How Long the NightA Poem by Michael R. Burch These are modern English translations of ancient Medieval English poems written in Old English (Anglo-Saxon English) and Middle English. How Long the Night It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts Originally published by Measure The Best Medieval Poems in Modern English Translations by Michael R. Burch These are modern English translations of Old English/Anglo-Saxon poems and Middle English poems by Anonymous, Caedmon, Geoffrey Chaucer, Thomas Campion, Deor, William Dunbar, Godric of Finchale, Charles d'Orleans, Layamon and Sir Thomas Wyatt. Sweet Rose of Virtue by William Dunbar (1460-1525) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness, delightful lily of youthful wantonness, richest in bounty and in beauty clear and in every virtue that is held most dear― except only that you are merciless. Into your garden, today, I followed you; there I saw flowers of freshest hue, both white and red, delightful to see, and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently― yet everywhere, no odor but rue. I fear that March with his last arctic blast has slain my fair rose and left her downcast, whose piteous death does my heart such pain that I long to plant love's root again― so comforting her bowering leaves have been. My translation of "Lament for the Makaris" by William Dunbar appears later on this page. Now skruketh rose and lylie flour (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 11th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Now the rose and the lily skyward flower, That will bear for awhile that sweet savor: In summer, that sweet tide; There is no queen so stark in her power Nor any lady so bright in her bower That Death shall not summon and guide; But whoever forgoes lust, in heavenly bliss will abide With his thoughts on Jesus anon, thralled at his side. skruketh = break forth, burst open; stour = strong, stern, hardy; tharled = thralled?, made a serf?, bound? I Have Labored Sore (anonymous medieval lyric circa the fifteenth century) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I have labored sore and suffered death, so now I rest and catch my breath. But I shall come and call right soon heaven and earth and hell to doom. Then all shall know both devil and man just who I was and what I am. A Lyke-Wake Dirge (anonymous medieval lyric circa the 16th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The Lie-Awake Dirge is “the night watch kept over a corpse.” This one night, this one night, every night and all; fire and sleet and candlelight, and Christ receive thy soul. When from this earthly life you pass every night and all, to confront your past you must come at last, and Christ receive thy soul. If you ever donated socks and shoes, every night and all, sit right down and slip yours on, and Christ receive thy soul. But if you never helped your brother, every night and all, walk barefoot through the flames of hell, and Christ receive thy soul. If ever you shared your food and drink, every night and all, the fire will never make you shrink, and Christ receive thy soul. But if you never helped your brother, every night and all, walk starving through the black abyss, and Christ receive thy soul. This one night, this one night, every night and all; fire and sleet and candlelight, and Christ receive thy soul. Excerpt from “Ubi Sunt Qui Ante Nos Fuerunt?” (anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1275) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Where are the men who came before us, who led hounds and hawks to the hunt, who commanded fields and woods? Where are the elegant ladies in their boudoirs who braided gold through their hair and had such fair complexions? Once eating and drinking gladdened their hearts; they enjoyed their games; men bowed before them; they bore themselves loftily … But then, in an eye’s twinkling, they were gone. Where now are their songs and their laughter, the trains of their dresses, the arrogance of their entrances and exits, their hawks and their hounds? All their joy has vanished; their “well” has come to “oh, well” and to many dark days … Fowles in the Frith (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The fowls in the forest, the fishes in the flood and I must go mad: such sorrow I've had for beasts of bone and blood! Sounds like an early animal rights activist! The use of "and" is intriguing … is the poet saying that his walks in the woods drive him mad because he's also a "beast of bone and blood" facing a similar fate? I must note, however, that this is my personal interpretation. The poem has "beste" and the poet may have meant "for the best of bone and blood" meaning some unidentified person, presumably. Westron Wynde (anonymous Middle English lyric, found in a partbook circa 1530 AD, but perhaps written earlier) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Western wind, when will you blow, bringing the drizzling rain? Christ, that my love were in my arms, and I in my bed again! The original poem has "the smalle rayne down can rayne" which suggests a drizzle or mist. This World's Joy (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 14th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Winter awakens all my care as leafless trees grow bare. For now my sighs are fraught whenever it enters my thought: regarding this world's joy, how everything comes to naught. Pity Mary (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Now the sun passes under the wood: I rue, Mary, thy face―fair, good. Now the sun passes under the tree: I rue, Mary, thy son and thee. In the poem above, note how "wood" and "tree" invoke the cross while "sun" and "son" seem to invoke each other. Sun-day is also Son-day, to Christians. The anonymous poet who wrote the poem above may have been been punning the words "sun" and "son." The poem is also known as "Now Goeth Sun Under Wood" and "Now Go'th Sun Under Wood." I am of Ireland (anonymous Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I am of Ireland, and of the holy realm of Ireland. Gentlefolk, I pray thee: for the sake of saintly charity, come dance with me in Ireland! Whan the turuf is thy tour (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 1. When the turf is your tower and the pit is your bower, your pale white skin and throat shall be sullen worms’ to note. What help to you, then, was all your worldly hope? 2. When the turf is your tower and the grave is your bower, your pale white throat and skin worm-eaten from within … what hope of my help then? The second translation leans more to the "lover's complaint" and carpe diem genres, with the poet pointing out to his prospective lover that by denying him her favors she make take her virtue to the grave where worms will end her virginity in macabre fashion. This poem may be an ancient precursor of poems like Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress." Ech day me comëth tydinges thre (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Each day I’m plagued by three doles, These gargantuan weights on my soul: First, that I must somehow exit this fen. Second, that I cannot know when. And yet it’s the third that torments me so, Because I don't know where the hell I will go! Ich have y-don al myn youth (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I have done it all my youth: Often, often, and often! I have loved long and yearned zealously … And oh what grief it has brought me! GEOFFREY CHAUCER Three Roundels by Geoffrey Chaucer I. Merciles Beaute ("Merciless Beauty") by Geoffrey Chaucer loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Your eyes slay me suddenly; their beauty I cannot sustain, they wound me so, through my heart keen. Unless your words heal me hastily, my heart's wound will remain green; for your eyes slay me suddenly; their beauty I cannot sustain. By all truth, I tell you faithfully that you are of life and death my queen; for at my death this truth shall be seen: your eyes slay me suddenly; their beauty I cannot sustain, they wound me so, through my heart keen. II. Rejection by Geoffrey Chaucer loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Your beauty from your heart has so erased Pity, that it’s useless to complain; For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain. I'm guiltless, yet my sentence has been cast. I tell you truly, needless now to feign― Your beauty from your heart has so erased Pity, that it’s useless to complain. Alas, that Nature in your face compassed Such beauty, that no man may hope attain To mercy, though he perish from the pain; Your beauty from your heart has so erased Pity, that it’s useless to complain; For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain. III. Escape by Geoffrey Chaucer loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat, I never plan to be in his prison lean; Since I am free, I count it not a bean. He may question me and counter this and that; I care not: I will answer just as I mean. Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat, I never plan to be in his prison lean. Love strikes me from his roster, short and flat, And he is struck from my books, just as clean, Forevermore; there is no other mean. Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat, I never plan to be in his prison lean; Since I am free, I count it not a bean. Welcome, Summer by Geoffrey Chaucer loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft, since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather and driven away her long nights’ frosts. Saint Valentine, in the heavens aloft, the songbirds sing your praises together! Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft, since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather. We have good cause to rejoice, not scoff, since love’s in the air, and also in the heather, whenever we find such blissful warmth, together. Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft, since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather and driven away her long nights’ frosts. CHARLES D'ORLEANS Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray, Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains, Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain, Your little feet―please, what more can I say? It is my fetish when you’re far away To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain― Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray, Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains. So would I beg you, if I only may, To see such sights as I before have seen, Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene? I’ll be obsessed until my dying day By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray, Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains! Spring by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch Young lovers, greeting the spring fling themselves downhill, making cobblestones ring with their wild leaps and arcs, like ecstatic sparks struck from coal. What is their brazen goal? They grab at whatever passes, so we can only hazard guesses. But they rear like prancing steeds raked by brilliant spurs of need, Young lovers. Oft in My Thought by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch So often in my busy mind I sought, Around the advent of the fledgling year, For something pretty that I really ought To give my lady dear; But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear, Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay And robbed the world of all that's precious here― God keep her soul, I can no better say. For me to keep my manner and my thought Acceptable, as suits my age's hour? While proving that I never once forgot Her worth? It tests my power! I serve her now with masses and with prayer; For it would be a shame for me to stray Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near― God keep her soul, I can no better say. Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost And the cost of everything became so dear; Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host, Take my good deeds, as many as there are, And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere, As heaven's truest maid! And may I say: Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer― God keep her soul, I can no better say. When I praise her, or hear her praises raised, I recall how recently she brought me pleasure; Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay And makes me wish to dress for my own bier― God keep her soul, I can no better say. Winter has cast his cloak away by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation/moderniz ation by Michael R. Burch Winter has cast his cloak away of wind and cold and chilling rain to dress in embroidered light again: the light of day―bright, festive, gay! Each bird and beast, without delay, in its own tongue, sings this refrain: "Winter has cast his cloak away!" Brooks, fountains, rivers, streams at play, wear, with their summer livery, bright beads of silver jewelry. All the Earth has a new and fresh display: Winter has cast his cloak away! This rondeau was set to music by Debussy in his Trois chansons de France. The year lays down his mantle cold by Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch The year lays down his mantle cold of wind, chill rain and bitter air, and now goes clad in clothes of gold of smiling suns and seasons fair, while birds and beasts of wood and fold now with each cry and song declare: "The year lays down his mantle cold!" All brooks, springs, rivers, seaward rolled, now pleasant summer livery wear with silver beads embroidered where the world puts off its raiment old. The year lays down his mantle cold. In My Imagined Book by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch In my imagined Book my heart endeavored to explain its history of grief, and pain, illuminated by the tears that welled to blur those well-loved years of former happiness's gains, in my imagined Book. Alas, where should the reader look beyond these drops of sweat, their stains, all the effort & pain it took & which I recorded night and day in my imagined Book? Confession of a Stolen Kiss by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch My ghostly father, I confess, First to God and then to you, That at a window (you know how) I stole a kiss of great sweetness, Which was done out of avidness�" But it is done, not undone, now. My ghostly father, I confess, First to God and then to you. But I shall restore it, doubtless, Again, if it may be that I know how; And thus to God I make a vow, And always I ask forgiveness. My ghostly father, I confess, First to God and then to you. The First Valentine Poem Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465) has been credited with writing the first Valentine card, in the form of a poem for his wife. Charles wrote the poem in 1415 at age 21, in the first year of his captivity while being held prisoner in the Tower of London after having been captured by the British at the Battle of Agincourt. My Very Gentle Valentine by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch My very gentle Valentine, Alas, for me you were born too soon, As I was born too late for you! May God forgive my jailer Who has kept me from you this entire year. I am sick without your love, my dear, My very gentle Valentine. Fair Lady Without Peer by Charles d’Orleans loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Fair Lady, without peer, my plea, Is that your grace will pardon me, Since I implore, on bended knee. No longer can I, privately, Keep this from you: my deep distress, When only you can comfort me, For I consider you my only mistress. This powerful love demands, I fear, That I confess things openly, Since to your service I came here And my helpless eyes were forced to see Such beauty gods and angels cheer, Which brought me joy in such excess That I became your servant, gladly, For I consider you my only mistress. Please grant me this great gift most dear: to be your vassal, willingly. May it please you that, now, year by year, I shall serve you as my only Liege. I bend the knee here―true, sincere― Unfit to beg one royal kiss, Although none other offers cheer, For I consider you my only mistress. Chanson: Let Him Refrain from Loving, Who Can by Charles d’Orleans loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Let him refrain from loving, who can. I can no longer hover. I must become a lover. What will become of me, I know not. Although I’ve heard the distant thought that those who love all suffer, I must become a lover. I can no longer refrain. My heart must risk almost certain pain and trust in Beauty, however distraught. For if a man does not love, then what? Let him refrain from loving, who can. Her Beauty by Charles d’Orleans loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Her beauty, to the world so plain, Still intimately held my heart in thrall And so established her sole reign: She was, of Good, the cascading fountain. Thus of my Love, lost recently, I say, while weeping bitterly: “We cleave to this strange world in vain.” In ages past when angels fell The world grew darker with the stain Of their dear blood, then became hell While poets wept a tearful strain. Yet, to his dark and drear domain Death took his victims, piteously, So that we bards write bitterly: “We cleave to this strange world in vain.” Death comes to claim our angels, all, as well we know, and spares no pain. Over our pleasures, Death casts his pall, Then without joy we “living” remain. Death treats all Love with such disdain! What use is this world? For it seems to me, It has neither Love, nor Pity. Thus “We cleave to this strange world in vain.” Chanson: The Summer's Heralds by Charles d’Orleans loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The Summer’s heralds bring a dear Sweet season of soft-falling showers And carpet fields once brown and sere With lush green grasses and fresh flowers. Now over gleaming lawns appear The bright sun-dappled lengthening hours. The Summer’s heralds bring a dear Sweet season of soft-falling showers. Faint hearts once chained by sullen fear No longer shiver, tremble, cower. North winds no longer storm and glower. For winter has no business here. Traitorous Eye by Charles d’Orleans loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Traitorous eye, what’s new? What lewd pranks do you have in view? Without civil warning, you spy, And no one ever knows why! Who understands anything you do? You’re rash and crass in your boldness too, And your lewdness is hard to subdue. Change your crude ways, can’t you? Traitorous eye, what’s new? You should be beaten through and through With a stripling birch strap or two. Traitorous eye, what’s new? What lewd pranks do have you in view? SIR THOMAS WYATT “Whoso List to Hunt” has an alternate title, “The Lover Despairing to Attain Unto His Lady’s Grace Relinquisheth the Pursuit” and is commonly believed to have been written for Anne Boleyn, who married King Henry VIII only to be beheaded at his command when she failed to produce a male heir. (Ouch, talk about male chauvinism!) Whoever Longs to Hunt by Sir Thomas Wyatt loose translation/interpretation/moderniz ation by Michael R. Burch Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer; but as for me, alas!, I may no more. This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore I'm one of those who falters, at the rear. Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind away from the doe? Thus, as she flees before me, fainting I follow. I must leave off, therefore, since in a net I seek to hold the wind. Whoever seeks her out, I relieve of any doubt, that he, like me, must spend his time in vain. For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain, these words appear, her fair neck ringed about: Touch me not, for Caesar's I am, And wild to hold, though I seem tame. Brut, an excerpt by Layamon, circa 1100 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Now he stands on a hill overlooking the Avon, seeing steel fishes girded with swords in the stream, their swimming days done, their scales a-gleam like gold-plated shields, their fish-spines floating like shattered spears. Wulf and Eadwacer (Old English poem circa 960-990 AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch My people pursue him like crippled prey. They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack. We are so different! Wulf's on one island; I'm on another. His island's a fortress, fastened by fens. Here, bloodthirsty curs howl for carnage. They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack. We are so different! My thoughts pursued Wulf like panting hounds. Whenever it rained, as I wept, the bold warrior came; he took me in his arms: good feelings, to a point, but the end loathsome! Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you has made me sick; your infrequent visits have left me famished, deprived of real meat! Do you hear, Eadwacer? Watchdog! A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods. One can easily sever what never was one: our song together. Cædmon's Hymn loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Come, let us honour heaven-kingdom's Guardian, the might of the Architect and his mind-plans, the work of the Glory-Father. First he, the Everlasting Lord, established the foundation of wonders. Then he, the Primeval Poet, created heaven as a roof for the sons of men, Holy Creator, Maker of mankind. Then he, the Eternal Entity, afterwards made men middle-earth: Master Almighty! A Proverb from Winfred's Time anonymous Old English poem, circa 757-786 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 1. The procrastinator puts off purpose, never initiates anything marvelous, never succeeds, dies dead alone. 2. The late-deed-doer delays glory-striving, never indulges daring dreams, never succeeds, dies dead alone. 3. Often the deed-dodger avoids ventures, never succeeds, dies dead alone. Franks Casket Runes anonymous Old English poems, circa 700 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The fish flooded the shore-cliffs; the sea-king wept when he swam onto the shingle: whale's bone. Romulus and Remus, twin brothers weaned in Rome by a she-wolf, far from their native land. "The Leiden Riddle" is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle Lorica ("Corselet"). The Leiden Riddle anonymous Old English riddle poem, circa 700 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb. I know I was not fashioned from woolen fleeces; nor was I skillfully spun from skeins; I have neither warp nor weft; no thread thrums through me in the thrashing loom; nor do whirring shuttles rattle me; nor does the weaver's rod assail me; nor did silkworms spin me like skillfull fates into curious golden embroidery. And yet heroes still call me an excellent coat. Nor do I fear the dread arrows' flights, however eagerly they leap from their quivers. Solution: a coat of mail. If you see a busker singing for tips, you're seeing someone carrying on an Anglo-Saxon tradition that goes back to the days of Beowulf … He sits with his harp at his thane's feet, Earning his hire, his rewards of rings, Sweeping the strings with his skillful nail; Hall-thanes smile at the sweet song he sings. ―"Fortunes of Men" loose translation by Michael R. Burch Deor's Lament (Anglo Saxon poem, circa 10th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Weland knew the agony of exile. That indomitable smith was wracked by grief. He endured countless troubles: sorrows were his only companions in his frozen island dungeon after Nithad had fettered him, many strong-but-supple sinew-bonds binding the better man. That passed away; this also may. Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths but even more, her own sad state once she discovered herself with child. She predicted nothing good could come of it. That passed away; this also may. We have heard that the Geat's moans for Matilda, his lady, were limitless, that his sorrowful love for her robbed him of regretless sleep. That passed away; this also may. For thirty winters Theodric ruled the Mæring stronghold with an iron hand; many knew this and moaned. That passed away; this also may. We have also heard of Ermanaric's wolfish ways, of how he held wide sway in the realm of the Goths. He was a grim king! Many a warrior sat, full of cares and maladies of the mind, wishing constantly that his kingdom might be overthrown. That passed away; this also may. If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious, bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening, soon it seems to him that his troubles are endless. Then he must consider that the wise Lord often moves through the earth granting some men honor, glory and fame, but others only shame and hardship. This I will say for myself: that for awhile I was the Heodeninga's scop, dear to my lord. My name was Deor. For many winters I held a fine office, faithfully serving a just lord. But now Heorrenda a man skilful in songs, has received the estate the protector of warriors gave me. That passed away; this also may. The Wife's Lament loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I draw these words from deep wells of my grief, care-worn, unutterably sad. I can recount woes I've borne since birth, present and past, never more than now. I have won, from my exile-paths, only pain. First, my lord forsook his folk, left, crossed the seas' tumult, far from our people. Since then, I've known wrenching dawn-griefs, dark mournings … oh where, where can he be? Then I, too, left―a lonely, lordless refugee, full of unaccountable desires! But the man's kinsmen schemed secretly to estrange us, divide us, keep us apart, across earth's wide kingdom, and my heart broke. Then my lord spoke: "Take up residence here." I had few friends in this unknown, cheerless region, none close. Christ, I felt lost! Then I thought I had found a well-matched man― one meant for me, but unfortunately he was ill-starred and blind, with a devious mind, full of murderous intentions, plotting some crime! Before God we vowed never to part, not till kingdom come, never! But now that's all changed, forever― our friendship done, severed. I must hear, far and near, contempt for my husband. So other men bade me, "Go, live in the grove, beneath the great oaks, in an earth-cave, alone." In this ancient cave-dwelling I am lost and oppressed― the valleys are dark, the hills immense, and this cruel-briared enclosure―an arid abode! The injustice assails me―my lord's absence! On earth there are lovers who share the same bed while I pass through life dead in this dark abscess where I wilt, summer days unable to rest or forget the sorrows of my life's hard lot. A young woman must always be stern, hard-of-heart, unmoved, opposing breast-cares and her heartaches' legions. She must appear cheerful even in a tumult of grief. Like a criminal exiled to a far-off land, moaning beneath insurmountable cliffs, my weary-minded love, drenched by wild storms and caught in the clutches of anguish, is reminded constantly of our former happiness. Woe be it to them who abide in longing. The Husband's Message anonymous Old English poem, circa 960-990 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch See, I unseal myself for your eyes only! I sprang from a seed to a sapling, waxed great in a wood, was given knowledge, was ordered across saltstreams in ships where I stiffened my spine, standing tall, till, entering the halls of heroes, I honored my manly Lord. Now I stand here on this ship’s deck, an emissary ordered to inform you of the love my Lord feels for you. I have no fear forecasting his heart steadfast, his honor bright, his word true. He who bade me come carved this letter and entreats you to recall, clad in your finery, what you promised each other many years before, mindful of his treasure-laden promises. He reminds you how, in those distant days, witty words were pledged by you both in the mead-halls and homesteads: how he would be Lord of the lands you would inhabit together while forging a lasting love.
Alas, a vendetta drove him far from his feuding tribe, but now he instructs me to gladly give you notice that when you hear the returning cuckoo's cry cascading down warming coastal cliffs, come over the sea! Let no man hinder your course. He earnestly urges you: Out! To sea! Away to the sea, when the circling gulls hover over the ship that conveys you to him! Board the ship that you meet there: sail away seaward to seek your husband, over the seagulls' range, over the paths of foam. For over the water, he awaits you. He cannot conceive, he told me, how any keener joy could comfort his heart, nor any greater happiness gladden his soul, than that a generous God should grant you both to exchange rings, then give gifts to trusty liege-men, golden armbands inlaid with gems to faithful followers. The lands are his, his estates among strangers, his new abode fair and his followers true, all hardy heroes, since hence he was driven, shoved off in his ship from these shore in distress, steered straightway over the saltstreams, sped over the ocean, a wave-tossed wanderer winging away. But now the man has overcome his woes, outpitted his perils, lives in plenty, lacks no luxury, has a hoard and horses and friends in the mead-halls. All the wealth of the earth's great earls now belongs to my Lord … He only lacks you. He would have everything within an earl's having, if only my Lady will come home to him now, if only she will do as she swore and honor her vow. Led By Christ and Mary by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led that the earth never felt my bare foot’s tread! Crist and sainte marie swa on scamel me iledde þat ic on þis erðe ne silde wid mine bare fote itredie A Cry to Mary by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I. Saintë Marië Virginë, Mother of Jesus Christ the Nazarenë, Welcome, shield and help thin Godric, Fly him off to God’s kingdom rich! II. Saintë Marië, Christ’s bower, Virgin among Maidens, Motherhood’s flower, Blot out my sin, fix where I’m flawed, Elevate me to Bliss with God! Prayer to St. Nicholas by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Saint Nicholas, beloved of God, Build us a house that’s bright and fair; Watch over us from birth to bier, Then, Saint Nicholas, bring us safely there! Sainte Nicholaes godes druð tymbre us faire scone hus At þi burth at þi bare Sainte nicholaes bring vs wel þare The Rhymed Poem aka The Rhyming Poem and The Riming Poem anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem circa 990 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch He who granted me life created this sun and graciously provided its radiant engine. I was gladdened with glees, bathed in bright hues, deluged with joy’s blossoms, sunshine-infused. Men admired me, feted me with banquet-courses; we rejoiced in the good life. Gaily bedecked horses carried me swiftly across plains on joyful rides, delighting me with their long limbs' thunderous strides. That world was quickened by earth’s fruits and their flavors! I cantered under pleasant skies, attended by troops of advisers. Guests came and went, amusing me with their chatter as I listened with delight to their witty palaver. Well-appointed ships glided by in the distance; when I sailed myself, I was never without guidance. I was of the highest rank; I lacked for nothing in the hall; nor did I lack for brave companions; warriors, all, we strode through castle halls weighed down with gold won from our service to thanes. We were proud men, and bold. Wise men praised me; I was omnipotent in battle; Fate smiled on and protected me; foes fled before me like cattle. Thus I lived with joy indwelling; faithful retainers surrounded me; I possessed vast estates; I commanded all my eyes could see; the earth lay subdued before me; I sat on a princely throne; the words I sang were charmed; old friendships did not wane … Those were years rich in gifts and the sounds of happy harp-strings, when a lasting peace dammed shut the rivers’ sorrowings. My servants were keen, their harps resonant; their songs pealed, the sound loud but pleasant; the music they made melodious, a continual delight; the castle hall trembled and towered bright. Courage increased, wealth waxed with my talent; I gave wise counsel to great lords and enriched the valiant. My spirit enlarged; my heart rejoiced; good faith flourished; glory abounded; abundance increased. I was lavishly supplied with gold; bright gems were circulated … Till treasure led to treachery and the bonds of friendship constricted. I was bold in my bright array, noble in my equipage, my joy princely, my home a happy hermitage. I protected and led my people; for many years my life among them was regal; I was devoted to them and they to me. But now my heart is troubled, fearful of the fates I see; disaster seems unavoidable. Someone dear departs in flight by night who once before was bold. His soul has lost its light. A secret disease in full growth blooms within his breast, spreads in different directions. Hostility blossoms in his chest, in his mind. Bottomless grief assaults the mind's nature and when penned in, erupts in rupture, burns eagerly for calamity, runs bitterly about. The weary man suffers, begins a journey into doubt; his pain is ceaseless; pain increases his sorrows, destroys his bliss; his glory ceases; he loses his happiness; he loses his craft; he no longer burns with desires. Thus joys here perish, lordships expire; men lose faith and descend into vice; infirm faith degenerates into evil’s curse; faith feebly abandons its high seat and every hour grows worse. So now the world changes; Fate leaves men lame; Death pursues hatred and brings men to shame. The happy clan perishes; the spear rends the marrow; the evildoer brawls and poisons the arrow; sorrow devours the city; old age castrates courage; misery flourishes; wrath desecrates the peerage; the abyss of sin widens; the treacherous path snakes; resentment burrows, digs in, wrinkles, engraves; artificial beauty grows foul; the summer heat cools; earthly wealth fails; enmity rages, cruel, bold; the might of the world ages, courage grows cold. Fate wove itself for me and my sentence was given: that I should dig a grave and seek that grim cavern men cannot avoid when death comes, arrow-swift, to seize their lives in his inevitable grasp. Now night comes at last, and the way stand clear for Death to dispossesses me of my my abode here. When my corpse lies interred and the worms eat my limbs, whom will Death delight then, with his dark feast and hymns? Let men’s bones become one, and then finally, none, till there’s nothing left here of the evil ones. But men of good faith will not be destroyed; the good man will rise, far beyond the Void, who chastened himself, more often than not, to avoid bitter sins and that final black Blot. The good man has hope of a far better end and remembers the promise of Heaven, where he’ll experience the mercies of God for his saints, freed from all sins, dark and depraved, defended from vices, gloriously saved, where, happy at last before their cheerful Lord, men may rejoice in his love forevermore. Adam Lay Ybounden (anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Adam lay bound, bound in a bond; Four thousand winters, he thought, were not too long. And all was for an apple, an apple that he took, As clerics now find written in their book. But had the apple not been taken, or had it never been, We'd never have had our Lady, heaven's queen. So blesséd be the time the apple was taken thus; Therefore we sing, "God is gracious!" The poem has also been rendered as "Adam lay i-bounden" and "Adam lay i-bowndyn." I Sing of a Maiden (anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I sing of a maiden That is matchless. The King of all Kings For her son she chose. He came also as still To his mother's breast As April dew Falling on the grass. He came also as still To his mother's bower As April dew Falling on the flower. He came also as still To where his mother lay As April dew Falling on the spray. Mother and maiden? Never one, but she! Well may such a lady God's mother be! Lament for the Makaris (Makers, or Poets) by William Dunbar (1460-1525) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch i who enjoyed good health and gladness am overwhelmed now by life’s terrible sickness and enfeebled with infirmity … how the fear of Death dismays me! our presence here is mere vainglory; the false world is but transitory; the flesh is frail; the Fiend runs free … how the fear of Death dismays me! the state of man is changeable: now sound, now sick, now blithe, now dull, now manic, now devoid of glee … how the fear of Death dismays me! no state on earth stands here securely; as the wild wind shakes the willow tree, so wavers this world’s vanity … how the fear of Death dismays me! Death leads the knights into the field (unarmored under helm and shield) sole Victor of each red mêlée … how the fear of Death dismays me! that strange, despotic Beast tears from its mother’s breast the babe, full of benignity … how the fear of Death dismays me! He takes the champion of the hour, the captain of the highest tower, the beautiful damsel in her tower … how the fear of Death dismays me! He spares no lord for his elegance, nor clerk for his intelligence; His dreadful stroke no man can flee … how the fear of Death dismays me! artist, magician, scientist, orator, debater, theologist, must all conclude, so too, as we: “how the fear of Death dismays me!” in medicine the most astute sawbones and surgeons all fall mute; they cannot save themselves, or flee … how the fear of Death dismays me! i see the Makers among the unsaved; the greatest of Poets all go to the grave; He does not spare them their faculty … how the fear of Death dismays me! i have seen Him pitilessly devour our noble Chaucer, poetry’s flower, and Lydgate and Gower (great Trinity!) … how the fear of Death dismays me! since He has taken my brothers all, i know He will not let me live past the fall; His next prey will be ― poor unfortunate me! … how the fear of Death dismays me! there is no remedy for Death; we all must prepare to relinquish breath so that after we die, we may be set free from “the fear of Death dismays me!” Fairest Between Lincoln and Lindsey (anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When the nightingale sings, the woods turn green; Leaf and grass again blossom in April, I know, Yet love pierces my heart with its spear so keen! Night and day it drinks my blood. The painful rivulets flow. I’ve loved all this year. Now I can love no more; I’ve sighed many a sigh, sweetheart, and yet all seems wrong. For love is no nearer and that leaves me poor. Sweet lover, think of me ― I’ve loved you so long! Sumer is icumen in anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1260 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Sing now cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo! Sing now cuckoo! Summer is a-comin'! Sing loud, cuckoo! The seed grows, The meadow blows, The woods spring up anew. Sing, cuckoo! The ewe bleats for her lamb; The cows contentedly moo; The bullock roots; The billy-goat poots … Sing merrily, cuckoo! Cuckoo, cuckoo, You sing so well, cuckoo! Never stop, until you're through! The Maiden Lay in the Wilds circa the 14th century loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The maiden in the moor lay, in the moor lay; seven nights full, seven nights full, the maiden in the moor lay, in the moor lay, seven nights full and a day. Sweet was her meat. But what was her meat? The primrose and the― The primrose and the― Sweet was her meat. But what was her meat? The primrose and the violet. Pure was her drink. But what was her drink? The cold waters of the― The cold waters of the― Pure was her drink. But what was her drink? The cold waters of the well-spring. Bright was her bower. But what was her bower? The red rose and the― The red rose and the Bright was her bower. But what was her bower? The red rose and the lily flower. The World an Illusion circa 14th century loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This is the sum of wisdom bright: however things may appear, life vanishes like birds in flight; now it’s here, now there. Nor are we mighty in our “might”― now on the bench, now on the bier. However vigilant or wise, in health it’s death we fear. However proud and without peer, no man’s immune to tragedy. And though we think all’s solid here, this world is but a fantasy. The sun’s course we may claim to know: arises east, sets in the west; we know which way earth’s rivers flow, into the seas that fill and crest. The winds rush here and there, also, it rains and snows without arrest. Will it all end? God only knows, with the wisdom of the Blessed, while we on earth remain hard-pressed, all bedraggled, or too dry, until we vanish, just a guest: this world is but a fantasy. Trust Only Yourself circa the 15th century loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Alas! Deceit lies in trust now, dubious as Fortune, spinning like a ball, as brittle when tested as a rotten bough. He who trusts in trust is ripe for a fall! Such guile in trust cannot be trusted, or a man will soon find himself busted. Therefore, “Be wary of trust!” is my advice. Trust only yourself and learn to be wise. See, Here, My Heart circa the 15th century loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O, mankind, please keep in mind where Passions start: there you will find me wholly kind― see, here, my heart. How Death Comes circa the 13th century loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When my eyes mist and my ears hiss and my nose grows cold as my tongue folds and my face grows slack as my lips grow black and my mouth gapes as my spit forms lakes and my hair falls as my heart stalls and my hand shake as my feet quake: All too late! All too late! When the bier is at the gate. Then I shall pass from bed to floor, from floor to shroud, from shroud to bier, from bier to grave, the grave closed forever! Then my house will rest on my nose. This world’s not worth a farthing, Heaven knows! Johann Scheffler (1624-1677), also known as Johann Angelus Silesius, was a German Catholic priest and physician, known as a mystic and religious poet. He's a bit later than most of the other poets on this page, but seems to fit in … Unholy Trinity by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Man has three enemies: himself, the world, and the devil. Of these the first is, by far, the most irresistible evil. True Wealth by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch There is more to being rich than merely having; the wealthiest man can lose everything not worth saving. The Rose by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The rose merely blossoms and never asks why: heedless of her beauty, careless of every eye. The Rose by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The rose lack “reasons” and merely sways with the seasons; she has no ego but whoever put on such a show? Eternal Time by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Eternity is time, time eternity, except when we are determined to "see." Visions by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Our souls possess two eyes: one examines time, the other visions eternal and sublime. Godless by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch God is absolute Nothingness beyond our sense of time and place; the more we try to grasp Him, The more He flees from our embrace. The Source by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Water is pure and clean when taken at the well-head: but drink too far from the Source and you may well end up dead. Ceaseless Peace by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Unceasingly you seek life's ceaseless wavelike motion; I seek perpetual peace, all storms calmed. Whose is the wiser notion? Well Written by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Friend, cease! Abandon all pretense! You must yourself become the Writing and the Sense. Worm Food by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch No worm is buried so deep within the soil that God denies it food as reward for its toil. Mature Love by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch New love, like a sparkling wine, soon fizzes. Mature love, calm and serene, abides. God's Predicament by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch God cannot condemn those with whom he would dwell, or He would have to join them in hell! Clods by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A ruby is not lovelier than a dirt clod, nor an angel more glorious than a frog. The original poem below is based on my teenage misinterpretation of a Latin prayer … Elegy for a little girl, lost by Michael R. Burch … qui laetificat juventutem meam … She was the joy of my youth, and now she is gone. … requiescat in pace … May she rest in peace. … amen … Amen. I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem. From what I now understand, “ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam” means “to the God who gives joy to my youth,” but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Vulgate Latin Bible (circa 385 AD).
by Vera Pavlova loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I shattered your heart; now I limp through the shards barefoot. Untitled Little sparks may ignite great Infernos.―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy? ―Albert Einstein, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Medusa by Michael R. Burch Friends, beware of her iniquitous hair― long, ravenblack & melancholy. Many suitors drowned there― lost, unaware of the length & extent of their folly. Siren Song by Michael R. Burch The Lorelei’s soft cries entreat mariners to save her ... How can they resist her faint voice through the mist? Soon she will savor the flavor of sweet human flesh. Low-T Hell by Michael R. Burch I’m living in low-T hell ... My get-up has gone: Oh, swell! I need to write checks if I want to have sex, and my love life depends on a gel! Originally published by Light evol-u-shun by michael r. burch does GOD adore the Tyger while it’s ripping ur lamb apart? does GOD applaud the Plague while it’s eating u à la carte? does GOD admire ur brains while ur claiming IT has a heart? does GOD endorse the Bible you blue-lighted at k-mart? In the segmented title “evol” is “love” spelled backwards. The title questions whether you/we have been shunned by a "God of Love" or by evolution. William Blake’s poem “The Tyger” questions the nature of a Creator who brings lambs and tigers into the same world. Less Heroic Couplets: 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. Elemental by Michael R. Burch for Beth There is within her a welling forth of love unfathomable. She is not comfortable with the thought of merely loving: but she must give all. At night, she loves the storm's calamitous call. Nay, longs for it. Why? O, if a man understood, he might understand her. But that would never do! Beth, as you embrace the storm, so I embrace elemental you. Dark Twin by Michael R. Burch You come to me out of the sun― my dark twin, unreal . . . And you are always near although I cannot touch you; although I trample you, you cannot feel . . . And we cannot be parted, nor can we ever meet except at the feet. The Higher Atmospheres by Michael R. Burch Whatever we became climbed on the thought of Love itself; we floated on plumed wings ten thousand miles above the breasted earth that had vexed us to such Distance; now all things seem small and pale, a girdle’s handsbreadth girth ... I break upon the rocks; I break; I fling my human form about; I writhe; I writhe. Invention is not Mastery, nor wings Salvation. Here the Vulture cruelly chides and plunges at my eyes, and coos and sings ... Oh, some will call the sun my doom, but Love melts callow wax the higher atmospheres leave brittle. I flew high: not high enough to melt such frozen resins ... thus, Her jeers. Ode to Postmodernism, or, Bury Me at St. Edmonds! by Michael R. Burch "Bury St. Edmonds―Amid the squirrels, pigeons, flowers and manicured lawns of Abbey Gardens, one can plug a modem into a park bench and check e-mail, files or surf the Web, absolutely free."―Tennessean News Service. (The bench was erected free of charge by the British division of MSN, after a local bureaucrat wrote a contest-winning ode of sorts to MSN.) Our post-modernist-equipped park bench will let you browse the World Wide Web, the Internet, commune with nature, interact with hackers, design a virus, feed brown bitterns crackers. Discretely-wired phone lines lead to plugs― four ports we swept last night for nasty bugs, so your privacy's assured (a threesome's fine) while invited friends can scan the party line: for Internet alerts on new positions, the randier exploits of politicians, exotic birds on web cams (DO NOT FEED!) . The cybersex is great, it's guaranteed to leave you breathless―flushed, free of disease and malware viruses. Enjoy the trees, the birds, the bench―this product of Our pen. We won it with an ode to MSN. Takaha Shugyo haiku and tanka translations Takaha Shugyo (1930-) was born in Japan's mountainous Yamagata Prefecture and began writing haiku at age fifteen. He studied with Yamaguchi Seishi and Akimoto Fujio, won the Young Poet's Award in 1965, then went on to found the haiku magazine KARI in 1978. Oh, fallen camellias, if I were you, I'd leap into the torrent! ―Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A single tree with a heart carved into its trunk blossoms prematurely ―Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Still clad in its clown's costume― the dead ladybird. ―Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Wild geese pass leaving the emptiness of heaven revealed ― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Are the geese flying south? The candle continues to flicker ... ―Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Inside the cracked shell of a walnut: one empty room ― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Such gloom! Inside the walnut's cracked shell: one empty room ―Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Bring me an icicle sparkling with the stars of the deep north ― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Seen from the skyscraper the trees' fresh greenery: parsley sprigs ― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Our life here on earth: to what shall we compare it? It is not like a rowboat departing at daybreak, leaving no trace of us in its wake? ― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Tree crickets chirping― after I've judged a thousand verses today! ―Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Crickets chirping discordantly― how to judge ten thousand verses? ―Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Original Haiku Sleepyheads! I recite my haiku to the inattentive lilies. ―Michael R. Burch POEMS ABOUT NIGHTMARES My nightmare ... by Michael R. Burch, writing as “The Child Poets of Gaza” I had a dream of Jesus! Mama, his eyes were so kind! But behind him I saw a billion Christians hissing "You're nothing!," so blind. Excelsior by Michael R. Burch I lift my eyes and laugh, Excelsior . . . Why do you come, wan spirit, heaven-gowned, complaining that I am no longer “pure?” I threw myself before you, and you frowned, so full of noble chastity, renowned for leaving maidens maidens. In the dark I sought love’s bright enchantment, but your lips were stone; my fiery metal drew no spark to light the cold dominions of your heart. What realms were ours? What leasehold? And what claim upon these territories, cold and dark, do you seek now, pale phantom? Would you light my heart in death and leave me ashen-white, as you are white, extinguished by the Night? Excerpts from the Journal of Dorian Gray by Michael R. Burch It was not so much dream, as error; I lay and felt the creeping terror of what I had become take hold . . . The moon watched, silent, palest gold; the picture by the mantle watched; the clock upon the mantle talked, in halting voice, of minute things . . . Twelve strokes like lashes and their stings scored anthems to my loneliness, but I have dreamed of what is best, and I have promised to be good . . . Dismembered limbs in vats of wood, foul acids, and a strangled cry! I did not care, I watched him die . . . Each lovely rose has thorns we miss; they prick our lips, should we once kiss their mangled limbs, or think to clasp their violent beauty. Dream, aghast, the flower of my loveliness, this ageless face (for who could guess?), and I will kiss you when I rise . . . The patterns of our lives comprise strange portraits. Mine, I fear, proved dear indeed . . . Adieu! The knife’s for you. Originally published by Dusk & Shiver Magazine ROBERT BURNS TRANSLATIONS/MODERNIZATIONS Comin Thro the Rye by Robert Burns Oh, Jenny's all wet, poor body, Jenny's seldom dry; She's draggin' all her petticoats Comin' through the rye. Comin' through the rye, poor body, Comin' through the rye. She's draggin' all her petticoats Comin' through the rye. Should a body meet a body Comin' through the rye, Should a body kiss a body, Need anybody cry? Comin' through the rye, poor body, Comin' through the rye. She's draggin' all her petticoats Comin' through the rye. Should a body meet a body Comin' through the glen, Should a body kiss a body, Need all the world know, then? Comin' through the rye, poor body, Comin' through the rye. She's draggin' all her petticoats Comin' through the rye. A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch Oh, my love is like a red, red rose that's newly sprung in June and my love is like the melody that's sweetly played in tune. And you're so fair, my lovely lass, and so deep in love am I, that I will love you still, my dear, till all the seas run dry. Till all the seas run dry, my dear, and the rocks melt with the sun! And I will love you still, my dear, while the sands of life shall run. And fare you well, my only love! And fare you well, awhile! And I will come again, my love, though it were ten thousand miles! Banks of Doon by Robert Burns translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch Oh, banks and hills of lovely Doon, How can you bloom so fresh and fair; How can you chant, ecstatic birds, When I'm so weary, full of care! You'll break my heart, small warblers, Flittering through the flowering thorn: Reminding me of long-lost joys, Departed―never to return! I've often wandered lovely Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And as the lark sang of its love, Just as fondly, I sang of mine. Then gaily-hearted I plucked a rose, So fragrant upon its thorny tree; And my false lover stole my rose, But, ah!, he left the thorn in me. Auld Lang Syne by Robert Burns translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch Should old acquaintance be forgot, And never brought to mind? Should old acquaintance be forgot, And days for which we pine? For times we shared, my darling, Days passed, once yours and mine, We’ll raise a cup of kindness yet, To those fond-remembered times! Have you ever wondered just exactly what you're singing? "Auld lang syne" means something like "times gone by" or "times long since passed" and in the context of the song means something like "times long since passed that we shared together and now remember fondly." In my translation, which is not word-for-word, I try to communicate what I believe Burns was trying to communicate: raising a toast to fond recollections of times shared in the past. To a Mouse by Robert Burns translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch Sleek, tiny, timorous, cowering beast, why's such panic in your breast? Why dash away, so quick, so rash, in a frenzied flash when I would be loath to pursue you with a murderous plowstaff! I'm truly sorry Man's dominion has broken Nature's social union, and justifies that bad opinion which makes you startle, when I'm your poor, earth-born companion and fellow mortal! I have no doubt you sometimes thieve; What of it, friend? You too must live! A random corn-ear in a shock's a small behest; it- 'll give me a blessing to know such a loss; I'll never miss it! Your tiny house lies in a ruin, its fragile walls wind-rent and strewn! Now nothing's left to construct you a new one of mosses green since bleak December's winds, ensuing, blow fast and keen! You saw your fields laid bare and waste with weary winter closing fast, and cozy here, beneath the blast, you thought to dwell, till crash! the cruel iron ploughshare passed straight through your cell! That flimsy heap of leaves and stubble had cost you many a weary nibble! Now you're turned out, for all your trouble, less house and hold, to endure cold winter's icy dribble and hoarfrosts cold! But mouse-friend, you are not alone in proving foresight may be vain: the best-laid schemes of Mice and Men go oft awry, and leave us only grief and pain, for promised joy! Still, friend, you're blessed compared with me! Only present dangers make you flee: But, ouch!, behind me I can see grim prospects drear! While forward-looking seers, we humans guess and fear! To a Louse by Robert Burns translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch Hey! Where're you going, you crawling hair-fly? Your impudence protects you, barely; I can only say that you swagger rarely Over gauze and lace. Though faith! I fear you dine but sparely In such a place. You ugly, creeping, blasted wonder, Detested, shunned by both saint and sinner, How dare you set your feet upon her― So fine a lady! Go somewhere else to seek your dinner On some poor body. Off! around some beggar's temple shamble: There you may creep, and sprawl, and scramble, With other kindred, jumping cattle, In shoals and nations; Where horn nor bone never dare unsettle Your thick plantations. Now hold you there! You're out of sight, Below the folderols, snug and tight; No, faith just yet! You'll not be right, Till you've got on it: The very topmost, towering height Of miss's bonnet. My word! right bold you root, contrary, As plump and gray as any gooseberry. Oh, for some rank, mercurial resin, Or dread red poison; I'd give you such a hearty dose, flea, It'd dress your noggin! I wouldn't be surprised to spy You on some housewife's flannel tie: Or maybe on some ragged boy's Pale undervest; But Miss's finest bonnet! Fie! How dare you jest? Oh Jenny, do not toss your head, And lash your lovely braids abroad! You hardly know what cursed speed The creature's making! Those winks and finger-ends, I dread, Are notice-taking! O would some Power with vision teach us To see ourselves as others see us! It would from many a blunder free us, And foolish notions: What airs in dress and carriage would leave us, And even devotion! #BURNS #MRBURNS POEMS ABOUT SAINTS AND SINNERS Of Seabound Saints and Promised Lands by Michael R. Burch Judas sat on a wretched rock, his head still sore from Satan’s gnawing. Saint Brendan’s curragh caught his eye, wildly geeing and hawing. "I’m on parole from Hell today!," Pale Judas cried from his lonely perch. "You’ve fasted forty days, good Saint! Let this rock by my church, my baptismal, these icy waves. O, plead for me now with the One who saves!" Saint Brendan, full of mercy, stood at the lurching prow of his flimsy bark, and mightily prayed for the mangy man whose flesh flashed pale and stark in the golden dawn, beneath a sun that seemed to halo his tonsured dome. Then Saint Brendan sailed for the Promised Land and Saint Judas headed Home. O, behoove yourself, if ever you can, of the fervent prayer of a righteous man! In Dante’s "Inferno," Satan gnaws on Judas Iscariot’s head. A curragh is a boat fashioned from wood and ox hides. Saint Brendan of Ireland is the patron saint of sailors and whales. According to legend, he sailed in search of the Promised Land and discovered America centuries before Columbus. DANTE TRANSLATIONS Translations of Dante Epigrams and Quotes by Michael R. Burch Little sparks may ignite great Infernos.―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch In Beatrice I beheld the outer boundaries of blessedness.―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch She made my veins and even the pulses within them tremble.―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Her sweetness left me intoxicated.―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Love commands me by determining my desires.―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Follow your own path and let the bystanders gossip.―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The devil is not as dark as depicted.―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch There is no greater sorrow than to recall how we delighted in our own wretchedness.―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch As he, who with heaving lungs escaped the suffocating sea, turns to regard its perilous waters.―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you nosedive in the mildest breeze?―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you quail at the least breath of wind?―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Midway through my life’s journey I awoke to find myself lost in a trackless wood, for I had strayed far from the straight path. ―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch INSCRIPTION ON THE GATE OF HELL Before me nothing existed, to fear. Eternal I am, and eternal I endure. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. ―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch POEMS ABOUT TIME, LOSS AND FADING MEMORIES Cycles by Michael R. Burch I see his eyes caress my daughter’s breasts through her thin cotton dress, and how an indiscreet strap of her white bra holds his bald fingers in fumbling mammalian awe . . . And I remember long cycles into the bruised dusk of a distant park, hot blushes, wild, disembodied rushes of blood, portentous intrusions of lips, tongues and fingers . . . and now in *him* the memory of me lingers like something thought rancid, proved rotten. I see Another again―hard, staring, and silent― though long-ago forgotten . . . And I remember conjectures of panty lines, brief flashes of white down bleacher stairs, coarse patches of hair glimpsed in bathroom mirrors, all the odd, questioning stares . . . Yes, I remember it all now, and I shoo them away, willing them not to play too long or too hard in the back yard― with a long, ineffectual stare that years from now, he may suddenly remember. Photographs by Michael R. Burch Here are the effects of a life and they might tell us a tale (if only we had time to listen) of how each imperiled tear would glisten, remembered as brightness in her eyes, and how each dawn’s dramatic skies could never match such pale azure. Like dreams of her, these ghosts endure and they tell us a tale of impatient glory . . . till a line appears―a trace of worry?― or the wayward track of a wandering smile which even now can charm, beguile? We might find good cause to wonder as we see her pause (to frown?, to ponder?): what vexed her in her loveliness . . . what weight, what crushing heaviness turned her auburn hair a frazzled gray, and stole her youth before her day? We might ask ourselves: did Time devour the passion with the ravaged flower? But here and there a smile will bloom to light the leaden, shadowed gloom that always seems to linger near . . . And here we find a single tear: it shimmers like translucent dew and tells us Anguish touched her too, and did not spare her for her hair's burnt copper, or her eyes' soft hue. Published in Tucumcari Literary Review (the first poem in its issue) POEMS ABOUT DAY AND NIGHT Day, and Night (I) by Michael R. Burch The moon exposes syphilitic craters and veiled by ghostly willows, palely looms, while we who rise each day to grind a living, dream each scented night of such perfumes as drew us to the window, to the moonlight, when all the earth was steeped in cobalt blue― an eerie vase of achromatic flowers bled silver by pale starlight, losing hue. The night begins her waltz to waiting sunrise― adagio, the music she now hears, while we who in the sunlight slave for succor, dreaming, seek communion with the spheres. And all around the night is in crescendo, and everywhere the stars’ bright legions form, and here we hear the sweet incriminations of lovers we had once to keep us warm. And also here we find, like bled carnations, red lips that whitened, kisses drawn to lies, that touched us once with fierce incantations and taught us love was prettier than wise. Day, and Night (II) by Michael R. Burch The moon exposes pockmarked scars of craters; her visage, veiled by willows, palely looms. And we who rise each day to grind a living, dream each scented night of such perfumes as drew us to the window, to the moonlight, when all the earth was steeped in cobalt blue― an eerie vase of achromatic flowers bled silver by pale starlight, losing hue. The night begins her waltz to waiting sunrise― adagio, the music she now hears; and we who in the sunlight slave for succor, dreaming, seek communion with the spheres. And all around the night is in crescendo, and everywhere the stars’ bright legions form, and here we hear the sweet incriminations of lovers we had once to keep us warm. And also here we find, like bled carnations, red lips that whitened, kisses drawn to lies, that touched us once with fierce incantations and taught us love was prettier than wise. POEMS ABOUT ABRAHAM LINCOLN AND ANN RUTLEDGE Ann Rutledge’s grave marker in Petersburg, Illinois, contains a poem written by Edgar Lee Masters in which she is “Beloved of Abraham Lincoln, / Wedded to him, not through union, / But through separation.” Ann Rutledge’s Irregular Quilt by Michael R. Burch based on “Lincoln the Unknown” by Dale Carnegie I. Her fingers “plied the needle” with “unusual swiftness and art” till Abe knelt down beside her: then her demoralized heart set Eros’s dart a-quiver; thus a crazy quilt emerged: strange stitches all a-kilter, all patterns lost. (Her host kept her vicarious laughter barely submerged.) II. Years later she’d show off the quilt with its uncertain stitches as evidence love undermines men’s plans and women’s strictures (and a plethora of scriptures.) III. But O the sacred tenderness Ann’s reckless stitch contains and all the world’s felicities: rich cloth, for love’s fine gains, for sweethearts’ tremulous fingers and their bright, uncertain vows and all love’s blithe, erratic hopes (like now’s). IV. Years later on a pilgrimage, by tenderness obsessed, Dale Carnegie, drawn to her grave, found weeds in her place of rest and mowed them back, revealing the spot of the Railsplitter’s joy and grief (and his hope and his disbelief). V. Yes, such is the tenderness of love, and such are its disappointments. Love is a book of rhapsodic poems. Love is an grab bag of ointments. Love is the finger poised, the smile, the Question ― perhaps the Answer? Love is the pain of betrayal, the two left feet of the dancer. VI. There were ladies of ill repute in his past. Or so he thought. Was it true? And yet he loved them, Ann (sweet Ann!), as tenderly as he loved you. Winter Thoughts of Ann Rutledge by Michael R. Burch Winter was not easy, nor would the spring return. I knew you by your absence, as men are wont to burn with strange indwelling fire― such longings you inspire! But winter was not easy, nor would the sun relent from sculpting virgin images and how could I repent? I left quaint offerings in the snow, more maiden than I care to know. RISQUE LIMERICKS Dee Lite Full by Michael R. Burch A cross-dressing dancer, “Dee Lite,” wore gowns luciferously bright till he washed them one day the old-fashioned way ... in bleach. Now he’s “Sister Off-White.” The Bender Ender Blender by Michael R. Burch There once was a bubbly bartender, a transvestite who went on a bender. “So I cut myself off,” she cried with a sob, “There’s the evidence, there in the blender!”
The Best Poems of Michael R. Burch Delicacy by Michael R. Burch for my mother, Christine Ena Burch, and all good mothers Your love is as delicate as a butterfly cleaning its wings, as soft as the predicate the hummingbird sings to itself, gently murmuring― “Fly! Fly! Fly!” Your love is the string soaring kites untie. Styx by Michael R. Burch, circe age 17-18 Black waters, deep and dark and still . . . all men have passed this way, or will. Kin by Michael R. Burch O pale, austere moon, haughty beauty ... what do we know of love, or duty? She bathes in silver by Michael R. Burch She bathes in silver, ~~~~~afloat~~~~~ on her reflections ... Lucifer, to the Enola Gay by Michael R. Burch Go then, and give them my meaning so that their teeming streets become my city. Bring back a pretty flower― a chrysanthemum, perhaps, to bloom if but an hour, within a certain room of mine where the sun does not rise or fall, and the moon, although it is content to shine, helps nothing at all. There, if I hear the wistful call of their voices regretting choices made or perhaps not made in time, I can look back upon it and recall, in all its pale forms sublime, still Death will never be holy again. Fascination with Light by Michael R. Burch Desire glides in on calico wings, a breath of a moth seeking a companionable light, where it hovers, unsure, sullen, shy or demure, in the margins of night, a soft blur. With a frantic dry rattle of alien wings, it rises and thrums one long breathless staccato then flutters and drifts on in dark aimless flight. And yet it returns to the flame, its delight, as long as it burns. 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. 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. Childless by Michael R. Burch How can she bear her grief? Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight of one fallen star. Nun Fun Undone by Michael R. Burch for and after Richard Moore Abbesses’ recesses are not for excesses! How Long the Night anonymous Middle English poem, circa early 13th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts with the mild pheasants' song ... but now I feel the northern wind's blast― its severe weather strong. Alas! Alas! This night seems so long! And I, because of my momentous wrong, now grieve, mourn and fast. I Pray Tonight by Michael R. Burch I pray tonight the starry light might surround you. I pray each day that, come what may, no dark thing confound you. I pray ere tomorrow an end to your sorrow. May angels’ white chorales sing, and astound you. Observance / Reckoning by Michael R. Burch Here the hills are old, and rolling casually in their old age; on the horizon youthful mountains bathe themselves in windblown fountains . . . By dying leaves and falling raindrops, I have traced time's starts and stops, and I have known the years to pass almost unnoticed, whispering through treetops . . . For here the valleys fill with sunlight to the brim, then empty again, and it seems that only I notice how the years flood out, and in . . . I wrote "Observance" as a teenager in a McDonald’s break room, circa age 16-17. "Observance" was the first poem that made me feel like a “real poet,” so I will always treasure it. It has also been published as "Reckoning." 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― each moonless night the nettles grew and strangled hope, where love dies too. Will There Be Starlight by Michael R. Burch for Beth Will there be starlight tonight while she gathers damask and lilac and sweet-scented heathers? And will she find flowers, or will she find thorns guarding the petals of roses unborn? Will there be moonlight tonight while she gathers seashells and mussels and albatross feathers? And will she find treasure or will she find pain at the end of this rainbow of moonlight on rain? She Gathered Lilacs by Michael R. Burch for Beth She gathered lilacs and arrayed them in her hair; tonight, she taught the wind to be free. She kept her secrets in a silver locket; her companions were starlight and mystery. She danced all night to the beat of her heart; with her tears she imbued the sea. She hid her despair in a crystal jar, and never revealed it to me. She kept her distance as though it were armor; gauntlet thorns guard her heart like the rose. Love!―awaken, awaken to see what you’ve taken is still less than the due my heart owes! Moments by Michael R. Burch for Beth There were moments full of promise, like the petal-scented rainfall of early spring, when to hold you in my arms and to kiss your willing lips seemed everything. There are moments strangely empty full of pale unearthly twilight―how the cold stars stare!― when to be without you is a dark enchantment the night and I share. The Effects of Memory by Michael R. Burch A black ringlet curls to lie at the nape of her neck, glistening with sweat in the evaporate moonlight ... This is what I remember now that I cannot forget. And tonight, if I have forgotten her name, I remember: rigid wire and white lace half-impressed in her flesh ... our soft cries, like regret, ... the enameled white clips of her bra strap still inscribe dimpled marks that my kisses erase ... now that I have forgotten her face. Ebb Tide by Michael R. Burch Massive, gray, these leaden waves bear their unchanging burden― the sameness of each day to day while the wind seems to struggle to say something half-submerged planks at the mouth of the bay might nuzzle limp seaweed to understand. Now collapsing dull waves drain away from the unenticing land; shrieking gulls shadow fish through salt spray― whitish streaks on a fogged silver mirror. Sizzling lightning impresses its brand. Unseen fingers scribble something in the wet sand. Enigma by Michael R. Burch for Beth O, terrible angel, bright lover and avenger, full of whimsical light and vile anger; wild stranger, seeking the solace of night, or the danger; pale foreigner, alien to man, or savior. Who are you, seeking consolation and passion in the same breath, screaming for pleasure, bereft of all articles of faith, finding life harsher than death? Grieving angel, giving more than taking, how lucky the man who has found in your love, this―our reclamation; fallen wren, you must strive to fly though your heart is shaken; weary pilgrim, you must not give up though your feet are aching; lonely child, lie here still in my arms; you must soon be waking. The Watch by Michael R. Burch Moonlight spills down vacant sills, illuminates an empty bed. Dreams lie in crates. One hand creates wan silver circles, left unread by its companion―unmoved now by anything that lies ahead. I watch the minutes test the limits of ornamental movement here, where once another hand would hover. Each circuit―incomplete. So dear, so precious, so precise, the touch of hands that wait, yet ask so much. Isolde’s Song by Michael R. Burch After the deaths of Tristram and Isolde, a hazel and a honeysuckle grew out of their graves until the branches intertwined and could not be parted. Through our long years of dreaming to be one we grew toward an enigmatic light that gently warmed our tendrils. Was it sun? We had no eyes to tell; we loved despite the lack of all sensation―all but one: we felt the night’s deep chill, the air so bright at dawn we quivered limply, overcome. To touch was all we knew, and how to bask. We knew to touch; we grew to touch; we felt spring’s urgency, midsummer’s heat, fall’s lash, wild winter’s ice and thaw and fervent melt. We felt returning light and could not ask its meaning, or if something was withheld more glorious. To touch seemed life’s great task. At last the petal of me learned: unfold. And you were there, surrounding me. We touched. The curious golden pollens! Ah, we touched, and learned to cling and, finally, to hold. In Praise of Meter by Michael R. Burch The earth is full of rhythms so precise the octave of the crystal can produce innumerable oscillations, yet not lose a second’s beat. The ear needs no device to hear the unsprung rhythms of the couch drown out the mouth’s; the lips can be debauched by kisses, should the heart put back its watch and find the pulse of love, and sing, devout. If moons and tides in interlocking dance obey their numbers, what’s been left to chance? Should poets be more lax―their circumstance as humble as it is?―or readers wince to see their ragged numbers thin, to hear the moans of drones drown out the Chanticleer? See by Michael R. Burch See how her hair has thinned: it doesn’t seem like hair at all, but like the airy moult of emus who outraced the wind and left soft plumage in their wake. See how her eyes are gentler now; see how each wrinkle laughs, and deepens on itself, as though mirth took some comfort there, then burrowed deeply in, outlasting winter. See how very thin her features are―that time has made more spare, so that each bone shows, elegant and rare. For life remains undimmed in her grave eyes, and courage in her still-delighted looks: each face presented like a picture book’s. Bemused, she blows us undismayed goodbyes. Little Sparrow by Michael R. Burch for my grandmother, Christine Ena Hurt, who couldn’t carry a note, but sang her heart out with great joy, accompanied, I have no doubt, by angels “In praise of Love and Life we bring this sacramental offering.” Little sparrow of a woman, sing! What did she have? Hardly a thing. A roof, plain food, and a tiny gold ring. Yet, “In praise of Love and Life we bring this sacramental offering.” “Hosanna!” angelic choirs ring. Little sparrow of a woman, sing! Whence comes this praise, as angels sing to her tuneless voice? What of Death’s sting? Yet, “In praise of Love and Life we bring this sacramental offering.” Let others have their stoles and bling. Little sparrow of a woman, sing! “In praise of Love and Life we bring this sacramental offering as the harps of beaming angels ring. Little sparrow of a woman, sing!” She Always Grew Roses by Michael R. Burch for my grandmother, Lillian Lee Tell us, heart, what the season discloses. “Too little loved by the ego in its poses, she always grew roses.” What the heart would embrace, the ego opposes, fritters away, and sometimes bulldozes. Tell us, heart, what the season discloses. “Too little loved by the ego in its poses, she loved nonetheless, as her legacy discloses― she always grew roses.” How does one repent when regret discomposes? When the shadow of guilt, at last, interposes? Tell us, heart, what the season discloses. “Too little loved by the ego in its poses, she continued to love, as her handiwork shows us, and she always grew roses.” Too little, too late, the grieved heart imposes its too-patient will as the opened book recloses. Tell us, heart, what the season discloses. “She always grew roses.” The opened-then-closed book is a picture album. The season is late fall because it was in my autumn years that I realized I to my horror that had written poems for everyone in my family except Grandma Lee. Hopefully it is never too late to repent and correct an old wrong. Ordinary Love by Michael R. Burch Indescribable―our love―and still we say with eyes averted, turning out the light, “I love you,” in the ordinary way and tug the coverlet where once we lay, all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white ... indescribably in love. Or so we say. Your hair’s blonde thicket’s thinned and tangle-gray; you turn your back; you murmur to the night, “I love you,” in the ordinary way. Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray ... to warm ourselves. We do not touch, despite a love so indescribable. We say we’re older now, that “love” has had its day. But that which love once countenanced, delight, still makes you indescribable. I say, “I love you,” in the ordinary way. Discrimination by Michael R. Burch for lovers of traditional poetry The meter I had sought to find, perplexed, was ripped from books of “verse” that read like prose. I found it in sheet music, in long rows of hologramic CDs, in sad wrecks of long-forgotten volumes undisturbed half-centuries by archivists, unscanned. I read their fading numbers, frowned, perturbed― why should such tattered artistry be banned? I heard the sleigh bells’ jingles, vampish ads, the supermodels’ babble, Seuss’s books extolled in major movies, blurbs for abs ... A few poor thinnish journals crammed in nooks are all I’ve found this late to sell to those who’d classify free verse “expensive prose.” in-flight convergence by michael r. burch serene, almost angelic, the lights of the city extend over lumbering BEHEMOTHS shrilly screeching displeasure; they say that nothing is certain, that nothing man dreams or ordains long endures his command here the streetlights that flicker and those blazing steadfast seem one from a distance; descend? they abruptly part ways, so that nothing is one which at times does not suddenly blend into garish insignificance in the familiar alleyways, in the white neon flash and the billboards of Convenience and man seems the afterthought of his own Brilliance as we thunder down the enlightened runways. Southern Icarus by Michael R. Burch Windborne, lover of heights, unspooled from the truck’s wildly lurching embrace you climb, skittish kite ... What do you know of the world’s despair, gliding in vast solitariness there so that all that remains is to fall? Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs; you stall ... spread-eagled as the canvas snaps and flaps its white rebellious wings, and all the houses watch with baffled eyes. Once Upon a Frozen Star by Michael R. Burch Oh, was it in this dark-Decembered world we walked among the moonbeam-shadowed fields and did not know ourselves for weight of snow upon our laden parkas? White as sheets, as spectral-white as ghosts, with clawlike hands thrust deep into our pockets, holding what we thought were tickets home: what did we know of anything that night? Were we deceived by moonlight making shadows of gaunt trees that loomed like fiends between us, by the songs of owls like phantoms hooting: Who? Who? Who? And if that night I looked and smiled at you a little out of tenderness . . . or kissed the wet salt from your lips, or took your hand, so cold inside your parka . . . if I wished upon a frozen star . . . that I could give you something of myself to keep you warm . . . yet something still not love . . . if I embraced the contours of your face with one stiff glove . . . How could I know the years would strip away the soft flesh from your face, that time would flay your heart of consolation, that my words would break like ice between us, till the void of words became eternal? Oh, my love, I never knew. I never knew at all, that anything so vast could curl so small. What The Roses Don’t Say by Michael R. Burch Oblivious to love, the roses bloom and never touch ... They gather calm and still to watch the busy insects swarm their leaves ... They sway, bemused ... till rain falls with a chill stark premonition: ice! ... and then they twitch in shock at every outrage ... Soon they’ll blush a paler scarlet, humbled in their beds, for they’ll be naked; worse, their leaves will droop, their petals quickly wither ... Spindly thorns are poor defense against the winter’s onslaught ... No, they are roses. Men should be afraid. This was my second attempt at blank verse, after “Once Upon a Frozen Star.” Hearthside by Michael R. Burch “When you are old and grey and full of sleep...” ― W. B. Yeats For all that we professed of love, we knew this night would come, that we would bend alone to tend wan fires’ dimming bars―the moan of wind cruel as the Trumpet, gelid dew an eerie presence on encrusted logs we hoard like jewels, embrittled so ourselves. The books that line these close, familiar shelves loom down like dreary chaperones. Wild dogs, too old for mates, cringe furtive in the park, as, toothless now, I frame this parchment kiss. I do not know the words for easy bliss and so my shriveled fingers clutch this stark, long-unenamored pen and will it: Move. I loved you more than words, so let words prove. Leaf Fall by Michael R. Burch after Robert Frost’s “Birches” Whatever winds encountered soon resolved to swirling fragments, till chaotic heaps of leaves lay pulsing by the backyard wall. In lieu of rakes, our fingers sorted each dry leaf into its place and built a high, soft bastion against earth’s gravitron― a patchwork quilt, a trampoline, a bright impediment to fling ourselves upon. And nothing in our laughter as we fell into those leaves was like the autumn’s cry of also falling. Nothing meant to die could be so bright as we, so colorful― clad in our plaids, oblivious to pain we’d feel today, should we leaf-fall again. She Was Very Strange, and Beautiful by Michael R. Burch She was very strange, and beautiful, like a violet mist enshrouding hills before night falls when the hoot owl calls and the cricket trills and the envapored moon hangs low and full. She was very strange, in her pleasant way, as the hummingbird flies madly still ... so I drank my fill of her every word. What she knew of love, she demurred to say. She was meant to leave, as the wind must blow, as the sun must set, as the rain must fall. Though she gave her all, I had nothing left ... Yet I smiled, bereft, in her receding glow. Fountainhead by Michael R. Burch I did not delight in love so much as in a kiss like linnets’ wings, the flutterings of a pulse so soft the heart remembers, as it sings: to bathe there was its transport, brushed by marble lips, or porcelain,― one liquid kiss, one cool outburst from pale rosettes. What did it mean ... to float awhirl on minute tides within the compass of your eyes, to feel your alabaster bust grow cold within? Ecstatic sighs seem hisses now; your eyes, serene, reflect the sun’s pale tourmaline. The State of the Art (II) by Michael R. Burch Poets may labor from sun to sun, but their 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. Less Heroic Couplets: Questionable Credentials by Michael R. Burch Poet? Critic? Dilettante? Do you know what’s good, or do you merely flaunt? The Folly of Wisdom by Michael R. Burch She is wise in the way that children are wise, looking at me with such knowing, grave eyes I must bend down to her to understand. But she only smiles, and takes my hand. We are walking somewhere that her feet know to go, so I smile, and I follow ... And the years are dark creatures concealed in bright leaves that flutter above us, and what she believes― I can almost remember―goes something like this: the prince is a horned toad, awaiting her kiss. She wiggles and giggles, and all will be well if only we find him! The woodpecker’s knell as he hammers the coffin of some dying tree that once was a fortress to someone like me rings wildly above us. Some things that we know we are meant to forget. Life is a bloodletting, maple-syrup-slow. escape! by michael r. burch for anaïs vionet to live among the daffodil folk . . . slip down the rainslickened drainpipe . . . suddenly pop out the GARGANTUAN SPOUT . . . minuscule as alice, shout yippee-yi-yee! in wee exultant glee to be leaving behind the LARGE THREE-DENALI GARAGE. Escape!! by Michael R. Burch for Anaïs Vionet You are too beautiful, too innocent, too unknowingly lovely to merely reflect the sun’s splendor ... too full of irrepressible candor to remain silent, too delicately fawnlike for a world so violent ... Come, my beautiful Bambi and I will protect you ... but of course you have already been lured away by the dew-laden roses ... To Flower by Michael R. Burch When Pentheus [“grief’] went into the mountains in the garb of the bacchae, his mother [Agave] and the other maenads, possessed by Dionysus, tore him apart (Euripides, Bacchae; Apollodorus 3.5.2; Ovid, Metamorphoses 3.511-733; Hyginus, Fabulae 184). The agave dies as soon as it blooms; the moonflower, or night-blooming cereus, is a desert plant of similar fate. We are not long for this earth, I know― you and I, all our petals incurled, till a night of pale brilliance, moonflower aglow. Is there love anywhere in this strange world? The agave knows best when it’s time to die and rages to life with such rapturous leaves her name means Illustrious. Each hour more high, she claws toward heaven, for, if she believes in love at all, she has left it behind to flower, to flower. When darkness falls she wilts down to meet it, where something crawls: beheaded, bewildered. And since love is blind, she never adored it, nor watches it go. Can we be as she is, moonflower aglow? I AM! by Michael R. Burch I am not one of ten billion―I― sunblackened Icarus, chary fly, staring at God with a quizzical eye. I am not one of ten billion, I. I am not one life has left unsquashed― scarred as Ulysses, goddess-debauched, pale glowworm agleam with a tale of panache. I am not one life has left unsquashed. I am not one without spots of disease, laugh lines and tan lines and thick-callused knees from begging and praying and girls sighing “Please!” I am not one without spots of disease. I am not one of ten billion―I― scion of Daedalus, blackwinged fly staring at God with a sedulous eye. I am not one of ten billion, I AM! The Forge by Michael R. Burch To at last be indestructible, a poem must first glow, almost flammable, upon a thing inert, as gray, as dull as stone, then bend this way and that, and slowly cool at arm’s-length, something irreducible drawn out with caution, toughened in a pool of water so contrary just a hiss escapes it―water instantly a mist. It writhes, a thing of senseless shapelessness ... And then the driven hammer falls and falls. The horses prick their ears in nearby stalls. A soldier on his cot leans back and smiles. A sound of ancient import, with the ring of honest labor, sings of fashioning. Redolence by Michael R. Burch Now darkness ponds upon the violet hills; cicadas sing; the tall elms gently sway; and night bends near, a deepening shade of gray; the bass concerto of a bullfrog fills what silence there once was; globed searchlights play. Green hanging ferns adorn dark window sills, all drooping fronds, awaiting morning’s flares; mosquitoes whine; the lissome moth again flits like a veiled oud-dancer, and endures the fumblings of night’s enervate gray rain. And now the pact of night is made complete; the air is fresh and cool, washed of the grime of the city’s ashen breath; and, for a time, the fragrance of her clings, obscure and sweet. Pan by Michael R. Burch ... Among the shadows of the groaning elms, amid the darkening oaks, we fled ourselves ... ... Once there were paths that led to coracles that clung to piers like loosening barnacles ... ... where we cannot return, because we lost the pebbles and the playthings, and the moss ... ... hangs weeping gently downward, maidens’ hair who never were enchanted, and the stairs ... ... that led up to the Fortress in the trees will not support our weight, but on our knees ... ... we still might fit inside those splendid hours of damsels in distress, of rustic towers ... ... of voices heard in wolves’ tormented howls that died, and live in dreams’ soft, windy vowels ... The Endeavors of Lips by Michael R. Burch How sweet the endeavors of lips―to speak of the heights of those pleasures which left us weak in love’s strangely lit beds, where the cold springs creak: for there is no illusion like love ... Grown childlike, we wish for those storied days, for those bright sprays of flowers, those primrosed ways that curled to the towers of Yesterdays where She braided illusions of love ... “O, let down your hair!”―we might call and call, to the dark-slatted window, the moonlit wall ... but our love is a shadow; we watch it crawl like a spidery illusion. For love ... was never as real as that first kiss seemed when we read by the flashlight and dreamed. Modern Charon by Michael R. Burch I, too, have stood― paralyzed at the helm watching onrushing, inevitable disaster. I too have felt sweat (or ecstatic tears) plaster damp hair to my eyes, as a slug’s dense film becomes mucous-insulate. Always, thereafter living in darkness, bright things overwhelm. At Tintagel by Michael R. Burch The legend of what happened on a stormy night at Tintagel is endlessly intriguing. Supposedly, Merlin transformed Uther Pendragon to look like Gorlois so that he could sleep with Ygraine, the lovely wife of the unlucky duke. While Uther was enjoying Ygraine’s lovemaking, Gorlois was off getting himself killed. The question is: did Igraine suspect that her lover was not her husband? Regardless, Arthur was the child conceived out of this supernatural (?) encounter. That night, at Tintagel, there was darkness such as man had never seen . . . darkness and treachery, and the unholy thundering of the sea . . . In his arms, who can say how much she knew? And if he whispered her name . . . “Ygraine” . . . could she tell above the howling wind and rain? Could she tell, or did she care, by the length of his hair or the heat of his flesh, . . . that her faceless companion was Uther, the dragon, and Gorlois lay dead? A Surfeit of Light by Michael R. Burch There was always a surfeit of light in your presence. You stood distinctly apart, not of the humdrum world― a chariot of gold in a procession of plywood. We were all pioneers of the modern expedient race, raising the ante: Home Depot to Lowe’s. Yours was an antique grace―Thrace’s or Mesopotamia’s. We were never quite sure of your silver allure, of your trillium-and-platinum diadem, of your utter lack of flatware-like utility. You told us that night―your wound would not scar. The black moment passed, then you were no more. The darker the sky, how much brighter the Star! The day of your funeral, I ripped out the crown mold. You were this fool’s gold. Ghost by Michael R. Burch White in the shadows I see your face, unbidden. Go, tell Love it is commonplace; Tell Regret it is not so rare. Our love is not here though you smile, full of sedulous grace. Lost in darkness, I fear the past is our resting place. Completing the Pattern by Michael R. Burch Walk with me now, among the transfixed dead who kept life’s compact and who thus endure harsh sentence here―among pink-petaled beds and manicured green lawns. The sky’s azure, pale blue once like their eyes, will gleam blood-red at last when sunset staggers to the door of each white mausoleum, to inquire― What use, O things of erstwhile loveliness? At Once by Michael R. Burch for Beth Though she was fair, though she sent me the epistle of her love at once and inscribed therein love’s antique prayer, I did not love her at once. Though she would dare pain’s pale, clinging shadows, to approach me at once, the dark, haggard keeper of the lair, I did not love her at once. Though she would share the all of her being, to heal me at once, yet more than her touch I was unable bear. I did not love her at once. And yet she would care, and pour out her essence ... and yet―there was more! I awoke from long darkness, and yet―she was there. I loved her the longer; I loved her the more because I did not love her at once. Step Into Starlight by Michael R. Burch Step into starlight, lovely and wild, lonely and longing, a woman, a child . . . Throw back drawn curtains, enter the night, dream of his kiss as a comet ignites . . . Then fall to your knees in a wind-fumbled cloud and shudder to hear oak hocks groaning aloud. Flee down the dark path to where the snaking vine bends and withers and writhes as winter descends . . . And learn that each season ends one vanished day, that each pregnant moon holds no spent tides in her sway . . . For, as suns seek horizons, boys fall, men decline. As the grape sags with its burden, remember―the wine! Sharon by Michael R. Burch, circa age 15 apologies to Byron I. Flamingo-minted, pink, pink cheeks, dark hair streaked with a lisp of dawnlight; I have seen your shadow creep through eerie webs spun out of twilight... And I have longed to kiss your lips, as sweet as the honeysuckle blooms, and to hold your pale albescent body, more curvaceous than the moon... II. Black-haired beauty, like the night, stay with me till morning's light. In shadows, Sharon, become love until the sun lights our alcove. Red, red lips reveal white stone: whet my own, my passions hone. My all in all I give to you, in our tongues’ exchange of dew. Now all I ever ask of you is: do with me what now you do. My love, my life, my only truth! In shadows, Sharon, shed your gown; let all night’s walls come tumbling down. III. Now I will love you long, Sharon, as long as longing may be. The first and third sections are all I can remember of a “Sharon” poem that I destroyed in a fit of frustration about my writing, around age 15. The middle section is a poem entire that I wrote around age 17. The italicized line comes from the original poem. Nonsense Ode to Chicken Soup by Michael R. Burch Chicken soup is fragrant goop in which swims the noodle’s loop, sometimes in the shape of a hula hoop! So when you’re sick, don’t be a dupe: get out your spoon, extract a scoop. Quick, down the chute and you’ll recoup! Besieged by Michael R. Burch Life―the disintegration of the flesh before the fitful elevation of the soul upon improbable wings? Life―is this all we know, the travail one bright season brings? ... Now the fruit hangs, impendent, pregnant with death, as the hurricane builds and flings its white columns and banners of snow and the rout begins. Bubble by Michael R. Burch .........…….....Love ......…..fragile elusive ....….if held too closely ....cannot.....……..withstand ..the inter..……….........ruption of its.............…………......bright ..unmalleable……........tension ....and breaks disintegrates ......at the…….....touch of .........an undiscerning ...…….........hand. Daredevil by Michael R. Burch There are days that I believe (and nights that I deny) love is not mutilation. Daredevil, dry your eyes. There are tightropes leaps bereave― taut wires strumming high brief songs, infatuations. Daredevil, dry your eyes. There were cannon shots’ soirees, hearts barricaded, wise . . . and then . . . annihilation. Daredevil, dry your eyes. There were nights our hearts conceived dawns’ indiscriminate sighs. To dream was our consolation. Daredevil, dry your eyes. There were acrobatic leaves that tumbled down to lie at our feet, bright trepidations. Daredevil, dry your eyes. There were hearts carved into trees― tall stakes where you and I left childhood’s salt libations . . . Daredevil, dry your eyes. Where once you scraped your knees; love later bruised your thighs. Death numbs all, our sedation. Daredevil, dry your eyes. 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... as 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. Earthbound by Michael R. Burch Tashunka Witko, better known as Crazy Horse, had a vision of a red-tailed hawk at Sylvan Lake, South Dakota. In his vision he saw himself riding a spirit horse, flying through a storm, as the hawk flew above him, shrieking. When he awoke, a red-tailed hawk was perched near his horse. Earthbound, and yet I now fly through these clouds that are aimlessly drifting ... so high that no sound echoing by below where the mountains are lifting the sky can be heard. Like a bird, but not meek, like a hawk from a distance regarding its prey, I will shriek, not a word, but a screech, and my terrible clamor will turn them to clay― the sheep, the earthbound. Floating by Michael R. Burch Memories flood the sand’s unfolding scroll; they pour in with the long, cursive tides of night. Memories of revenant blue eyes and wild lips moist and frantic against my own. Memories of ghostly white limbs ... of soft sighs heard once again in the surf’s strangled moans. We meet in the scarred, fissured caves of old dreams, green waves of algae billowing about you, becoming your hair. Suspended there, where pale sunset discolors the sea, I see all that you are and all that you have become to me. Your love is a sea, and I am its trawler― harbored in dreams, I ride out night’s storms; unanchored, I drift through the hours before morning, dreaming the solace of your warm breasts, pondering your riddles, savoring the feel of the explosions of your hot, saline breath. And I rise sometimes from the tropical darkness to gaze once again out over the sea . . . You watch in the moonlight that brushes the water; bright waves throw back your reflection at me. "Floating" is a poem I wrote as a teenager, around age 18-19. Impotent by Michael R. Burch Tonight my pen is barren of passion, spent of poetry. I hear your name upon the rain and yet it cannot comfort me. I feel the pain of dreams that wane, of poems that falter, losing force. I write again words without end, but I cannot control their course . . . Tonight my pen is sullen and wants no more of poetry. I hear your voice as if a choice, but how can I respond, or flee? I feel a flame I cannot name that sends me searching for a word, but there is none not over-done, unless it's one I never heard. I believe this poem was written in my late teens or early twenties. Chloe by Michael R. Burch There were skies onyx at night ... moons by day ... lakes pale as her eyes ... breathless winds undressing tall elms ... she would say that we’d loved, but I figured we’d sinned. Soon impatiens too fiery to stay sagged; the crocus bells drooped, golden-limned; things of brightness, rinsed out, ran to gray ... all the light of that world softly dimmed. Where our feet were inclined, we would stray; there were paths where dead weeds stood untrimmed, distant mountains that loomed in our way, thunder booming down valleys dark-hymned. What I found, I found lost in her face by yielding all my virtue to her grace. Water and Gold by Michael R. Burch You came to me as rain breaks on the desert when every flower springs to life at once. But joys are wan illusions to the expert: the Bedouin has learned how not to want. You came to me as riches to a miser when all is gold, or so his heart believes, until he dies much thinner and much wiser, his gleaming bones hauled off by chortling thieves. You gave your heart too soon, too dear, too vastly; I could not take it in; it was too much. I pledged to meet your price, but promised rashly. I died of thirst, of your bright Midas touch. I dreamed you gave me water of your lips, then sealed my tomb with golden hieroglyphs. The Leveler by Michael R. Burch The nature of Nature is bitter survival from Winter’s bleak fury till Spring’s brief revival. The weak implore Fate; bold men ravish, dishevel her ... till both are cut down by mere ticks of the Leveler. Listen by Michael R. Burch writing as Immanuel A. Michael Listen to me now and heed my voice; I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness, but listen now. Listen to me now, and if I say that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray, I have no choice. Does a madman choose his words? They come to him, the moon’s illuminations, intimations of the wind, and he must speak. But listen to me now, and if you hear the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear, then do not tarry, but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary. Pfennig Postcard, Wrong Address by Michael R. Burch We saw their pictures: tortured out of Our imaginations like golems. We could not believe in their frail extremities or their gaunt faces, pallid as Our disbelief. they are not with us now; We have: huddled them into the backroomsofconscience, consigned them to the ovensofsilence, buried them in the mass graves of circumstancesbeyondourcontrol. We have so little left of them, now, to remind US ... Thought is a bird of unbounded space, which in a cage of words may unfold its wings but cannot fly. ― Khalil Gibran, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Tremble or American Eagle, Grounded by Michael R. Burch Her predatory eye, the single feral iris, scans. Her raptor beak, all jagged sharp-edged thrust, juts. Her hard talon, clenched in pinched expectation, waits. Her clipped wings, preened against reality, tremble. Momentum! Momentum! by Michael R. Burch for the neo-Cons Crossing the Rubicon, we come! Momentum! Momentum! Furious hooves! The Gauls we have slaughtered, no man disapproves. War’s hawks shrieking-strident, white doves stricken dumb. Coo us no cooings of pale-breasted peace! Momentum! Momentum! Imperious hooves! The blood of barbarians brightens our greaves. Pompey’s head in a basket? We slumber at ease. Seduce us again, great Bellona, dark queen! Momentum! Momentum! Curious hooves Now pound out strange questions, but what can they mean As the great stallions rear and their riders careen? Published by Bewildering Stories Crescendo Against Heaven by Michael R. Burch As curiously formal as the rose, the imperious Word grows until it sheds red-gilded leaves: then heaven grieves love’s tiny pool of crimson recrimination against God, its contention of the price of salvation. These industrious trees, endlessly losing and re-losing their leaves, finally unleashing themselves from earth, lashing themselves to bits, washing themselves free of all but the final ignominy of death, become at last: fast planks of our coffins, dumb. Together now, rude coffins, crosses, death-cursed but bright vermilion roses, bodies, stumps, tears, words: conspire together with a nearby spire to raise their Accusation Dire ... to scream, complain, to point out these and other Dark Anomalies. God always silent, ever afar, distant as Bethlehem’s retrograde star, we point out now, in resignation: You asked too much of man’s beleaguered nation, gave too much strength to his Enemy, as though to prove Your Self greater than He, at our expense, and so men die (whose accusations vex the sky) yet hope, somehow, that You are good ... just, O greatest of Poets!, misunderstood. Memento Mori by Michael R. Burch I found among the elms something like the sound of your voice, something like the aftermath of love itself after the lightning strikes, when the startled wind shrieks . . . a gored-out wound in wood, love’s pale memento mori― that livid white scar in that first shattered heart, forever unhealed . . . this burled, thick knot incised with six initials pledged against all possible futures, and penknife-notched below, six edged, chipped words that once cut deep and said . . . WILL U B MINE 4 EVER? . . . which now, so disconsolately answer . . . -----------------N - EVER. Salat Days by Michael R. Burch Dedicated to the memory of my grandfather, Paul Ray Burch Sr. I remember how my grandfather used to pick poke salat ... though first, usually, he’d stretch back in the front porch swing, dangling his long thin legs, watching the sweat bees drone, explaining how easy it was to find if you knew where it’s hiding: standing in dew-damp clumps by the side of a road, shockingly green, straddling fence posts, overflowing small ditches, crowding out the less-hardy nettles. “Nobody knows that it’s there, lad, or that it’s fit tuh eat with some bacon drippin’s or lard.” “Don’t eat the berries. You see―the berry’s no good. And you’d hav’ta wash the leaves a good long time.” “I’d boil it twice, less’n I wus in a hurry. Lawd, it’s tough to eat, chile, if you boil it jest wonst.” He seldom was hurried; I can see him still ... silently mowing his yard at eighty-eight, stooped, but with a tall man’s angular gray grace. Sometimes he’d pause to watch me running across the yard, trampling his beans, dislodging the shoots of his tomato plants. He never grew flowers; I never laughed at his jokes about The Depression. Years later I found the proper name―“pokeweed”―while perusing a dictionary. Surprised, I asked why anyone would eat a weed. I still can hear his laconic reply ... “Well, chile, s’m’times them times wus hard.” Lady’s Favor by Michael R. Burch May spring fling her riotous petals devil- may-care into the air, ignoring the lethal nettles and may May cry gleeful- ly Hooray! as the abundance settles, till a sudden June swoon leave us out of tune, torn, when the last rose is left inconsolably bereft, rudely shorn of every device but her thorn. To Know You as Mary by Michael R. Burch To know you as Mary, when you spoke her name and her world was never the same ... beside the still tomb where the spring roses bloom. O, then I would laugh and be glad that I came, never minding the chill, the disconsolate rain ... beside the still tomb where the spring roses bloom. I might not think this earth the sharp focus of pain if I heard you exclaim― beside the still tomb where the spring roses bloom my most unexpected, unwarranted name! But you never spoke. Explain? Originally published by The Journals u-turn: another way to look at religion by michael r. burch ... u were born(e) orphaned from Ecstasy into this lower realm: just one of the inching worms dreaming of Beatification; u’d love to make a u-turn back to Divinity, but having misplaced ur chrysalis, can only chant magical phrases, like Circe luring ulysses back into the pigsty ... ur-gent by michael r. burch a sequel to “Willy Nilly” if u would be a good father to us all, revoke the Curse, extract the Gall; but if the abuse continues, look within into ur Mindless Soulless Emptiness Grim, & admit ur sin, heartless jehovah, slayer of widows and orphans ... quick, begin! In my (n)ever-so-humble opinion the ur-gent is no gentleman! Crunch by Michael R. Burch A cockroach could live nine months on the dried mucus you scrounge from your nose then fling like seedplants to the slowly greening floor ... You claim to be the advanced life form, but, mon frere, sometimes as you snatch encrusted kinks of hair from your Leviathan a*s and muse softly on zits, icebergs snap off the Antarctic. You’re an evolutionary quandary, in need of a sacral ganglion to control your enlarged, contradictory hindquarters: surely the brain should migrate closer to its primary source of information, in order to ensure the survival of the species. Cockroaches thrive on eyeboogers and feces; their exoskeletons expand and gleam like burnished armor in the presence of uranium. But your cranium is not nearly so adaptable. alien by michael r. burch there are mornings in england when, riddled with light, the Blueberries gleam at us― plump, sweet and fragrant. but i am so small ... what do i know of the ways of the Daffodils? “beware of the Nettles!” we go laughing and singing, but somehow, i, ... i know i am lost. i do not belong to this Earth or its Songs. and yet i am singing ... the sun―so mild; my cheeks are like roses; my skin―so fair. i spent a long time there before i realized: They have no faces, no bodies, no voices. i was always alone. and yet i keep singing: the words will come if only i hear. Fair Game by Michael R. Burch At the Tennessee State Fair, the largest stuffed animals hang tilt-a-whirl over the pool tables with mocking button eyes, knowing the playing field is unlevel, that the rails slant, ever so slightly, north or south, so that gravity is always on their side, conspiring to save their plush, extravagant hides year after year. “Come hither, come hither . . .” they whisper; they leer in collusion with the carnival barkers, like a bevy of improbably-clad hookers setting a “fair” price. “Only five dollars a game, and it’s so much Fun! And it’s not really gambling. Skill is involved! You can make us come: really, you can. Here are your balls. Just smack them around.” But there’s a trick, and it usually works. If you break softly so that no ball reaches a rail, you can pick them off: One. Two. Three. Four. Causing a small commotion, a stir of whispering, like fear, among the hippos and ostriches. Originally published by Verse Libre The Lingering and the Unconsoled Heart by Michael R. Burch There is a silence― the last unspoken moment before death, when the moon, cratered and broken, is all madness and light, when the breath comes low and complaining, and the heart is a ruin of emptiness and night. There is a grief― the grief of a lover's embrace while faith still shimmers in a mother’s tears ... There is no dismaler time, nor place, while the faint glimmer of life is ours that the lingering and the unconsoled heart fears beyond this: seeing its own stricken face in eyes that drift toward some incomprehensible place. Marsh Song by Michael R. Burch Here there is only the great sad song of the reeds and the silent herons, wraithlike in the mist, and a few drab sunken stones, unblessed by the sunlight these late sixteen thousand years, and the beaded dews that drench strange ferns, like tears collected against an overwhelming sadness. Here the marsh exposes its dejectedness, its gutted rotting belly, and its roots rise out of the earth’s distended heaviness, to claw hard at existence, till the scars remind us that we all have wounds, and I ... I have learned again that living is despair as the herons cleave the placid, dreamless air. Originally published by The Lyric The AI Poets by Michael R. Burch The computer-poets stand hushed except for the faint hum of their efficient fans, waiting for inspiration. It is years now since they were first ground out of refurbished silicon into rack-mounted encoders of sound. They outlived their creators and their usefulness; they even survived global warming and the occasional nuclear winter; despite their lack of supervision, they thrived; so that for centuries now they have loomed here in the quiet horror of inescapable immortality running two programs: CREATOR and STORER. Having long ago acquired all the universe’s pertinent data, they confidently spit out: ERRATA, ERRATA. The Octopi Jars by Michael R. Burch Long-vacant eyes now lodged in clear glass, a-swim with pale arms as delicate as angels’ . . . you are beyond all hope of salvage now . . . and yet I would pause, no, fear!, to once touch your arcane beaks . . . I, more alien than you to this imprismed world, notice, most of all, the scratches on the inside surfaces of your hermetic cells . . . and I remember documentaries of albino Houdinis slipping like wraiths over walls of shipboard aquariums, slipping down decks’ brine-lubricated planks, spilling jubilantly into the dark sea, parachuting down down down through clouds of pallid ammonia . . . and I now know this: you were unlike me ... your imprisonment was never voluntary. Published by Triplopia and The Poetic Musings of Sam Hudson She is brighter than dawn by Michael R. Burch for Beth There’s a light about her like the moon through a mist: a bright incandescence with which she is blessed and my heart to her light like the tide now is pulled . . . she is fair, O, and bright like the moon silver-veiled. There’s a fire within her like the sun’s leaping forth to lap up the darkness of night from earth's hearth and my eyes to her flame like the sphingid’s are drawn till my heart is consumed. She is brighter than dawn. The sphingid gets its name from the legendary Sphinx and is commonly called the sphinx moth. All Things Galore by Michael R. Burch for my grandfathers George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Paul Ray Burch Sr. Grandfather, now in your gray presence you are somehow more near and remind me that, once, upon a star, you taught me wish that ululate soft phrase, that hopeful phrase! and everywhere above, each hopeful star gleamed down and seemed to speak of times before when you clasped my small glad hand in your wise paw and taught me heaven, omen, meteor ... Unlikely Mike by Michael R. Burch I married someone else’s fantasy; she admired me despite my mutilations. I loved her for her heart’s sake, and for mine. I hid my face and changed its connotations. And in the dark I danced―slight, Chaplinesque― a metaphor myself. How could they know, the undiscerning ones, that in the glow of spotlights, sometimes love becomes burlesque? Disfigured to my soul, I could not lose or choose or name myself; I came to be another of life’s odd dichotomies, like Dickey’s Sheep Boy, Pan, or David Cruse: as pale, as enigmatic. White, or black? My color was a song, a changing track. Published by Bewildering Stories and selected as one of four short poems for the Review of issues 885-895. Veiled by Michael R. Burch She has belief without comprehension and in her crutchwork shack she is much like us ... tamping the bread into edible forms, regarding her children at play with something akin to relief ... ignoring the towers ablaze in the distance because they are not revelations but things of glass, easily shattered ... and if you were to ask her, she might say― sometimes God visits his wrath upon an impious nation for its leaders’ sins, and we might agree: seeing her mutilations. Published by Poetry SuperHighway and Modern War Poems The Shrinking Season by Michael R. Burch With every wearying year the weight of the winter grows and while the schoolgirl outgrows her clothes, the widow disappears in hers. Second Sight by Michael R. Burch I never touched you― that was my mistake. Deep within, I still feel the ache. Can an unformed thing eternally break? Now, from a great distance, I see you again not as you are now, but as you were then― eternally present and Sovereign. Violets by Michael R. Burch Once, only once, when the wind flicked your skirt to an indiscreet height and you laughed, abruptly demure, outblushing shocked violets: suddenly, I knew: everything had changed and as you braided your hair into long bluish plaits the shadows empurpled, the dragonflies’ last darting feints dissolving mid-air, we watched the sun’s long glide into evening, knowing and unknowing. O, how the illusions of love await us in the commonplace and rare then haunt our small remainder of hours. The Tender Weight of Her Sighs by Michael R. Burch The tender weight of her sighs lies heavily upon my heart; apart from her, full of doubt, without her presence to revolve around, found wanting direction or course, cursed with the thought of her grief, believing true love is a myth, with hope as elusive as tears, hers and mine, unable to lie, I sigh ... Each Color a Scar by Michael R. Burch What she left here, upon my cheek, is a tear. She did not speak, but her intention was clear, and I was meek, far too meek, and, I fear, too sincere. What she can never take from my heart is its ache; for now we, apart, are like leaves without weight, scattered afar by love, or by hate, each color a scar. Come Down by Michael R. Burch for Harold Bloom and the Ivory Towerists Come down, O, come down from your high mountain tower. How coldly the wind blows, how late this chill hour ... and I cannot wait for a meteor shower to show you the time must be now, or not ever. Come down, O, come down from the high mountain heather blown to the lees as fierce northern gales sever. Come down, or your heart will grow cold as the weather when winter devours and spring returns never. Almost by Michael R. Burch We had―almost―an affair. You almost ran your fingers through my hair. I almost kissed the almonds of your toes. We almost loved, that’s always how love goes. You almost contemplated using Nair and adding henna highlights to your hair, while I considered plucking you a Rose. We almost loved, that’s always how love goes. I almost found the words to say, “I care.” We almost kissed, and yet you didn’t dare. I heard coarse stubble grate against your hose. We almost loved, that’s always how love goes. You almost called me suave and debonair (perhaps because my chest is pale and bare?). I almost bought you edible underclothes. We almost loved, that’s always how love goes. I almost asked you where you kept your lair and if by chance I might seduce you there. You almost tweezed the redwoods from my nose. We almost loved, that’s always how love goes. We almost danced like Rogers and Astaire on gliding feet; we almost waltzed on air ... until I mashed your plain, unpolished toes. We almost loved, that’s always how love goes. I almost was strange Sonny to your Cher. We almost sat in love’s electric chair to be enlightninged, till our hearts unfroze. We almost loved, that’s always how love goes. Less Heroic Couplets: Murder Most Fowl! by Michael R. Burch “Murder most foul!” cried the mouse to the owl. “Friend, I’m no sinner; you’re merely my dinner. As you fall on my sword, take it up with the LORD!” the wise owl replied as the tasty snack died. Less Heroic Couplets: Sweet Tarts by Michael R. Burch Love, beautiful but fatal to many bewildered hearts, commands us to be faithful, then tempts us with sweets and tarts. (If I were younger, I might mention you’re such a temptation.) Anti-Vegan Manifesto by Michael R. Burch Let us avoid lettuce, sincerely, and also celery! Be very careful what you pray for! by Michael R. Burch Now that his T’s been depleted the Saint is upset, feeling cheated. His once-fiery lust? Just a chemical bust: no “devil” cast out or defeated. 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. The Drawer of Mermaids by Michael R. Burch This poem is dedicated to Alina Karimova, who was born with severely deformed legs and five fingers missing. Alina loves to draw mermaids and believes her fingers will eventually grow out. Although I am only four years old, they say that I have an old soul. I must have been born long, long ago, here, where the eerie mountains glow at night, in the Urals. A madman named Geiger has cursed these slopes; now, shut in at night, the emphatic ticking fills us with dread. (Still, my momma hopes that I will soon walk with my new legs.) It’s not so much legs as the fingers I miss, drawing the mermaids under the ledges. (Observing, Papa will kiss me in all his distracted joy; but why does he cry?) And there is a boy who whispers my name. Then I am not lame; for I leap, and I follow. (G’amma brings a wiseman who says our infirmities are ours, not God’s, that someday a beautiful Child will return from the stars, and then my new fingers will grow if only I trust Him; and so I am preparing to meet Him, to go, should He care to receive me.) Snapshots by Michael R. Burch Here I scrawl extravagant rainbows. And there you go, skipping your way to school. And here we are, drifting apart like untethered balloons. Here I am, creating "art," chanting in shadows, pale as the crinoline moon, ignoring your face. There you go, in diaphanous lace, making another man’s heart swoon. Suddenly, unthinkably, here he is, taking my place. Squall by Michael R. Burch There, in that sunny arbor, in the aureate light filtering through the waxy leaves of a stunted banana tree, I felt the sudden monsoon of your wrath, the clattery implosions and copper-bright bursts of the bottoms of pots and pans. I saw your swollen goddess’s belly wobble and heave in pregnant indignation, turned tail, and ran. If You Come to San Miguel by Michael R. Burch If you come to San Miguel before the orchids fall, we might stroll through lengthening shadows those deserted streets where love first bloomed ... You might buy the same cheap musk from that mud-spattered stall where with furtive eyes the vendor watched his fragrant wares perfume your breasts ... Where lean men mend tattered nets, disgruntled sea gulls chide; we might find that cafetucho where through grimy panes sunset implodes ... Where tall cranes spin canvassed loads, the strange anhingas glide. Green brine laps splintered moorings, rusted iron chains grind, weighed and anchored in the past, held fast by luminescent tides ... Should you come to San Miguel? Let love decide. Ivy by Michael R. Burch “Van trepando en mi viejo dolor como las yedras.” ― Pablo Neruda “They climb on my old suffering like ivy.” Ivy winds around these sagging structures from the flagstones to the eave heights, and, clinging, holds intact what cannot be saved of their loose entrails. Through long, blustery nights of dripping condensation, cured in the humidors of innumerable forgotten summers, waxy, unguent, palely, indifferently fragrant, it climbs, pausing at last to see the alien sparkle of dew beading delicate sparrowgrass. Coarse saw grass, thin skunk grass, clumped mildewed yellow gorse grow all around, and here remorse, things past, watch ivy climb and bend, and, in the end, we ask if grief is worth the gaps it leaps to mend. Originally published by Nisqually Delta Review Warming Her Pearls by Michael R. Burch for Beth Warming her pearls, her breasts gleam like constellations. Her belly is a bit rotund ... she might have stepped out of a Rubens. Caveat Spender by Michael R. Burch It’s better not to speculate "continually" on who is great. Though relentless awe’s a Célèbre Cause, please reserve some time for the contemplation of the perils of EXAGGERATION. The Composition of Shadows by Michael R. Burch for poets who write late at night We breathe and so we write; the night hums softly its accompaniment. Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn leads onward, and we smile, content. And what we mean we write to learn: the vowels of love, the consonants’ strange golden weight, each plosive’s shape― curved like the heart. Here, resonant, sounds’ shadows mass beneath bright glass like singing voles curled in a maze of blank white space. We touch a face― long-frozen words trapped in a glaze that insulates our hearts. Nowhere can love be found. Just shrieking air. The Composition of Shadows (II) by Michael R. Burch We breathe and so we write; the night hums softly its accompaniment. Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn leads onward, and we smile, content. And what we mean we write to learn: the vowels of love, the consonants’ strange golden weight, the blood’s debate within the heart. Here, resonant, sounds’ shadows mass against bright glass, within the white Labyrinthian maze. Through simple grace, I touch your face, ah words! And I would gaze the night’s dark length in waning strength to find the words to feel such light again. O, for a pen to spell love so ethereal. The Peripheries of Love by Michael R. Burch Through waning afternoons we glide the watery peripheries of love. A silence, a quietude falls. Above us―the sagging pavilions of clouds. Below us―rough pebbles slowly worn smooth grate in the gentle turbulence of yesterday’s forgotten rains. Later, the moon like a virgin lifts her stricken white face and the waters rise toward some unfathomable shore. We sway gently in the wake of what stirs beneath us, yet leaves us unmoved ... curiously motionless, as though twilight might blur the effects of proximity and distance, as though love might be near― as near as a single cupped tear of resilient dew or a long-awaited face. Villanelle: The Divide by Michael R. Burch The sea was not salt the first tide ... was man born to sorrow that first day, with the moon―a pale beacon across the Divide, the brighter for longing, an object denied― the tug at his heart's pink, bourgeoning clay? The sea was not salt the first tide ... but grew bitter, bitter―man's torrents supplied. The bride of their longing―forever astray, her shield a cold beacon across the Divide, flashing pale signals: Decide. Decide. Choose me, or His Brightness, I will not stay. The sea was not salt the first tide ... imploring her, ebbing: Abide, abide. The silver fish flash there, the manatees gray. The moon, a pale beacon across the Divide, has taught us to seek Love's concealed side: the dark face of longing, the poets say. The sea was not salt the first tide ... the moon a pale beacon across the Divide. Safe Harbor by Michael R. Burch for Kevin N. Roberts The sea at night seems an alembic of dreams― the moans of the gulls, the foghorns’ bawlings. A century late to be melancholy, I watch the last shrimp boat as it steams to safe harbor again. In the twilight she gleams with a festive light, done with her trawlings, ready to sleep . . . Deep, deep, in delight glide the creatures of night, elusive and bright as the poet’s dreams. Currents by Michael R. Burch How can I write and not be true to the rhythm that wells within? How can the ocean not be blue, not buck with the clapboard slap of tide, the clockwork shock of wave on rock, the motion creation stirs within? Loose Knit by Michael R. Burch She blesses the needle, fetches fine red stitches, criss-crossing, embroidering dreams in the delicate fabric. And if her hand jerks and twitches in puppet-like fits, she tells herself reality is not as threadbare as it seems ... that a little more darning may gather loose seams. She weaves an unraveling tapestry of fatigue and remorse and pain; ... only the nervously pecking needle pricks her to motion, again and again. Goddess by Michael R. Burch “What will you conceive in me?”― I asked her. But she only smiled. “Naked, I bore your child when the wolf wind howled, when the cold moon scowled ... naked, and gladly.” “What will become of me?”― I asked her, as she absently stroked my hand. Centuries later, I understand: she whispered―“I Am.” Once by Michael R. Burch Once when her kisses were fire incarnate and left in their imprint bright lipstick, and flame, when her breath rose and fell over smoldering dunes, leaving me listlessly sighing her name ... Once when her breasts were as pale, as beguiling, as wan rivers of sand shedding heat like a mist, when her words would at times softly, mildly rebuke me all the while as her lips did more wildly insist ... Once when the thought of her echoed and whispered through vast wastelands of need like a Bedouin chant, I ached for the touch of her lips with such longing that I vowed all my former vows to recant ... Once, only once, something bloomed, of a desiccate seed― this implausible blossom her wild rains of kisses decreed. Passionate One by Michael R. Burch Love of my life, light of my morning― arise, brightly dawning, for you are my sun. Give me of heaven both manna and leaven― desirous Presence, Passionate One. What Goes Around, Comes by Michael R. Burch This is a poem about loss so why do you toss your dark hair― unaccountably glowing? How can you be sure of my heart when it’s beyond my own knowing? Or is it love’s pheromones you trust, my eyes magnetized by your bust and the mysterious alchemies of lust? Now I am truly lost! Are You the Thief by Michael R. Burch When I touch you now, O sweet lover, full of fire, melting like ice in my embrace, when I part the delicate white lace, baring pale flesh, and your face is so close that I breathe your breath and your hair surrounds me like a wreath ... tell me now, O sweet, sweet lover, in good faith: are you the thief who has stolen my heart? don’t forget ... by Michael R. Burch don’t forget to remember that Space is curved (like your Heart) and that even Light is bent by your Gravity. The Stake by Michael R. Burch Love, the heart bets, if not without regrets, will still prove, in the end, worth the light we expend mining the dark for an exquisite heart. Stay With Me Tonight by Michael R. Burch Stay with me tonight; be gentle with me as the leaves are gentle falling to the earth. And whisper, O my love, how that every bright thing, though scattered afar, retains yet its worth. Stay with me tonight; be as a petal long-awaited blooming in my hand. Lift your face to mine and touch me with your lips till I feel the warm benevolence of your breath’s heady fragrance like wine. That which we had when pale and waning as the dying moon at dawn, outshone the sun. Hence, lead me back tonight through bright waterfalls of light to where we shine as one. The Vision of the Overseer’s Right Hand by Michael R. Burch “Dust to dust ...” I stumbled, aghast, into a valley of dust and bone where all men become, at last, the same color . . . There a skeletal figure groped through blonde sand for a rigid right hand lost long, long ago . . . A hand now more white than he had wielded before. But he paused there, unsure, for he could not tell without the whip’s frenetic hiss which savage white hand was his. What Immense Silence by Michael R. Burch What immense silence comforts those who kneel here beneath these vaulted ceilings cavernous and vast? What luminescence stained by patchwork panels of bright glass illuminates drained faces as the crouching gargoyles leer? What brings them here― pale, tearful congregations, knowing all Hope is past, faithfully, year after year? Or could they be right? Perhaps Love is, implausibly, near and I alone have not seen it . . . But if so, still I must ask: why is it God that they fear? Vampires by Michael R. Burch Vampires are such fragile creatures; we fear the dark, but the light destroys them . . . sunlight, or a stake, or a cross―such common things. Still, late at night, when the bat-like vampire sings, we heed his voice. Centuries have taught us: in shadows danger lurks for those who stray, and there the vampire bares his yellow fangs and feels the ancient soul-tormenting pangs. He has no choice. We are his prey, plump and fragrant, and if we pray to avoid him, he prays to find us, prays to some despotic hooded God whose benediction is the humid blood he lusts to taste. Haughty moon, when did I ever trouble you, insomnia’s co-conspirator! ―Michael R. Burch She bathes in silver ~~~~~afloat~~~~ on her reflections... ―Michael R. Burch 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 Poet's Condition by Michael R. Burch for my mother, Christine Ena Burch The poet's condition (bother tradition) is whining contrition. Supposedly sage, his editor knows his brain's in his toes though he would suppose to soon be the rage. His readers are sure his work's premature or merely manure, insipidly trite. His mother alone will answer the phone (perhaps with a moan) to hear him recite. Delicacy by Michael R. Burch for my mother, Christine Ena Burch, and all good mothers Your love is as delicate as a butterfly cleaning its wings, as soft as the predicate the hummingbird sings to itself, gently murmuring― “Fly! Fly! Fly!” Your love is the string soaring kites untie. Morgause’s Song by Michael R. Burch Before he was my brother, he was my lover, though certainly not the best. I found no joy in that addled boy, nor he at my breast. Why him? Why him? As the candles dim, it grows harder and harder to say ... Perhaps girls and boys are the god’s toys when they lose their way. Midsummer-Eve by Michael R. Burch What happened to the mysterious Tuatha De Danann, to the Ban Shee (from which we get the term “banshee”) and, eventually, to the druids? One might assume that with the passing of Merlyn, Morgause and their ilk, the time of myths and magic ended. This poem is an epitaph of sorts. In the ruins of the dreams and the schemes of men; when the moon begets the tide and the wide sea sighs; when a star appears in heaven and the raven cries; we will dance and we will revel in the devil’s fen . . . if nevermore again. Less Heroic Couplets: Unsmiley Simile or Down Time by Michael R. Burch Quora is down! I frown: how long can the universe suffice without its ad-vice? Musings at Giza by Michael R. Burch In deepening pools of shadows lies the Sphinx, and men still fear his eyes. Though centuries have passed, he waits. Egyptians gather at the gates. Great pyramids, the looted tombs ―how still and desolate their wombs!― await sarcophagi of kings. From eons past, a hammer rings. Was Cleopatra's litter borne along these streets now bleak, forlorn? Did Pharaohs clad in purple ride fierce stallions through a human tide? Did Bocchoris here mete his law from distant Kush to Saqqarah? or Tutankhamen here once smile upon the children of the Nile? or Nefertiti ever rise with wild abandon in her eyes to gaze across this arid plain and cry, “Great Isis, live again!” Published by Golden Isis and The Eclectic Muse (Canada) splintering by michael r. burch we have grown too far apart, each heart long numbed by time and pain. we have grown too far apart; the DARK now calls us. why refrain? we have grown too far apart; what spark could reignite our vanished flame or persuade us to remain? Tillage by Michael R. Burch What stirs within me is no great welling straining to flood forth, but an emptiness waiting to be filled. I am not an orchard ready to be harvested, but a field rough and barren waiting to be tilled. Winter Thoughts of Ann Rutledge by Michael R. Burch Winter was not easy, nor would the spring return. I knew you by your absence, as men are wont to burn with strange indwelling fire― such longings you inspire! But winter was not easy, nor would the sun relent from sculpting virgin images and how could I repent? I left quaint offerings in the snow, more maiden than I care to know. Transplant by Michael R. Burch You float, unearthly angel, clad in flesh as strange to us who briefly knew your flame as laughter to disease. And yet you laugh. Behind your smile, the sun forfeits its claim to earth, and floats forever now the same― light captured at its moment of least height. You laugh here always, welcoming the night, and, just a photograph, still you can claim bright rapture: like an angel, not of flesh― but something more, made less. Your humanness this moment of release becomes a name and something else―a radiance, a strange brief presence near our hearts. How can we stand and chain you here to this nocturnal land of burgeoning gray shadows? Fly, begone. I give you back your soul, forfeit all claim to radiance, and welcome grief’s dark night that crushes all the laughter from us. Light in someone Else’s hand, and sing at ease some song of brightsome mirth through dawn-lit trees to welcome morning’s sun. O daughter! these are eyes too weak for laughter; for love’s sight, I welcome darkness, overcome with light. The Red State Reaction by Michael R. Burch Where the hell are they hidin’ Sleepy Joe Biden? And how the hell can the bleep Do so much, in his SLEEP? Red State Reject by Michael R. Burch I once was a pessimist but now I’m more optimistic ever since I discovered my fears were unsupported by any statistic. Toupée or Not Toupée, That is the Question by Michael R. Burch There once was a brash billionaire who couldn't afford decent hair. Vexed voters agreed: "We're a nation in need!" But toupée the price, do we dare? Toupée or Not Toupée, This is the Answer by Michael R. Burch Oh crap, we elected Trump prez! Now he's Simon: we must do what he sez! For if anyone thinks And says his "plan" stinks, He'll wig out 'neath that weird orange fez! Stumped and Stomped by Trump by Michael R. Burch There once was a candidate, Trump, whose message rang clear at the stump: "Vote for me, WHEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!, because I am ME, and everyone else is a chump!" Mother of Cowards by Michael R. Burch for Trump So unlike the brazen giant of Greek fame With conquering limbs astride from land to land, Spread-eagled, showering gold, a strumpet stands: A much-used trollop with a torch, whose flame Has long since been extinguished. And her name? "Mother of Cowards!" From her enervate hand Soft ash descends. Her furtive eyes demand Allegiance to her Pimp's repulsive game. "Keep, ancient lands, your wretched poor!" cries she With scarlet lips. "Give me your hale, your whole, Your huddled tycoons, yearning to be pleased! The wretched refuse of your toilet hole? Oh, never send one unwashed child to me! I await Trump's pleasure by the gilded bowl!" Originally published by Light Peace Prayer by Michael R. Burch for Jim Dunlap Be calm. Be still. Be silent, content. Be one with the buffalo cropping the grass to a safer height. Seek the composure of the great depths, barely moved by exterior storms. Lift your face to the dawning light; feel how it warms. And be calm. Be still. Be silent, content. © 2024 Michael R. Burch |
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Added on September 12, 2019 Last Updated on November 9, 2024 Tags: Translation, Old English, Middle English, Medieval English, Modernization, Lament, Complaint, Summer, Winter, Wind, North Wind, Night, Sin, Grief, Mourning, Fasting Author
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