Oh Bethlehem, Bethlehem, who tends your flocks tonight? "Feed my sheep," "Feed my sheep," a Shepherd calls through the markets and the cattle stalls, but a fiery sentinel has passed from sight. Golgotha shudders uneasily, then wearily settles to sleep again, and I wonder how they dream who beat him till he screamed, "Father, forgive them!" Ah Nazareth, Nazareth, now sunken deep into dark sleep, do you heed His plea as demons flee, "Feed my sheep," "Feed my sheep . . ." The temple trembles violently, a veil lies ripped in two, and a good man lies on a mountainside whose heart was shattered too. Galilee, oh Galilee, do your waters pulse and froth? "Feed my sheep," "Feed my sheep," the waters creep to form a starlit cross. According to my notes, I wrote this poem around age 15-16. El Dorado It's a fine town, a fine town, Because the lighting is poor and the streets are bare Though the children are skinny, their parents are fat The young men with the outlandish hairstyles And the painted “actress” who roams the streets, Yes, it's a fine town, a very fine town But for those of us who cling to our dreams We chew the apple, spit it out, I believe I wrote the first version of “El Dorado” during my “Romantic phase” around age 16 or perhaps a bit later. It was definitely written in my teens because it appears in a poetry contest folder that I put together and submitted during my sophomore year in college. Rag Doll On an angry sea a rag doll is tossed She’s a rag doll now, She’s slammed by the hammering waves, For she’s a rag doll now, Her eyes are gone; her lips are swollen For she’s a rag doll now, Every Man Has a Dream by Michael R. Burch lines composed at Elliston Square Every man has a dream that he cannot quite touch ... And each man has a dream that he fears to let live, But each man in his living falls prey to his dreams, I wrote this early poem in a Nashville bar, at around age 23 or 24, for a young woman I would end up dating seriously, then live with on-and-off for around five years. I believe the poem was written in late 1981 or early 1982. Fairest Diana Fairest Diana, princess of dreams, Was not your heart meant for tenderest passions? Fairest Diana, as fragile as lilac, Will There Be Starlight Will there be starlight And will she find flowers, Will there be starlight And will she find treasure She Was Very Strange, and Beautiful She was very strange, and beautiful, She was very strange, in a pleasant way, She was meant to leave, as the wind must blow, The Peripheries of Love Through waning afternoons we glide Above us: the sagging pavilions of clouds. Later, the moon like a virgin We sway gently in the wake as though twilight might blur as near The Aery Faery Princess There once was a princess lighter than fluff I Pray Tonight I pray tonight I pray I pray ere tomorrow Sweet Rose of Virtue Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness, I fear that March with his last arctic blast After the Poetry Recital Later there’ll be talk of saving whales Myth Here the recalcitrant wind And she is the myth of the scythed wheat Here the immaculate dawn I believe I wrote the first version of this poem toward the end of my senior year of high school, around age 18. To my recollection this is my only poem directly influenced by the “sprung rhythm” of Dylan Thomas (more so than that of Gerard Manley Hopkins). He Lived: Excerpts from “Gilgamesh”
O, surely they shall, they must rise again,
by vast eons of dust, at last fell mute H.B. for Hermann Broch by Hannah Arendt loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Survival. But how does one live without the dead? Where is the sound of their lost company? Where now, their companionable embraces? We wish they were still with us. We are left with the cry that ripped them from us. Left with the veil that shrouds their empty gazes. What avails? That we commit ourselves to them, and through this commitment, learn to survive. I Love the Earth by Hannah Arendt loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I love the earth like a trip to a foreign land and not otherwise. Even so life spins me on its loom softly into never-before-seen patterns. Until suddenly like the last farewells of a new journey, the great silence breaks the frame. Abdul Ghani Khan aka Ghani Baba was an Pakistani poet, philosopher, engineer, sculptor, painter, writer and politician who wrote in Pashto. Excerpts from “Zama Mahal” (“My Palace”) I fashioned a palace from the river’s white sands, The Chalice A note of drunkenness floats on the dusk; Entreaty I do not need your polished lips, (Written at age 15, in July 1929, on the ship Neldera) To God i don’t say You don’t exist, i say You do, za khu na wayam che neshta, za khu wayama che e, khu jahan de dasi khkarey laka be-malika kur Look Up To understand the magnificence of the Universe, Stargey bara ka ta portha, che pa shaan poi da jahan she The Brain and the Heart The brain and the heart? Two powerful independent kings governing one country. Khudaya aqal che o zra de wali rako, pa yu mulk ke dhwa khodhsara bachayaan Someone please tell me: Last night the mountain peak Paradise lay beneath my mother’s feet. Wherever our mothers walk, beneath their feet lies Paradise. Untitled That country wench bewitches your heart? "The Descent into the Underworld" for Martin Mc Carthy The Sibyl began to speak: “God-blooded Trojan, son of Anchises, The King of Beasts in the Museum of the Extinct The king of beasts, my child, His roaring shook the earth And all things feared his might: Now here these bones attest and the pain he caused his prey For he slew them just for sport with a mushrooming cloud and wild thunder; The Lingering and the Unconsoled Heart
when the moon, when the breath comes low and complaining, There is a grief�" There is no emptier time, nor place, beyond this: seeing its own stricken face I’m afraid Donald Justice was a bit over-optimistic in his poem “Men at Forty” … Men at Sixty after Donald Justice's "Men at Forty" Learn to gently close Rest against the stair rail Rediscover in mirrors TRANSLATIONS OF CHINESE POETRY These are my modern English translations of Chinese poems by Li Bai, Su Shi, Wang Wei and other Chinese poets. Huazi Ridge A bird in flight soars, limitless, "Lu Zhai" ("Deer Park") Uninhabited hills ... "Lovesickness" Those bright red berries you have in the South, The Ormosia (a red bean called the “love pea”) is a symbol of lovesickness. Farewell (I) Where the mountain began its ascent, Farewell (II) We dismounted, drank to your departure. Spring Night I'm as idle as the osmanthus flowers... The osmanthus is a flowering evergreen also known as the devilwood. Quiet Night Thoughts Moonlight illuminates my bed My interpretation of this famous poem is a bit different from the norm. The moon symbolizes love, so I imagine the moon shining on Li Bai’s bed to be suggestive, an invitation. A man might lower his eyes to avoid seeing something his wife would not approve of. On Parting My feelings are fond, yet “unfeeling” I feign; Farewell to a Friend Rolling hills rim the northern border; Chinese translations Li Bai These are my modern English translations of Chinese poems by Li Bai, who was also known as Li Po. Zazen on Ching-t’ing Mountain by Li Bai loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Now the birds have deserted the sky and the last cloud slips down the drains. We sit together, the mountain and I, until only the mountain remains. Lines from Laolao Ting Pavilion by Li Bai (701-762) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The spring breeze knows partings are bitter; The willow twig knows it will never be green again. A Toast to Uncle Yun by Li Bai (701-762) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Water reforms, though we slice it with our swords; Sorrow returns, though we drown it with our wine. Li Bai (701-762) was a romantic figure called the Lord Byron of Chinese poetry. He and his friend Du Fu (712-770) were the leading poets of the Tang Dynasty era, the Golden Age of Chinese poetry. Li Bai is also known as Li Po, Li Pai, Li T’ai-po, and Li T’ai-pai. Li Shen (772-846) is better known in the West as Duke Wensu of Zhao. He was a Chinese poet, professor, historian, military general and politician of the Tang Dynasty who served as chancellor during the reign of Emperor Wuzong. Toiling Farmers Farmers toil, weeding and hoeing, at noon, Luo Binwang (c. 619-684) was a Tang Dynasty poet who wrote his famous goose poem at age seven. Ode to the Goose Goose, goose, goose! David Hinton said T'ao Ch'ien (365-427) "stands at the head of the great Chinese poetic tradition like a revered grandfather: profoundly wise, self-possessed, quiet, comforting." T'ao gained quasi-mythic status for his commitment to life as a recluse farmer, despite poverty and hardship. Today he is remembered as one of the best Chinese poets of the Six Dynasties Period. Swiftly the years mount Swiftly the years mount, exceeding remembrance. Drinking Wine V I built my hut here amid the hurriedness of men, Harvesting chrysanthemums by the eastern hedge, Returning to Live in the Country The caged bird longs for its ancient woodland; Dim, dim lies the distant hamlet; My courtyard and door are free from turmoil; Su Tungpo (1037-1101) is better known as Su Shi. A towering figure of the Northern Song era, Su Shi is considered to be one of China’s greatest poets and essayists. More than 2,000 of his poems survive. “Pining” You’re ten years dead and your memory fades, Your lonely grave, so distant, If we met today, you wouldn’t recognize me: In a dream last night suddenly I was home, You turned to gaze at me, not speaking, Year after year will it continue to break my heart― Visiting the Temple of the God of Mercy during a Deluge The silkworms age, Our Lives 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. Mid-Autumn Moon The sunset’s clouds are distant, the air clear and cold, Neither this vista nor life will last long, so who will admire this bright moon tomorrow? Benevolent Moon, an excerpt from “The Moon Festival” Rounding the red pavilion, “The Moon Festival” “Where else is there moonlight?” I long to ride the wind home, Instead, I begin to dance with my moon-lit shadow. Rounding the red pavilion, As men experience grief and joy, parting and union, My wish for you is a long, blessed life Su Shi wrote this famous lyric for his brother Ziyou (1039-1112), when the poet was far from the imperial court. "Red Light District" A lonely sick old man, Untitled For fear the roses might sleep tonight, Red Peonies 1. Even if cleverer fingers could preserve both rings, [1] Now the apartment we shared stands empty 2. It’s vain to recall her long-ago letters: When spring returns to the river landing, [1] The Empress Dowager of Qi separated complexly linked rings of carved jade by smashing them to pieces. [2] In Chinese poetry the pear blossom symbolizes the transience of life and the ephemeral beauty of nature. A Song of Two Voices “About to depart, still I linger in the lamplight, “Dancing here with your hand on my waist, keeping time, Untitled A cicada drones sadly in the distance Departure Dawn’s clouds hang heavy, The well-oiled carriage stands ready to depart, Hanging low enough to brush our faces, willow limbs invite being tied into knots. The land is vast, the sky immense, Here arise a myriad complications, The wine cup is not quite empty, The silken girdle’s sheen safely hidden; TRANSLATIONS OF TAMIL POEMS AND EPIGRAMS Among all earth’s languages we find none, anywhere, as sweet as Tamil. ― Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I keep thinking of you, like the child who sticks his hand in the flame knowing he’ll get burned. ― Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
―Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Let's sing and dance with glee! Let’s sing a song to Independence, for we
Unlike those who think only about food, who sit on their verandahs gossiping about meaningless things, India’s Treasures
The gently nourishing Ganges ebbs and flows... The Upanishads? Literature’s first and fairest Rose “Sowkkiyama Kanne” (“How Are You, Dear?”) I can’t catch my breath! I can’t catch my breath! "Vande Mataram" by Subramanya Bharathi, a Tamil poet You are rich with swiftly-flowing streams Your skies are moonlit through the nightwatch’s hours Countless voices reply when you play your harp. Your enemies tremble as seventy million voices roar Who says you are timid? They lie! Venerably, we bow before you. You are our wisdom, you are our law. Yours is the courage that nerves the arm. Every image we hold sacred and true Venerably, we bow before you: Venerably, we bow before you. “Vazhi Maraittu” (“My View is Obstructed”) from the opera "Nandanar Charitram" A Dalit ("untouchable") approaches a temple he is not allowed to enter...
am i cursed? even arriving at this Holy Temple it suffices that i am able to glimpse You in Your Chariot! TRANSLATIONS OF TAMIL POEMS AND EPIGRAMS
I am the footprint erased by the rain. ― Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch I keep thinking of you, like the child who sticks his hand in the flame knowing he’ll get burned. ― Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch What can a dewdrop do when the forest is aflame? ―Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Can you sense when a heart is burning to ashes?―Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Let's sing and dance with glee! Let’s sing a song to Independence, for we
Unlike those who think only about food, who sit on their verandahs gossiping about meaningless things, India’s Treasures The eternal Himalayas tower above us, The gently nourishing Ganges ebbs and flows... The Upanishads? Literature’s first and fairest Rose “Sowkkiyama Kanne” (“How Are You, Dear?”) I can’t catch my breath! I can’t catch my breath! "Vande Mataram" You are rich with swiftly-flowing streams Your skies are moonlit through the nightwatch’s hours Countless voices reply when you play your harp. Your enemies tremble as seventy million voices roar Who says you are timid? They lie! Venerably, we bow before you. You are our wisdom, you are our law. Yours is the courage that nerves the arm. Every image we hold sacred and true Venerably, we bow before you: Venerably, we bow before you. “Vazhi Maraittu” (“My View is Obstructed”) from the opera "Nandanar Charitram" A Dalit ("untouchable") approaches a temple he is not allowed to enter... my view is obstructed, as if by a Mountain: am i cursed? even arriving at this Holy Temple it suffices that i am able to glimpse You in Your Chariot! TRANSLATIONS OF UKRAINIAN POEMS AND EPIGRAMS Taras Hryhorovych Shevchenko (1814-1861) was also known as Kobzar Taras, or simply Kobzar ("The Bard"). The foremost Ukrainian poet of the 19th century, Shevchenko was also a playwright, writer, artist, illustrator, folklorist, ethnographer and political figure. He is considered to be the father of modern Ukrainian literature and, to some degree, of the modern Ukrainian language. Shevchenko was also an outspoken champion of Ukrainian independence and a major figure in Ukraine's national revival. In 1847 he was convicted for explicitly promoting the independence of Ukraine, for writing poems in the Ukrainian language, and for ridiculing members of the Russian Imperial House. He would spend 12 years under some form of imprisonment or military conscription. Dear God! Dear God, disaster again! Zapovit ("Testament") When I die, let them bury me sundering your chains! Love in Kyiv Love is more terrible in Kyiv Here spring has lit the chestnuts, like candles, And yet images, memories and portents still move us... Here you’ll fall victim to the assassin’s stiletto, Here you’ll plummet from a balcony Here you can no longer discern the weddings from the funerals, Phantoms emerge these inebriated nights Here you’ll die by the assassin’s stiletto: "Words terrify when they remain unspoken." ― Lina Kostenko, translation by Michael R. Burch Unsaid You told me “I love you” with your eyes Life rushed past the platform Nights become dawn; days become dusk; Let It Be Let there be light! The touch of a feather. Today the snow began to fall. Don't let the phone arouse your sorrow, The Beggars Where, please tell me, should I hide my eyes If the Last Rom Dies If the last Rom dies, If the last Rom dies… The Romani soul is in their songs―look there! In lands near and far, everywhere, Although their own road to happiness is hard, Mixa Kozimirenko (1938-2005) was a Ukrainian Romani Gypsy poet, philosopher, educator, music teacher, composer and Holocaust survivor. He was a prominent figure and highly regarded in Ukrainian literary circles. We Are Here “We are here.” ― Volodymyr Zelensky We are here. Were are here. We are here. Have no fear, And yet we need help. Our nation stands strong. Now let me be clear, TRANSLATIONS OF RUSSIAN POEMS AND EPIGRAMS The Guest Everything’s the same: a driving snow I asked him, “What do you want?” But he lifted his elegant hand His eyes, observing me blankly, We both know his delight THE MUSE My being hangs by a thread tonight now depend on the Maid with the flute in her hand. Look! Now she arrives; she flings back her veil;
She answers, “Yes.” I have also translated this tribute poem written by Marina Tsvetaeva for Anna Akhmatova: Excerpt from “Poems for Akhmatova” You outshine everything, even the sun I Know The Truth I know the truth―abandon lesser truths! There's no need for anyone living to struggle! The wind is calming now; the earth is bathed in dew; I Know The Truth (Alternate Ending) I know the truth―abandon lesser truths! There's no need for anyone living to struggle! The wind caresses the grasses; the earth gleams, damp with dew; Poems about Moscow 5 As the thundering high tide eventually reverses, To you, O Great Peter, and you, O Great Tsar, I kneel! And while they keep ringing out of the pure blue sky, though sixteen hundred churches, nearby and afar, I Loved You I loved you ... perhaps I love you still ... I loved you ... thus the hopelessness I knew ... TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK POEMS AND EPIGRAMS I am an image, a tombstone. Seikilos placed me here as a long-lasting sign of deathless remembrance.―loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Athens, celestial city, crowned with violets, beloved of poets, bulwark of Greece!―Pindar, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Do not, O my soul, aspire to immortality, but rather exhaust life. Fairest of all preludes is mine to incomparable Athens Toil and expense confront excellence in endeavors fraught with danger, I rejoice at this accomplishment and yet I also grieve, Olympian Ode I Water is best of all, Therefore we raise our voices! Hence come these glorious hymns! Thus our minds bend to those skillful in song, Hieron, who wields the scepter of justice in Sicily of the many flocks! Hieron, who culls the choicest fruits of all sorts of excellence! Hieron, whose halls flower with the splendid music he makes, as one sings blithely at a friend’s table! Take down from its peg the Dorian lute! Let the wise sing of the stallion Pherenikos, the steed who carried Hieron to glory, ... Now the majesty we remember today will be ever sovereign to men. All men. shall I ever glorify in the sounding labyrinths of song A god has set a guard over your hopes, O Hieron, and regards them with peculiar care. There are many kinds of greatness in men, Ono no Komachi Translations These are my modern English translations of the ancient Japanese poems of Ono no Komachi… Submit to you, is that what you advise? The way the ripples do whenever ill winds arise? ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Watching wan moonlight flooding tree limbs, my heart also brims, overflowing with autumn. ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch If fields of autumn flowers can shed their blossoms, shameless, why can't I also frolic here... as fearless and as blameless? ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch I had thought to pluck the flower of forgetfulness only to find it already blossoming in his heart. ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Sad, the end that awaits me... to think that before autumn yields I'll be a pale mist shrouding these rice fields. ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Now bitterly I watch fall winds battering the rice stalks, suspecting I'll never again find anything to harvest. ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch This abandoned mountain shack... how many nights has autumn sheltered there? ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Am I to spend the night alone atop this summit, cold and lost? Won't you at least lend me your robes of moss? �"Ono no Komachi (GSS XVII: 1195) , loose translation by Michael R. Burch Am I to spend the night alone atop this ice-crag, cold and lost? Won't you at least lend me your robes of moss? ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Two things wilt without warning, bleeding away their colors: a flower and a man's heart. �"Ono no Komachi (KKS XV: 797), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Alas, the beauty of the flowers came to naught as I watched the rain, lost in melancholy thought... �"Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch So cruelly severed, a root-cut reed... if the river offered, why not be freed? �"Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Wretched water-weed that I am, severed from all roots: if rapids should entice me, why not welcome their lethal shoots? ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch In this dismal world the living decrease as the dead increase... oh, how much longer must I bear this body of grief? ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch I think of you ceaselessly, with love... and so... come to me at night, for in the flight of dreams, no one can disapprove! ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Since my body was neglected by the one who had promised faithfully to come, I now lie here questioning its existence. ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Sleepless with loneliness, I find myself longing for the handsome moon. �"Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Once-colorful flowers faded, while in my drab cell life's impulse also abated as the long dismal rains fell. ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch As I slept in isolation my desired beloved appeared to me; therefore, dreams have become my reality and consolation. ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch That which men call 'love'... is it not merely the chain preventing our escape from this world of pain? ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Did you appear only because I was lost in thoughts of love when I nodded off, day-dreaming of you? (If I had known that you couldn't possibly be true, I'd have never awakened!) ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Watching the long, dismal rains inundating the earth, my heart too is washed out, bleeds off with the colors of the late spring flowers. ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Though I visit him continually in my dreams, the sum of all such ethereal trysts is still less than one actual, solid glimpse. ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch I feel desire so intensely in the lily-seed darkness that tonight I'll turn my robe inside-out before donning it. �"Ono no Komachi (KKS XII: 554), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This vain life! My looks and talents faded like these cherry blossoms inundated by endless rains that I now survey, alone. ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Autumn nights are 'long' only in verse and song: for we had just begun to gaze into each other's eyes when dawn immolated the skies! ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch On nights such as these when no moon lights your way to me, I lie awake, my passion blazing, my breast an inferno wildly raging, while my heart chars within me. ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Since there's obviously nothing to catch in this barren bay, how can he fail to understand: the fisherman who persists in coming and going until his legs collapse in the sand? ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch What do I know of villages where fisherfolk dwell? Why do you keep demanding that I show you the seashore, lead you to some pearly shell? ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Yielding to a love that recognizes no boundaries, I will approach him by night... for the world cannot despise a wandering dreamer. ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Now that I approach life's inevitable winter your ardor has faded like blossoms wilted by late autumn rains. ―Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch 'It's over! ' Your words drizzle like dismal rains, bringing tears, as I wilt with my years. �"Ono no Komachi (KKS XV: 782), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I pursue you ceaselessly in my dreams... yet we've never met; we're not even acquainted! �"Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Like flowers wilted by drenching rains, my beauty has faded in the onslaught of my forlorn years. �"Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Fiery coals searing my body hurt me far less than the sorrow of parting. �"Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Love is man's most unbreakable bond. �"Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This moonless night, with no way to meet him, I grow restless with longing: my breast's an inferno, my heart chars within me. �"Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch How brilliantly tears rain upon my sleeve in bright gemlets, for my despair cannot be withstood, like a surging flood! �"Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This flower's color has drained away, while in idle thoughts my life drained away as the long rains fall. �"Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Fatal reality! You must do what you must, I suppose. But even hidden in my dreams from all prying eyes, to watch you still pains me so! �"Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch In eye-opening daylight much stands revealed, but when I see myself reflected in hostile eyes even dreams become nightmares. �"Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I would meet him tonight but the moon shows no path; my desire for him, smoldering in my breast, burns my heart to ash! �"Ono no Komachi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch These are modern English translations of the "Xenia" epigrams written in collaboration by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller. #2 - Verse versus Kiss She says an epigram’s too terse to reveal her tender heart in verse ... but really, darling, ain’t the thrill of a kiss much shorter still? ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #5 - Criticism Why don’t I openly criticize the man? Because he’s a friend; thus I reproach him in silence, as I do my own heart. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #11 - Highest Holiness What is holiest? This heart-felt love binding spirits together, now and forever. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #12 - Love versus Desire You love what you have, and desire what you lack because a rich nature expands, while a poor one retracts. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #19 - Nymph and Satyr As shy as the trembling doe your horn frightens from the woods, she flees the huntsman, fainting, uncertain of love. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #20 - Desire What stirs the virgin’s heaving breasts to sighs? What causes your bold gaze to brim with tears? ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #23 - The Apex I Everywhere women yield to men, but only at the apex do the manliest men surrender to femininity. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #24 - The Apex II What do we mean by the highest? The crystalline clarity of triumph as it shines from the brow of a woman, from the brow of a goddess. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #25 -Human Life Young sailors brave the sea beneath ten thousand sails while old men drift ashore on any bark that avails. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #35 - Dead Ahead What’s the hardest thing of all to do? To see clearly with your own eyes what’s ahead of you. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #36 - Unexpected Consequence Friends, before you utter the deepest, starkest truth, please pause, because straight away people will blame you for its cause. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #41 - Earth versus Heaven By doing good, you nurture humanity; but by creating beauty, you scatter the seeds of divinity. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Keywords/Tags: Early, Early Poems, Juvenilia, Epigram, Epigrams, Pablo Neruda, Spanish, Translation, Love, Sonnet, Passion, Desire, Romantic, Despair, Sadness, Dog, mrbepi
© 2024 Michael R. Burch |
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