Anacreon (circa 582-485 BC) was a Greek poet who is remembered today especially for his drinking songs and erotic poems. He is included in the canonical list of nine Greek lyric poets (our term "lyric" derives from the lyre; Greek lyric poetry was composed to be sung or recited to the accompaniment of music, usually the lyre). A number of these poems are suitable for Memorial Day.
How valiant he lies tonight: great is his Monument!
Yet Ares cares not, neither does War relent. by Anacreon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here he lies in state tonight: great is his Monument! Yet Ares cares not, neither does War relent. by Anacreon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Yes, bring me Homer’s lyre, no doubt,
but first yank the bloodstained strings out!
by Anacreon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here we find Anacreon,
an elderly lover of boys and wine.
His harp still sings in lonely Acheron
as he thinks of the lads he left behind ...
by Anacreon or the Anacreontea, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Mariner, do not ask whose tomb this may be,
But go with good fortune: I wish you a kinder sea. Michael R. Burch, after Plato
Passerby, Tell the Spartans we lie Lifeless at Thermopylae: Dead at their word, Obedient to their command. Have they heard? Do they understand? Michael R. Burch, after Simonides
Does my soul abide in heaven, or hell? Only the sea gulls in their high, lonely circuits may tell. Michael R. Burch, after Glaucus
They observed our fearful fetters, braved the overwhelming darkness.
Now we extol their excellence: bravely, they died for us. Michael R. Burch, after Mnasalcas
Blame not the gale, nor the inhospitable sea-gulf, nor friends’ tardiness, Mariner! Just man’s foolhardiness. Michael R. Burch, after Leonidas of Tarentum
Be ashamed, O mountains and seas: that these valorous men lack breath. Assume, like pale chattels, an ashen silence at death. Michael R. Burch, after Parmenio
These men earned a crown of imperishable glory, Nor did the maelstrom of death obscure their story. Michael R. Burch, after Simonides
Stranger, flee! But may Fortune grant you all the prosperity she denied me. Michael R. Burch, after Leonidas of Tarentum
Everywhere the sea is the sea, the dead are the dead. What difference to me―where I rest my head?
The sea knows I’m buried. Michael R. Burch, after Antipater of Sidon
I lie by stark Icarian rocks and only speak when the sea talks. Please tell my dear father that I gave up the ghost on the Aegean coast. Michael R. Burch, after Theatetus
Since I'm dead sea-enclosed Cyzicus shrouds my bones.
Faretheewell, O my adoptive land that suckled me and reared me;
Once again I take rest at your breast.
Michael R. Burch, after Erycius
I am loyal to you master, even in the grave: Just as you now are death’s slave. Michael R. Burch, after Dioscorides
Stripped of her stripling, if asked, she’d confess: “I am now less than nothingness.” Michael R. Burch, after Diotimus
I lived as best I could, and then I died. Be careful where you step: the grave is wide. Michael R. Burch, Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
Sail on, mariner, sail on, for while we were perishing, greater ships sailed on. Michael R. Burch, after Theodorides
All this vast sea is his Monument. Where does he lie―whether heaven, or hell?
Perhaps when the gulls repent― their shriekings may tell. Michael R. Burch, after Glaucus
His white bones lie bleaching on some inhospitable shore: a son lost to his father, his tomb empty; the poor- est beggars have happier mothers! Michael R. Burch, after Damegtus
We who left behind the Aegean’s bellowings
Now sleep peacefully here on the mid-plains of Ecbatan:
Farewell, dear Athens, nigh to Euboea,
Farewell, dear sea! Michael R. Burch, after Plato
A mother only as far as the birth pangs, my life cut short at the height of life’s play: only eighteen years old, so brief was my day. Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
Having never earned a penny, nor seen a bridal gown slip to the floor, still I lie here with the love of many, to be the love of yet one more. Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
Little I knew―a child of five―
of what it means to be alive and all life’s little thrills; but little also―(I was glad not to know)―
of life’s great ills. Michael R. Burch, after Lucian
Pity this boy who was beautiful, but died. Pity his monument, overlooking this hillside. Pity the world that bore him, then foolishly survived. Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
Insatiable Death! I was only a child! Why did you snatch me away, in my infancy, from those destined to love me? Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
Tell Nicagoras that Strymonias at the setting of the Kids lost his. Michael R. Burch, after Nicaenetus
Here Saon, son of Dicon, now rests in holy sleep: say not that the good die young, friend, lest gods and mortals weep. Michael R. Burch, after Callimachus
The light of a single morning exterminated the sacred offspring of Lysidice. Nor do the angels sing. Nor do we seek the gods’ advice. This is the grave of Nicander’s lost children. We merely weep at its bitter price. Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
Pluto, delighting in tears, why did you bring our son, Ariston, to the laughterless abyss of death? Why―why?―did the gods grant him breath,
if only for seven years? Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
Heartlessly this grave
holds our nightingale speechless; now she lies here like a stone, who voice was so marvelous; while sunlight illumining dust proves the gods all reachless, as our prayers prove them also unhearing or beseechless. Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
I, Homenea, the chattering bright sparrow, lie here in the hollow of a great affliction, leaving tears to Atimetus and all scattered―that great affection.
Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
We mourn Polyanthus, whose wife placed him newly-wedded in an unmarked grave, having received his luckless corpse back from the green Aegean wave that deposited his fleshless skeleton gruesomely in the harbor of Torone. Michael R. Burch, after Phaedimus
Once sweetest of the workfellows, our shy teller of tall tales ―fleet Crethis!―who excelled
at every childhood game . . . now you sleep among long shadows where everyone’s the same . . . Michael R. Burch, after Callimachus
Although I had to leave the sweet sun, only nineteen―Diogenes, hail!―
beneath the earth, let’s have lots more fun: till human desire seems weak and pale. Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
Though they were steadfast among spears, dark Fate destroyed them as they defended their native land, rich in sheep; now Ossa’s dust seems all the more woeful, where they now sleep. Michael R. Burch, after Aeschylus
Aeschylus, graybeard, son of Euphorion, died far away in wheat-bearing Gela; still, the groves of Marathon may murmur of his valor and the black-haired Mede, with his mournful clarion. Michael R. Burch, after Aeschylus
Now his voice is prisoned in the silent pathways of the night:
his owner’s faithful Maltese . . . but will he still bark again, on sight? Michael R. Burch, after Tymnes
Poor partridge, poor partridge, lately migrated from the rocks; our cat bit off your unlucky head; my offended heart still balks! I put you back together again and buried you, so unsightly! May the dark earth cover you heavily: heavily, not lightly . . . so she shan’t get at you again! Michael R. Burch, after Agathias
Wert thou, O Artemis, overbusy with thy beast-slaying hounds when the Beast embraced me? Michael R. Burch, after Diodorus of Sardis
Dead as you are, though you lie still as stone, huntress Lycas, my great Thessalonian hound, the wild beasts still fear your white bones; craggy Pelion remembers your valor, splendid Ossa, the way you would bound and bay at the moon for its whiteness, bellowing as below we heard valleys resound. And how brightly with joy you would canter and run the strange lonely peaks of high Cithaeron! Michael R. Burch, after Simonides
Constantina, inconstant one!
Once I thought your name beautiful but I was a fool and now you are more bitter to me than death! You flee someone who loves you with baited breath to pursue someone who’s untrue. But if you manage to make him love you, tomorrow you'll flee him too! Michael R. Burch, after Macedonius
Not Rocky Trachis, nor the thirsty herbage of Dryophis, nor this albescent stone with its dark blue lettering shielding your white bones, nor the wild Icarian sea dashing against the steep shingles of Doliche and Dracanon, nor the empty earth, nor anything essential of me since birth, nor anything now mingles here with the perplexing absence of you, with what death forces us to abandon . . . Michael R. Burch, after Euphorion
We who left the thunderous surge of the Aegean of old, now lie here on the mid-plain of Ecbatan: farewell, dear Athens, nigh to Euboea, farewell, dear sea! Michael R. Burch, after Plato
My friend found me here, a shipwrecked corpse on the beach. He heaped these strange boulders above me. Oh, how he would wail that he “loved” me, with many bright tears for his own calamitous life! Now he sleeps with my wife and flits like a gull in a gale ―beyond reach― while my broken bones bleach. Michael R. Burch, after Callimachus
Cloud-capped Geraneia, cruel mountain! If only you had looked no further than Ister and Scythian Tanais, had not aided the surge of the Scironian sea’s wild-spurting fountain filling the dark ravines of snowy Meluriad! But now he is dead: a chill corpse in a chillier ocean―moon led―
and only an empty tomb now speaks of the long, windy voyage ahead. Michael R. Burch, after Simonides
Erinna Epigrams
This portrait is the work of sensitive, artistic hands. See, my dear Prometheus, you have human equals! For if whoever painted this girl had only added a voice, she would have been Agatharkhis entirely. by Erinna, translation by Michael R. Burch
Erinna is generally considered to be second only to Sappho as an ancient Greek female poet. This poem, about a portrait of a girl or young woman named Agatharkhis, has been called the earliest Greek ekphrastic epigram (an epigram describing a work of art).
You, my tall Columns, and you, my small Urn,
the receptacle of Hades’ tiny pittance of ash―
remember me to those who pass by
my grave, as they dash.
Tell them my story, as sad as it is:
that this grave sealed a young bride’s womb;
that my name was Baucis and Telos my land;
and that Erinna, my friend, etched this poem on my Tomb.
by Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Translator’s note: Baucis is also spelled Baukis. Erinna has been attributed to different locations, including Lesbos, Rhodes, Teos, Telos and Tenos. Telos seems the most likely because of her Dorian dialect. Erinna wrote in a mixture of Aeolic and Doric Greek. In 1928, Italian archaeologists excavating at Oxyrhynchus discovered a tattered piece of papyrus which contained 54 lines Erinna’s lost epic, the poem “Distaff.” This work, like the epigram above, was also about her friend Baucis ...
Excerpts from “Distaff”
by Erinna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
… the moon rising …
… leaves falling …
… waves lapping a windswept shore …
… and our childish games, Baucis, do you remember? ...
... Leaping from white horses,
running on reckless feet through the great courtyard.
“You’re it!’ I cried, ‘You’re the Tortoise now!”
But when your turn came to pursue your pursuers,
you darted beyond the courtyard,
dashed out deep into the waves,
splashing far beyond us …
… My poor Baucis, these tears I now weep are your warm memorial,
these traces of embers still smoldering in my heart
for our silly amusements, now that you lie ash …
… Do you remember how, as girls,
we played at weddings with our dolls,
pretending to be brides in our innocent beds? ...
... How sometimes I was your mother,
allotting wool to the weaver-women,
calling for you to unreel the thread? ...
… Do you remember our terror of the monster Mormo
with her huge ears, her forever-flapping tongue,
her four slithering feet, her shape-shifting face? ...
... Until you mother called for us to help with the salted meat ...
... But when you mounted your husband’s bed,
dearest Baucis, you forgot your mothers’ warnings!
Aphrodite made your heart forgetful ...
... Desire becomes oblivion ...
... Now I lament your loss, my dearest friend.
I can’t bear to think of that dark crypt.
I can’t bring myself to leave the house.
I refuse to profane your corpse with my tearless eyes.
I refuse to cut my hair, but how can I mourn with my hair unbound?
I blush with shame at the thought of you! …
... But in this dark house, O my dearest Baucis,
My deep grief is ripping me apart.
Wretched Erinna! Only nineteen,
I moan like an ancient crone, eyeing this strange distaff ...
O Hymen! . . . O Hymenaeus! . . .
Alas, my poor Baucis!
On a Betrothed Girl
by Errina
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I sing of Baucis the bride.
Observing her tear-stained crypt
say this to Death who dwells underground:
"Thou art envious, O Death!"
Her vivid monument tells passers-by
of the bitter misfortune of Baucis―
how her father-in-law burned the poor girl on a pyre
lit by bright torches meant to light her marriage train home.
While thou, O Hymenaeus, transformed her harmonious bridal song into a chorus of wailing dirges.
Hymen! O Hymenaeus!
Roman Epigrams
Wall, we're astonished that you haven't collapsed,
since you're holding up verses so prolapsed!
Ancient Roman graffiti, translation by Michael R. Burch
Ibykos Fragment 286, Circa 564 B.C. loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come spring, the grand apple trees stand watered by a gushing river where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver and the blossoming grape vine swells in the gathering shadows.
Unfortunately for me Eros never rests but like a Thracian tempest ablaze with lightning emanates from Aphrodite; the results are frightening― black, bleak, astonishing, violently jolting me from my soles to my soul.
Originally published by The Chained Muse
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.
Birdsong relieves my deepest griefs: now I'm just as ecstatic as they, but with nothing to say! Please universe, rehearse your poetry through me!
To the boy Elis by Georg Trakl translation by Michael R. Burch
Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest, it announces your downfall. Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness.
Your brow sweats blood recalling ancient myths and dark interpretations of birds' flight.
Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls; the ripe purple grapes hang suspended as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness.
A thornbush crackles; where now are your moonlike eyes? How long, oh Elis, have you been dead?
A monk dips waxed fingers into your body's hyacinth; Our silence is a black abyss
from which sometimes a docile animal emerges slowly lowering its heavy lids. A black dew drips from your temples:
the lost gold of vanished stars.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive bloody sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem.
W. S. Rendra translations
Willibrordus Surendra Broto Rendra (1935-2009), better known as W. S. Rendra or simply Rendra, was an Indonesian dramatist and poet. He said, “I learned meditation and the disciplines of the traditional Javanese poet from my mother, who was a palace dancer. The idea of the Javanese poet is to be a guardian of the spirit of the nation.” The press gave him the nickname Burung Merak (“The Peacock”) for his flamboyant poetry readings and stage performances.
SONNET by W. S. Rendra loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Best wishes for an impending deflowering.
Yes, I understand: you will never be mine. I am resigned to my undeserved fate. I contemplate irrational numbers―complex & undefined.
And yet I wish love might ... ameliorate ... such negative numbers, dark and unsigned. But at least I can’t be held responsible for disappointing you. No cause to elate. Still, I am resigned to my undeserved fate. The gods have spoken. I can relate.
How can this be, when all it makes no sense? I was born too soon―such was my fate.
You must choose another, not half of who I AM. Be happy with him when you consummate.
THE WORLD'S FIRST FACE by W. S. Rendra loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Illuminated by the pale moonlight the groom carries his bride up the hill― both of them naked, both consisting of nothing but themselves.
As in all beginnings the world is naked, empty, free of deception, dark with unspoken explanations― a silence that extends to the limits of time.
Then comes light, life, the animals and man.
As in all beginnings everything is naked, empty, open.
They're both young, yet both have already come a long way, passing through the illusions of brilliant dawns, of skies illuminated by hope, of rivers intimating contentment.
They have experienced the sun's warmth, drenched in each other's sweat.
Here, standing by barren reefs, they watch evening fall bringing strange dreams to a bed arrayed with resplendent coral necklaces.
They lift their heads to view trillions of stars arrayed in the sky. The universe is their inheritance: stars upon stars upon stars, more than could ever be extinguished.
Illuminated by the pale moonlight the groom carries his bride up the hill― both of them naked, to recreate the world's first face.
Keywords/Tags: Rendra, W. S. Rendra, Indonesian, Javanese, translation, love, fate, gods, groom, bride, world, time, life, sun, hill, hills, moon, moonlight, stars, life, animals
Brother Iran by Michael R. Burch for the poets of Iran
Brother Iran, I feel your pain. I feel it as when the Turk fled Spain. As the Jew fled, too, that constricting span, I feel your pain, Brother Iran.
Brother Iran, I know you are noble! I too fear Hiroshima and Chernobyl. But though my heart shudders, I have a plan, and I know you are noble, Brother Iran.
Brother Iran, I salute your Poets! your Mathematicians!, all your great Wits! O, come join the earth's great Caravan. We'll include your Poets, Brother Iran.
Brother Iran, I love your Verse! Come take my hand now, let's rehearse the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. For I love your Verse, Brother Iran.
Bother Iran, civilization's Flower! How high flew your spires in man's early hours! Let us build them yet higher, for that's my plan, civilization's first flower, Brother Iran.
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.
In My House by Michael R. Burch
When you were in my house you were not free― in chains bound.
Manifest Destiny?
I was wrong; my plantation burned to the ground. I was wrong. This is my song, this is my plea: I was wrong.
When you are in my house, now, I am not free. I feel the song hurling itself back at me. We were wrong. This is my history.
I feel my tongue stilting accordingly.
We were wrong; brother, forgive me.
Published by Black Medina
faith(less) by Michael R. Burch
Those who believed and Those who misled lie together at last in the same narrow bed
and if god loved Them more for Their strange lack of doubt, he kept it well hidden till he snuffed Them out.
Habeas Corpus by Michael R. Burch
from “Songs of the Antinatalist”
I have the results of your DNA analysis. If you want to have children, this may induce paralysis. I wish I had good news, but how can I lie? Any offspring you have are guaranteed to die. It wouldn’t be fair―I’m sure you’ll agree―
to sentence kids to death, so I’ll waive my fee.
Shock by Michael R. Burch
It was early in the morning of the forming of my soul, in the dawning of desire, with passion at first bloom, with lightning splitting heaven to thunder's blasting roll and a sense of welling fire and, perhaps, impending doom― that I cried out through the tumult of the raging storm on high for shelter from the chaos of the restless, driving rain ... and the voice I heard replying from a rift of bleeding sky was mine, I'm sure, and, furthermore, was certainly insane.
I may have been reading too many gothic ghost stories when I wrote this one! I think it shows a good touch with meter for a young poet, since I wrote it in my early teens.
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 intelligence while u pray that IT has a heart?
does GOD endorse the Bible you blue-lighted at k-mart?
Deor's Lament (circa the 10th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Weland endured the agony of exile: an indomitable smith wracked by grief. He suffered countless sorrows; indeed, such sorrows were his bosom companions in that frozen island dungeon where Nithad fettered him: so many strong-but-supple sinew-bands binding the better man. That passed away; this also may.
Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths, bemoaning also her own sad state once she discovered herself with child. She knew nothing good could ever come of it. That passed away; this also may.
We have heard the Geat's moans for Matilda, his lovely lady, waxed 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 acknowledged his mastery and moaned. That passed away; this also may.
We have heard too of Ermanaric's wolfish ways, of how he cruelly ruled the Goths' realms. That was a grim king! Many a warrior sat, full of cares and maladies of the mind, wishing constantly that his crown 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 limitless. 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 can 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 king. But now Heorrenda a man skilful in songs, has received the estate the protector of warriors had promised me. That passed away; this also may.
The Temple Hymns of Enheduanna with modern English translations by Michael R. Burch
Enheduanna, the daughter of the famous King Saragon the Great of Akkad, is the first ancient writer whose name remains known today. She appears to be the first named poet in human history and the first known author of prayers and hymns. Enheduanna, who lived circa 2285-2250 BCE, is also one of the first women we know by name. She was the entu (high priestess) of the goddess Inanna (Ishtar/Astarte/Aphrodite) and the moon god Nanna (Sin) in the Sumerian city-state of Ur.
Lament to the Spirit of War by Enheduanna loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You hack down everything you see, War God!
Rising on fearsome wings you rush to destroy our land: raging like thunderstorms, howling like hurricanes, screaming like tempests, thundering, raging, ranting, drumming, whiplashing whirlwinds!
Men falter at your approaching footsteps.
Tortured dirges scream on your lyre of despair.
Like a fiery Salamander you poison the land: growling over the earth like thunder, vegetation collapsing before you, blood gushing down mountainsides.
Spirit of hatred, greed and vengeance!
Dominatrix of heaven and earth!
Your ferocious fire consumes our land.
Whipping your stallion with furious commands, you impose our fates.
You triumph over all human rites and prayers.
Who can explain your tirade, why you carry on so?
Temple Hymn 15
to the Gishbanda Temple of Ningishzida by Enheduanna loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Most ancient and terrible shrine, set deep in the mountain, dark like a mother's womb ...
Dark shrine, like a mother's wounded breast, blood-red and terrifying ...
Though approaching through a safe-seeming field, our hair stands on end as we near you!
Gishbanda, like a neck-stock, like a fine-eyed fish net, like a foot-shackled prisoner's manacles ... your ramparts are massive, like a trap!
But once we’re inside, as the sun rises, you yield widespread abundance!
Your prince is the pure-handed priest of Inanna, heaven's Holy One, Lord Ningishzida!
Oh, see how his thick, lustrous hair cascades down his back!
Oh Gishbanda, he has built this beautiful temple to house your radiance! He has placed his throne upon your dais!
NOTE: Ningishzida was a deity of the Netherworld: he was the chair-bearer who carried notable persons to their destination. The ancient Sumerians believed the Netherworld was set deep in the mountains, so a mountain shrine was perhaps a "natural" for Ningishzida.
The Exaltation of Inanna: Opening Lines and Excerpts Nin-me-šara by Enheduanna loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lady of all divine powers!
Lady of the resplendent light!
Righteous Lady adorned in heavenly radiance!
Beloved Lady of An and Uraš!
Hierodule of An, sun-adorned and bejeweled!
Heaven’s Mistress with the holy diadem,
Who loves the beautiful headdress befitting the office of her own high priestess!
Powerful Mistress, seizer of the seven divine powers!
My Heavenly Lady, guardian of the seven divine powers!
You have seized the seven divine powers!
You hold the divine powers in your hand!
You have gathered together the seven divine powers!
You have clasped the divine powers to your breast!
You have flooded the valleys with venom, like a viper;
all vegetation vanishes when you thunder like Iškur!
You have caused the mountains to flood the valleys!
When you roar like that, nothing on earth can withstand you!
Like a flood descending on floodplains, O Powerful One, you will teach foreigners to fear Inanna!
You have given wings to the storm, O Beloved of Enlil!
The storms do your bidding, blasting the unbelievers!
Foreign cities cower at the chaos You cause!
Entire countries cower in dread of Your deadly South Wind!
Men cower before you in their anguished implications,
raising their pitiful outcries,
weeping and wailing, beseeching Your benevolence with many wild lamentations!
But in the van of battle, everything falls before You, O Mighty Queen!
My Queen,
You are all-conquering, all-devouring!
You continue Your attacks like relentless storms!
You howl louder than the howling storms!
You thunder louder than Iškur!
You moan louder than the mournful winds!
Your feet never tire from trampling Your enemies!
You produce much wailing on the lyres of lamentations!
My Queen,
all the Anunna, the mightiest Gods,
fled before Your approach like fluttering bats!
They could not stand in Your awesome Presence
nor behold Your awesome Visage!
Who can soothe Your infuriated heart?
Your baleful heart is beyond being soothed!
Uncontrollable Wild Cow, elder daughter of Sin,
O Majestic Queen, greater than An,
who has ever paid You enough homage?
O Life-Giving Goddess, possessor of all powers,
Inanna the Exalted!
Merciful, Live-Giving Mother!
Inanna, the Radiant of Heart!
I have exalted You in accordance with Your power!
I have bowed before You in my holy garb,
I the En, I Enheduanna!
Carrying my masab-basket, I once entered and uttered my joyous chants ...
But now I no longer dwell in Your sanctuary.
The sun rose and scorched me.
Night fell and the South Wind overwhelmed me.
My laughter was stilled and my honey-sweet voice grew strident.
My joy became dust.
O Sin, King of Heaven, how bitter my fate!
To An, I declared: An will deliver me!
I declared it to An: He will deliver me!
But now the kingship of heaven has been seized by Inanna,
at Whose feet the floodplains lie.
Inanna the Exalted,
who has made me tremble together with all Ur!
Stay Her anger, or let Her heart be soothed by my supplications!
I, Enheduanna will offer my supplications to Inanna,
my tears flowing like sweet intoxicants!
Yes, I will proffer my tears and my prayers to the Holy Inanna,
I will greet Her in peace ...
O My Queen, I have exalted You,
Who alone are worthy to be exalted!
O My Queen, Beloved of An,
I have laid out Your daises,
set fire to the coals,
conducted the rites,
prepared Your nuptial chamber.
Now may Your heart embrace me!
These are my innovations,
O Mighty Queen, that I made for You!
What I composed for You by the dark of night,
The cantor will chant by day.
Now Inanna’s heart has been restored,
and the day became favorable to Her.
Clothed in beauty, radiant with joy,
she carried herself like the elegant moonlight.
Now to the Noble Hierodule,
to the Wrecker of foreign lands
presented by An with the seven divine powers,
and to my Queen garbed in the radiance of heaven ...
O Inanna, praise!
EARLIER VERSION
Lady of all divine powers, Lady of the all-resplendent light, Righteous Lady clothed in heavenly radiance, Beloved Lady of An and Uraš, Mistress of heaven with the holy diadem, Who loves the beautiful headdress befitting the office of her high priestess, Powerful Mistress who has seized all seven divine powers, My lady, you are the guardian of the seven divine powers! You have seized the divine powers, You hold the divine powers in your hand, You have gathered up the divine powers, You have clasped the divine powers to your breast! Like a dragon you have spewed venom on foreign lands that know you not! When you roar like Iškur at the earth, nothing can withstand you! Like a flood descending on alien lands, O Powerful One of heaven and earth, you will teach them to fear Inanna!
Temple Hymn 7: an Excerpt
to the Kesh Temple of Ninhursag by Enheduanna loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O, high-situated Kesh, form-shifting summit, inspiring fear like a venomous viper!
O, Lady of the Mountains, Ninhursag’s house was constructed on a terrifying site!
O, Kesh, like holy Aratta: your womb dark and deep, your walls high-towering and imposing!
O, great lion of the wildlands stalking the high plains! ...
NOTE: Ninhursag was the goddess of nature and animals, wild and tame. She was also the goddess of the womb and form-shaping. And she was the patron deity of Kesh.
Temple Hymn 17: an Excerpt
to the Badtibira Temple of Dumuzi by Enheduanna loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O, house of jeweled lapis illuminating the radiant bed in the peace-inducing palace of our Lady of the Steppe!
Temple Hymn 22: an Excerpt
to the Sirara Temple of Nanshe by Enheduanna loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O, house, you wild cow! Made to conjure signs of the Divine! You arise, beautiful to behold, bedecked for your Mistress!
Temple Hymn 26: an Excerpt
to the Zabalam Temple of Inanna by Enheduanna loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O house illuminated by beams of bright light, dressed in shimmering stone jewels, awakening the world to awe!
Temple Hymn 42: an Excerpt
to the Eresh Temple of Nisaba by Enheduanna loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O, house of brilliant stars bright with lapis stones, you illuminate all lands!
...
The person who put this tablet together is Enheduanna. My king: something never created before, did she not give birth to it?
Villanelle: Hangovers by Michael R. Burch
We forget that, before we were born, our parents had “lives” of their own, ran drunk in the streets, or half-stoned.
Yes, our parents had lives of their own until we were born; then, undone, they were buying their parents gravestones
and finding gray hairs of their own (because we were born lacking some of their curious habits, but soon
would certainly get them). Half-stoned, we watched them dig graves of their own. Their lives would be over too soon
for their curious habits to bloom in us (though our children were born nine months from that night on the town
when, punch-drunk in the streets or half-stoned, we first proved we had lives of our own).
Happily Never After (the Second Curse of the Horny Toad) by Michael R. Burch
He did not think of love of Her at all frog-plangent nights, as moons engoldened roads through crumbling stonewalled provinces, where toads (nee princes) ruled in chinks and grew so small at last to be invisible. He smiled (the fables erred so curiously), and thought bemusedly of being reconciled to human flesh, because his heart was not incapable of love, but, being cursed a second time, could only love a toad’s . . . and listened as inflated frogs rehearsed cheekbulging tales of anguish from green moats . . . and thought of her soft croak, her skin fine-warted, his anemic flesh, and how true love was thwarted.
Haunted by Michael R. Burch
Now I am here and thoughts of my past mistakes are my brethren. I am withering and the sweetness of your memory is like a tear.
Go, if you will, for the ache in my heart is its hollowness and the flaw in my soul is its shallowness; there is nothing to fill.
Take what you can; I have nothing left. And when you are gone, I will be bereft, the husk of a man.
Or stay here awhile. My heart cannot bear the night, or these dreams. Your face is a ghost, though paler, it seems when you smile.
Published by Romantics Quarterly
Have I been too long at the fair? by Michael R. Burch
Have I been too long at the fair? The summer has faded, the leaves have turned brown; the Ferris wheel teeters ... not up, yet not down. Have I been too long at the fair?
This is one of my earliest poems, written around age 15 when we were living with my grandfather in his house on Chilton Street, within walking distance of the Nashville fairgrounds. I remember walking to the fairgrounds, stopping at a Dairy Queen along the way, and swimming at a public pool. But I believe the Ferris wheel only operated during the state fair. So my “educated guess” is that this poem was written during the 1973 state fair, or shortly thereafter. I remember watching people hanging suspended in mid-air, waiting for carnies to deposit them safely on terra firma again.
Her Preference by Michael R. Burch
Not for her the pale incandescence of dreams, the warm glow of imagination, the hushed whispers of possibility, or frail, blossoming hope.
No, she prefers the anguish and screams of bitter condemnation, the hissing of hostility, damnation's rope.
hey pete by Michael R. Burch
for Pete Rose
hey pete, it's baseball season and the sun ascends the sky, encouraging a schoolboy's dreams of winter whizzing by; go out, go out and catch it, put it in a jar, set it on a shelf and then you'll be a Superstar.
When I was a boy, Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather an ironic jab at the term "superstar."
Moon Lake by Michael R. Burch
Starlit recorder of summer nights, what magic spell bewitches you? They say that all lovers love first in the dark . . . Is it true? Is it true? Is it true?
Starry-eyed seer of all that appears and all that has appeared― What sights have you seen? What dreams have you dreamed? What rhetoric have you heard?
Is love an oration, or is it a word? Have you heard? Have you heard? Have you heard?
I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens, during my “Romantic Period.”
Tomb Lake by Michael R. Burch
Go down to the valley where mockingbirds cry, alone, ever lonely . . . yes, go down to die.
And dream in your dying you never shall wake. Go down to the valley; go down to Tomb Lake.
Tomb Lake is a cauldron of souls such as yours― mad souls without meaning, frail souls without force.
Tomb Lake is a graveyard reserved for the dead. They lie in her shallows and sleep in her bed.
I believe this poem and "Moon Lake" were companion poems, written around my senior year in high school, in 1976.
Nevermore! by Michael R. Burch
Nevermore! O, nevermore shall the haunts of the sea― the swollen tide pools and the dark, deserted shore― mark her passing again.
And the salivating sea shall never kiss her lips nor caress her breasts and hips as she dreamt it did before, once, lost within the uproar.
The waves will never rape her, nor take her at their leisure; the sea gulls shall not have her, nor could she give them pleasure ... She sleeps forevermore.
She sleeps forevermore, a virgin save to me and her other lover, who lurks now, safely covered by the restless, surging sea.
And, yes, they sleep together, but never in that way! For the sea has stripped and shorn the one I once adored, and washed her flesh away.
He does not stroke her honey hair, for she is bald, bald to the bone! And how it fills my heart with glee to hear them sometimes cursing me out of the depths of the demon sea ...
their skeletal love―impossibility!
This is one of my Poe-like creations, written around age 19. I think the poem has an interesting ending, since the male skeleton is missing an important "member."
Regret by Michael R. Burch
Regret, a bitter ache to bear . . .
once starlight languished in your hair . . .
a shining there as brief as rare.
Regret . . . a pain I chose to bear . . .
unleash the torrent of your hair . . .
and show me once again― how rare.
Published by The HyperTexts and The Chained Muse
Veronica Franco translations
Veronica Franco (1546-1591) was a Venetian courtesan who wrote literary-quality poetry and prose.
Capitolo 19: A Courtesan's Love Lyric (I) by Veronica Franco loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
"I resolved to make a virtue of my desire."
My rewards will be commensurate with your gifts if only you give me the one that lifts me laughing ...
And though it costs you nothing, still it is of immense value to me.
Your reward will be not just to fly but to soar, so high that your joys vastly exceed your desires.
And my beauty, to which your heart aspires and which you never tire of praising, I will employ for the raising of your spirits. Then, lying sweetly at your side, I will shower you with all the delights of a bride, which I have more expertly learned.
Then you, who so fervently burned, will at last rest, fully content, fallen even more deeply in love, spent at my comfortable bosom.
When I am in bed with a man I blossom, becoming completely free with the man who loves and enjoys me.
Published by Sybarite’s Garden
Here is a second, more formal version of the same poem, translated into rhymed couplets ...
Capitolo 19: A Courtesan's Love Lyric (II) by Veronica Franco loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
"I resolved to make a virtue of my desire."
My rewards will match your gifts If you give me the one that lifts
Me, laughing. If it comes free, Still, it is of immense value to me.
Your reward will be―not just to fly,
But to soar―so incredibly high
That your joys eclipse your desires (As my beauty, to which your heart aspires
And which you never tire of praising, I employ for your spirit's raising).
Afterwards, lying docile at your side, I will grant you all the delights of a bride,
Which I have more expertly learned. Then you, who so fervently burned,
Will at last rest, fully content, Fallen even more deeply in love, spent
At my comfortable bosom. When I am in bed with a man I blossom,
Becoming completely free With the man who freely enjoys me.
Franco published two books: Terze rime (a collection of poems) and Lettere familiari a diversi (Faa collection of letters and poems). She also collected the works of other writers into anthologies and founded a charity for courtesans and their children. And she was an early champion of women's rights, one of the first ardent, outspoken feminists that we know by name today. For example ...
Capitolo 24 by Veronica Franco loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
(written by Franco to a man who had insulted a woman)
Please try to see with sensible eyes how grotesque it is for you to insult and abuse women! Our unfortunate sex is always subject to such unjust treatment, because we are dominated, denied true freedom! And certainly we are not at fault because, while not as robust as men, we have equal hearts, minds and intellects. Nor does virtue originate in power, but in the vigor of the heart, mind and soul: the sources of understanding; and I am certain that in these regards women lack nothing, but, rather, have demonstrated superiority to men. If you think us "inferior" to yourself, perhaps it's because, being wise, we outdo you in modesty. And if you want to know the truth, the wisest person is the most patient; she squares herself with reason and with virtue; while the madman thunders insolence. The stone the wise man withdraws from the well was flung there by a fool ...
Life was not a bed of roses for Venetian courtesans. Although they enjoyed the good graces of their wealthy patrons, religious leaders and commoners saw them as symbols of vice. Once during a plague, Franco was banished from Venice as if her "sins" had helped cause it. When she returned in 1577, she faced the Inquisition and charges of "witchcraft." She defended herself in court and won her freedom, but lost all her material possessions. Eventually, Domenico Venier, her major patron, died in 1582 and left her with no support. Her tax declaration of that same year stated that she was living in a section of the city where many destitute prostitutes ended their lives. She may have died in poverty at the age of forty-five. Hollywood produced a movie based on her life: Dangerous Beauty.
When I bed a man who―I sense―truly loves and enjoys me,
I become so sweet and so delicious that the pleasure I bring him surpasses all delight, till the tight knot of love, however slight it may have seemed before, is raveled to the core. ―Veronica Franco, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
We danced a youthful jig through that fair city― Venice, our paradise, so pompous and pretty. We lived for love, for primal lust and beauty; to please ourselves became our only duty. Floating there in a fog between heaven and earth, We grew drunk on excesses and wild mirth. We thought ourselves immortal poets then, Our glory endorsed by God's illustrious pen. But paradise, we learned, is fraught with error, and sooner or later love succumbs to terror. ―Veronica Franco, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I wish it were not considered a sin to have liked f*****g. Women have yet to realize the cowardice that presides. And if they should ever decide to fight the shallow, I would be the first, setting an example for them to follow. ―Veronica Franco, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Yahya Kemal Beyatli translations
Yahya Kemal Beyatli (1884-1958) was a Turkish poet, editor, columnist and historian, as well as a politician and diplomat. Born born Ahmet Âgâh, he wrote under the pen names Agâh Kemal, Esrar, Mehmet Agâh, and Süleyman Sadi. He served as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, Portugal and Pakistan.
Sessiz Gemi (“Silent Ship”) by Yahya Kemal Beyatli loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch
for the refugees
The time to weigh anchor has come; a ship departing harbor slips quietly out into the unknown, cruising noiselessly, its occupants already ghosts. No flourished handkerchiefs acknowledge their departure; the landlocked mourners stand nurturing their grief, scanning the bleak horizon, their eyes blurring ... Poor souls! Desperate hearts! But this is hardly the last ship departing! There is always more pain to unload in this sorrowful life! The hesitations of lovers and their belovèds are futile, for they cannot know where the vanished are bound. Many hopes must be quenched by the distant waves, since years must pass, and no one returns from this journey.
Full Moon by Yahya Kemal Beyatli loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch
You are so lovely the full moon just might delight in your rising, as curious and bright, to vanquish night.
But what can a mortal man do, dear, but hope? I’ll ponder your mysteries and (hmmmm) try to cope.
We both know you have every right to say no.
The Music of the Snow by Yahya Kemal Beyatli loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This melody of a night lasting longer than a thousand years! This music of the snow supposed to last for thousand years!
Sorrowful as the prayers of a secluded monastery, It rises from a choir of a hundred voices!
As the organ’s harmonies resound profoundly, I share the sufferings of Slavic grief.
Then my mind drifts far from this city, this era, To the old records of Tanburi Cemil Bey.
Now I’m suddenly overjoyed as once again I hear, With the ears of my heart, the purest sounds of Istanbul!
Thoughts of the snow and darkness depart me; I keep them at bay all night with my dreams!
Translator’s notes: “Slavic grief” because Beyatli wrote this poem while in Warsaw, serving as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, in 1927. Tanburi Cemil Bey was a Turkish composer.
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 a 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.
Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea
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.
Originally published by The Lyric
If by Michael R. Burch
If I regret fire in the sunset exploding on the horizon, then let me regret loving you.
If I forget even for a moment that you are the only one, then let me forget that the sky is blue.
If I should yearn in a season of discontentment for the vagabond light of a companionless moon, let dawn remind me that you are my sun.
If I should burn―one moment less brightly, one instant less true― then with wild scorching kisses, inflame me, inflame me, inflame me anew.
Originally published by The HyperTexts
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.
Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Centrifugal Eye, Poetry Webring, Poetry Life & Times and The Eclectic Muse
East Devon Beacon by Michael R. Burch
Evening darkens upon the moors, Forgiveness--a hairless thing skirting the headlamps, fugitive.
Why have we come, traversing the long miles and extremities of solitude, worriedly crisscrossing the wrong maps with directions obtained from passing strangers?
Why do we sit, frantically retracing love’s long-forgotten signal points with cramping, ink-stained fingers?
Why the preemptive frowns, the litigious silences, when only yesterday we watched as, out of an autumn sky this vast, over an orchard or an onion field, wild Vs of distressed geese sped across the moon’s face, the sound of their panicked wings like our alarmed hearts pounding in unison?
The Princess and the Pauper by Michael R. Burch
for Norman Kraeft in memory of his beloved wife June Kysilko Kraeft
Here was a woman bright, intent on life, who did not flinch from Death, but caught his eye and drew him, powerless, into her spell of wanting her himself, so much the lie that she was meant for him―obscene illusion!― made him seem a monarch throned like God on high, when he was less than nothing; when to die meant many stultifying, pained embraces.
She shed her gown, undid the tangled laces that tied her to the earth: then she was his. Now all her erstwhile beauty he defaces and yet she grows in hallowed loveliness― her ghost beyond perfection―for to die was to ascend. Now he begs, penniless.
I, Too, Sang America (in my diapers!) by Michael R. Burch
I, too, served my country, first as a tyke, then as a toddler, later as a rambunctious boy, growing up on military bases around the world, making friends only to leave them, saluting the flag through veils of tears, time and time again ...
In defense of my country, I too did my awesome duty― cursing the Communists, confronting Them in backyard battles where They slunk around disguised as my sniggling Sisters, while always demonstrating the immense courage to start my small life over and over again whenever Uncle Sam called ...
Building and rebuilding my shattered psyche, such as it was, dealing with PTSD (preschool traumatic stress disorder) without the adornments of medals, ribbons or epaulets, serving without pay, following my father’s gruffly barked orders, however ill-advised ...
A true warrior!
Will you salute me?
I hope my “small” attempt at humor will help readers remember the sacrifices made by the spouses, children and extended families of our valiant servicemen and women. It was not easy making friends only to lose them, time and time again, as I grew up a “military brat” on American air bases around the globe. I really did make sacrifices for my country, while winning every battle against the “communists” in our back yard.
Wulf and Eadwacer (ancient Anglo-Saxon poem) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My clan’s curs pursue him like crippled game; they'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack. It is otherwise with us.
Wulf's on one island; we’re 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. It is otherwise with us.
My hopes pursued Wulf like panting hounds, but whenever it rained―how I wept!― the boldest cur grasped me in his paws: good feelings for him, but for me loathsome!
Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you has made me sick; your seldom-comings have left me famished, deprived of real meat. Have you heard, Eadwacer? Watchdog! A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods! One can easily sever what never was one: our song together.
Advice to Young Poets by Nicanor Parra Sandoval loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Youngsters, write however you will in your preferred style. Too much blood flowed under the bridge for me to believe there’s just one acceptable path. In poetry everything’s permitted.
Originally published by Setu
Prayer for a Merciful, Compassionate, etc., God to Murder His Creations Quickly & Painlessly, Rather than Slowly & Painfully by Michael R. Burch
Lord, kill me fast and please do it quickly! Please don’t leave me gassed, archaic and sickly! Why render me mean, rude, wrinkly and prickly? Lord, why procrastinate?
Lord, we all know you’re an expert killer! Please, don’t leave me aging like Phyllis Diller! Why torture me like some poor sap in a thriller? God, grant me a gentler fate!
Lord, we all know you’re an expert at murder like Abram―the wild-eyed demonic goat-herder
who’d slit his son’s throat without thought at your order. Lord, why procrastinate?
Lord, we all know you’re a terrible sinner! What did dull Japheth eat for his 300th dinner after a year on the ark, growing thinner and thinner? God, grant me a gentler fate!
Dear Lord, did the lion and tiger compete for the last of the lambkin’s sweet, tender meat? How did Noah preserve his fast-rotting wheat? God, grant me a gentler fate!
Lord, why not be a merciful Prelate? Do you really want me to detest, loathe and hate the Father, the Son and their Ghostly Mate? Lord, why procrastinate?
Progress by Michael R. Burch
There is no sense of urgency at the local Burger King.
Birds and squirrels squabble outside for the last scraps of autumn: remnants of buns, goopy pulps of dill pickles, mucousy lettuce, sesame seeds.
Inside, the workers all move with the same très-glamorous lethargy, conserving their energy, one assumes, for more pressing endeavors: concerts and proms, pep rallies, keg parties, reruns of Jenny McCarthy on MTV.
The manager, as usual, is on the phone, talking to her boyfriend. She gently smiles, brushing back wisps of insouciant hair, ready for the cover of Glamour or Vogue.
Through her filmy white blouse an indiscreet strap suspends a lace cup through which somehow the n****e still shows. Progress, we guess, ...
and wait patiently in line, hoping the Pokémons hold out.
Reclamation by Michael R. Burch
after Robert Graves, with a nod to Mary Shelley
I have come to the dark side of things where the bat sings its evasive radar and Want is a crooked forefinger attached to a gelatinous wing.
I have grown animate here, a stitched corpse hooked to electrodes. And night moves upon me―progenitor of life
with its foul breath.
Blind eyes have their second sight and still are deceived. Now my nature is softly to moan as Desire carries me swooningly across her threshold.
Stone is less infinite than her crone’s gargantuan hooked nose, her driveling lips. I eye her ecstatically―her dowager figure,
and there is something about her that my words transfigure
to a consuming emptiness.
We are at peace with each other; this is our venture― swaying, the strings tautening, as tightropes tauten, as love tightens, constricts
to the first note.
Lyre of our hearts’ pits, orchestration of nothing, adits of emptiness! We have come to the last of our hopes, sweet as congealed blood sweetens for flies.
Need is reborn; love dies.
ANCIENT GREEK EPIGRAMS
These are my translations of ancient Greek and Roman epigrams, or they may be better described as interpretations or poems “after” the original poets …
You begrudge men your virginity? Why? To what purpose? You will find no one to embrace you in the grave. The joys of love are for the living. But in Acheron, dear virgin, we shall all lie dust and ashes. ―Asclepiades of Samos (circa 320-260 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let me live with joy today, since tomorrow is unforeseeable. ―Michael R Burch, after Palladas of Alexandria
Laments for Animals
Now his voice is prisoned in the silent pathways of the night: his owner’s faithful Maltese . . . but will he still bark again, on sight? ―Michael R Burch, after Tymnes
Poor partridge, poor partridge, lately migrated from the rocks; our cat bit off your unlucky head; my offended heart still balks! I put you back together again and buried you, so unsightly! May the dark earth cover you heavily: heavily, not lightly . . . so she shan’t get at you again! ―Michael R Burch, after Agathias
Hunter partridge, we no longer hear your echoing cry along the forest's dappled feeding ground where, in times gone by, you would decoy speckled kinsfolk to their doom, luring them on, for now you too have gone down the dark path to Acheron. ―Michael R Burch, after Simmias
Wert thou, O Artemis, overbusy with thy beast-slaying hounds when the Beast embraced me? ―Michael R Burch, after Diodorus of Sardis
Dead as you are, though you lie as still as cold stone, huntress Lycas, my great Thessalonian hound, the wild beasts still fear your white bones; craggy Pelion remembers your valor, splendid Ossa, the way you would bound and bay at the moon for its whiteness as below we heard valleys resound. And how brightly with joy you would leap and run the strange lonely peaks of high Cithaeron! ―Michael R Burch, after Simonides
Anyte Epigrams
Stranger, rest your weary legs beneath the elms; hear how coolly the breeze murmurs through their branches; then take a bracing draught from the mountain-fed fountain; for this is welcome shade from the burning sun. ―Anyte, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here I stand, Hermes, in the crossroads by the windswept elms near the breezy beach, providing rest to sunburned travelers, and cold and brisk is my fountain’s abundance. ―Anyte, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sit here, quietly shaded by the luxuriant foliage, and drink cool water from the sprightly spring, so that your weary breast, panting with summer’s labors, may take rest from the blazing sun. ―Anyte, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This is the grove of Cypris, for it is fair for her to look out over the land to the bright deep, that she may make the sailors’ voyages happy, as the sea trembles, observing her brilliant image. ―Anyte, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Nossis Epigrams
There is nothing sweeter than love. All other delights are secondary. Thus, I spit out even honey. This is what Gnossis says: Whom Aphrodite does not love, Is bereft of her roses. ―Nossis, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Most revered Hera, the oft-descending from heaven, behold your Lacinian shrine fragrant with incense and receive the linen robe your noble child Nossis, daughter of Theophilis and Cleocha, has woven for you. ―Nossis, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Stranger, if you sail to Mitylene, my homeland of beautiful dances, to indulge in the most exquisite graces of Sappho, remember I also was loved by the Muses, who bore me and reared me there. My name, never forget it!, is Nossis. Now go! ―Nossis, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pass me with ringing laughter, then award me a friendly word: I am Rinthon, scion of Syracuse, a small nightingale of the Muses; from their tragedies I was able to pluck an ivy, unique, for my own use. ―Nossis, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ibykos/Ibycus Epigrams
Ibycus has been called the most love-mad of poets.
Euryalus, born of the blue-eyed Graces, scion of the bright-tressed Seasons, son of the Cyprian, whom dew-lidded Persuasion birthed among rose-blossoms. ―Ibykos/Ibycus (circa 540 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Ibykos/Ibycus Fragment 286, circa 564 B.C. this poem has been titled "The Influence of Spring" loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Come spring, the grand apple trees stand watered by a gushing river where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver and the blossoming grape vine swells in the gathering shadows.
Unfortunately for me Eros never rests but like a Thracian tempest ablaze with lightning emanates from Aphrodite;
the results are frightening― black, bleak, astonishing, violently jolting me from my soles to my soul.
Originally published by The Chained Muse
Ibykos/Ibycus Fragment 282, circa 540 B.C. Ibykos fragment 282, Oxyrhynchus papyrus, lines 1-32 loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch,
... They also destroyed the glorious city of Priam, son of Dardanus, after leaving Argos due to the devices of death-dealing Zeus, encountering much-sung strife over the striking beauty of auburn-haired Helen, waging woeful war when destruction rained down on longsuffering Pergamum thanks to the machinations of golden-haired Aphrodite ...
But now it is not my intention to sing of Paris, the host-deceiver, nor of slender-ankled Cassandra, nor of Priam’s other children, nor of the nameless day of the downfall of high-towered Troy, nor even of the valour of the heroes who hid in the hollow, many-bolted horse ...
Such was the destruction of Troy.
They were heroic men and Agamemnon was their king, a king from Pleisthenes, a son of Atreus, son of a noble father.
The all-wise Muses of Helicon might recount such tales accurately, but no mortal man, unblessed, could ever number those innumerable ships Menelaus led across the Aegean from Aulos ...
"From Argos they came, the bronze-speared sons of the Achaeans ..."
Antipater Epigrams
Everywhere the sea is the sea, the dead are the dead. What difference to me―where I rest my head?
The sea knows I’m buried. ―Michael R Burch, after Antipater of Sidon
Mnemosyne was stunned into astonishment when she heard honey-tongued Sappho, wondering how mortal men merited a tenth Muse. ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
O Aeolian land, you lightly cover Sappho, the mortal Muse who joined the Immortals, whom Cypris and Eros fostered, with whom Peitho wove undying wreaths, who was the joy of Hellas and your glory. O Fates who twine the spindle's triple thread, why did you not spin undying life for the singer whose deathless gifts enchanted the Muses of Helicon? ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Here, O stranger, the sea-crashed earth covers Homer, herald of heroes' valour, spokesman of the Olympians, second sun to the Greeks, light of the immortal Muses, the Voice that never diminishes. ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
This herald of heroes, this interpreter of the Immortals, this second sun shedding light on the life of Greece, Homer, the delight of the Muses, the ageless voice of the world, lies dead, O stranger, washed away with the sea-washed sand ... ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
As high as the trumpet's cry exceeds the thin flute's, so high above all others your lyre rang; so much the sweeter your honey than the waxen-celled swarm's. O Pindar, with your tender lips witness how the horned god Pan forgot his pastoral reeds when he sang your hymns. ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Here lies Pindar, the Pierian trumpet, the heavy-smiting smith of well-stuck hymns. Hearing his melodies, one might believe the immortal Muses possessed bees to produce heavenly harmonies in the bridal chamber of Cadmus. ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Harmonia, the goddess of Harmony, was the bride of Cadmus, so his bridal chamber would have been full of pleasant sounds.
Praise the well-wrought verses of tireless Antimachus, a man worthy of the majesty of ancient demigods, whose words were forged on the Muses' anvils. If you are gifted with a keen ear, if you aspire to weighty words, if you would pursue a path less traveled, if Homer holds the scepter of song, and yet Zeus is greater than Poseidon, even so Poseidon his inferior exceeds all other Immortals; and even so the Colophonian bows before Homer, but exceeds all other singers. ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
I, the trumpet that once blew the bloody battle-notes and the sweet truce-tunes, now hang here, Pherenicus, your gift to Athena, quieted from my clamorous music. ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Behold Anacreon's tomb; here the Teian swan sleeps with the unmitigated madness of his love for lads. Still he sings songs of longing on the lyre of Bathyllus and the albescent marble is perfumed with ivy. Death has not quenched his desire and the house of Acheron still burns with the fevers of Cypris. ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
May the four-clustered clover, Anacreon, grow here by your grave, ringed by the tender petals of the purple meadow-flowers, and may fountains of white milk bubble up, and the sweet-scented wine gush forth from the earth, so that your ashes and bones may experience joy, if indeed the dead know any delight. ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Stranger passing by the simple tomb of Anacreon, if you found any profit in my books, please pour drops of your libation on my ashes, so that my bones, refreshed by wine, may rejoice that I, who so delighted in the boisterous revels of Dionysus, and who played such manic music, as wine-drinkers do, even in death may not travel without Bacchus in my sojourn to that land to which all men must come. ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Anacreon, glory of Ionia, even in the land of the lost may you never be without your beloved revels, or your well-loved lyre, and may you still sing with glistening eyes, shaking the braided flowers from your hair, turning always towards Eurypyle, Megisteus, or the locks of Thracian Smerdies, sipping sweet wine, your robes drenched with the juices of grapes, wringing intoxicating nectar from its folds ... For all your life, old friend, was poured out as an offering to these three: the Muses, Bacchus, and Love. ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Smerdies, also mentioned by the poet Simonides, was a Thracian boy loved by Anacreon. Simonides also mentioned Megisteus. Eurypyle was a girl also mentioned by the poet Dioscorides. So these seem to be names associated with Anacreon. The reference to "locks" apparently has to do with Smerdies having his hair cut by Anacreon's rival for his affections, in a jealous rage.
You sleep amid the dead, Anacreon, your day-labor done, your well-loved lyre's sweet tongue silenced that once sang incessantly all night long. And Smerdies also sleeps, the spring-tide of your loves, for whom, tuning and turning you lyre, you made music like sweetest nectar. For you were Love's bullseye, the lover of lads, and he had the bow and the subtle archer's craft to never miss his target. ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Erinna's verses were few, nor were her songs overlong, but her smallest works were inspired. Therefore she cannot fail to be remembered and is never lost beneath the shadowy wings of bleak night. While we, the estranged, the innumerable throngs of tardy singers, lie in pale corpse-heaps wasting into oblivion. The moaned song of the lone swan outdoes the cawings of countless jackdaws echoing far and wide through darkening clouds. ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Who hung these glittering shields here, these unstained spears and unruptured helmets, dedicating to murderous Ares ornaments of no value? Will no one cast these virginal weapons out of my armory? Their proper place is in the peaceful halls of placid men, not within the wild walls of Enyalius. I delight in hacked heads and the blood of dying berserkers, if, indeed, I am Ares the Destroyer. ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
May good Fortune, O stranger, keep you on course all your life before a fair breeze! ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Docile doves may coo for cowards, but we delight in dauntless men. ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Here by the threshing-room floor, little ant, you relentless toiler, I built you a mound of liquid-absorbing earth, so that even in death you may partake of the droughts of Demeter, as you lie in the grave my plough burrowed. ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
This is your mother’s lament, Artemidorus, weeping over your tomb, bewailing your twelve brief years: "All the fruit of my labor has gone up in smoke, all your heartbroken father's endeavors are ash, all your childish passion an extinguished flame. For you have entered the land of the lost, from which there is no return, never a home-coming. You failed to reach your prime, my darling, and now we have nothing but your headstone and dumb dust." ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Everywhere the sea is the sea, the dead are the dead. What difference to me―where I rest my head?
The sea knows I’m buried. ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Everywhere the Sea is the Sea
by Antipater of Sidon loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Everywhere the Sea is the same; why then do we idly blame the Cyclades or the harrowing waves of narrow Helle?
To protest is vain!
Justly, they have earned their fame.
Why then, after I had escaped them, did the harbor of Scarphe engulf me?
I advise whoever finds a fair passage home: accept that the sea's way is its own.
Man is foam.
Aristagoras knows who's buried here.
Orpheus, mute your bewitching strains by Antipater of Sidon loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Orpheus, mute your bewitching strains; Leave beasts to wander stony plains; No longer sing fierce winds to sleep, Nor seek to enchant the tumultuous deep; For you are dead; each Muse, forlorn, Strums anguished strings as your mother mourns. Mind, mere mortals, mind―no use to moan,
When even a Goddess could not save her own!
Orpheus, now you will never again enchant by Antipater of Sidon loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Orpheus, now you will never again enchant the charmed oaks, never again mesmerize shepherdless herds of wild beasts, never again lull the roaring winds, never again tame the tumultuous hail nor the sweeping snowstorms nor the crashing sea, for you have perished and the daughters of Mnemosyne weep for you, and your mother Calliope above all. Why do mortals mourn their dead sons, when not even the gods can protect their children from Hades? ―Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
The High Road to Death by Antipater of Sidon loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
Men skilled in the stars call me brief-lifed; I am, but what do I care, O Seleucus? All men descend to Hades and if our demise comes quicker, the sooner we shall we look on Minos. Let us drink then, for surely wine is a steed for the high-road, when pedestrians march sadly to Death.
The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World by Antipater of Sidon loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
I have set my eyes upon the lofty walls of Babylon with its elevated road for chariots
... and upon the statue of Zeus by the Alpheus ...
... and upon the hanging gardens ...
... upon the Colossus of the Sun ...
... upon the massive edifices of the towering pyramids ...
... even upon the vast tomb of Mausolus ...
but when I saw the mansion of Artemis disappearing into the cirri, those other marvels lost their brilliancy and I said, "Setting aside Olympus, the Sun never shone on anything so fabulous!"
Sophocles Epigrams
One of the first great voices to directly question whether human being should give birth was that of Sophocles, around 2,500 years ago ...
Not to have been born is best, and blessed beyond the ability of words to express. ―Sophocles (circa 497-406 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It’s a hundred times better not be born; but if we cannot avoid the light, the path of least harm is swiftly to return to death’s eternal night! ―Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Never to be born may be the biggest boon of all. ―Sophocles (circa 497-406 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Oblivion: What a blessing, to lie untouched by pain! ―Sophocles (circa 497-406 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The happiest life is one empty of thought. ―Sophocles (circa 497-406 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Consider no man happy till he lies dead, free of pain at last. ―Sophocles (circa 497-406 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
What is worse than death? When death is desired but denied. ―Sophocles (circa 497-406 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When a man endures nothing but endless miseries, what is the use of hanging on day after day, edging closer and closer toward death? Anyone who warms his heart with the false glow of flickering hope is a wretch! The noble man should live with honor and die with honor. That's all that can be said. ―Sophocles (circa 497-406 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Children anchor their mothers to life. ―Sophocles (circa 497-406 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
How terrible, to see the truth when the truth brings only pain to the seer! ―Sophocles (circa 497-406 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Wisdom outweighs all the world's wealth. ―Sophocles (circa 497-406 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Fortune never favors the faint-hearted. ―Sophocles (circa 497-406 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Wait for evening to appreciate the day's splendor. ―Sophocles (circa 497-406 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Homer Epigrams
For the gods have decreed that unfortunate mortals must suffer, while they themselves are sorrowless. ―Homer (circa 800 BC), Iliad 24.525-526, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“It is best not to be born or, having been born, to pass on as swiftly as possible.” ―attributed to Homer (circa 800 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ancient Roman Epigrams
Wall, I'm astonished that you haven't collapsed, since you're holding up verses so prolapsed! ―Ancient Roman graffiti, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R Burch
There is nothing so pointless, so perfidious as human life! ... The ultimate bliss is not to be born; otherwise we should speedily slip back into the original Nothingness. ―Seneca, On Consolation to Marcia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
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
Remembering Not to Call by Michael R. Burch
a villanelle permitting mourning, for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
The hardest thing of all, after telling her everything, is remembering not to call.
Now the phone hanging on the wall will never announce her ring: the hardest thing of all
for children, however tall. And the hardest thing this spring
will be remembering not to call
the one who was everything.
That the songbirds will nevermore sing is the hardest thing of all
for those who once listened, in thrall, and welcomed the message they bring, since they won’t remember to call.
And the hardest thing this fall will be a number with no one to ring.
No, the hardest thing of all is remembering not to call.
Sailing to My Grandfather, for George Hurt
by Michael R. Burch
This distance between us ―this vast sea of remembrance― is no hindrance, no enemy.
I see you out of the shining mists of memory. Events and chance and circumstance are sands on the shore of your legacy.
I find you now in fits and bursts of breezes time has blown to me, while waves, immense, now skirt and glance against the bow unceasingly.
I feel the sea's salt spray―light fists, her mists and vapors mocking me. From ignorance to reverence, your words were sextant stars to me.
Bright stars are strewn in silver gusts back, back toward infinity. From innocence to senescence, now you are mine increasingly.
Note: Under the Sextant’s Stars is a painting by Benini.
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 . . .
Attend Upon Them Still by Michael R. Burch for my grandparents George and Ena Hurt
With gentleness and fine and tender will, attend upon them still; thou art the grass.
Nor let men’s feet here muddy as they pass thy subtle undulations, nor depress for long the comforts of thy lovingness,
nor let the fuse of time wink out amid the violets. They have their use―
to wave, to grow, to gleam, to lighten their paths, to shine sweet, transient glories at their feet. Thou art the grass;
make them complete.
Sanctuary at Dawn by Michael R. Burch
I have walked these thirteen miles just to stand outside your door. The rain has dogged my footsteps for thirteen miles, for thirty years, through the monsoon seasons ... and now my tears have all been washed away.
Through thirteen miles of rain I slogged, I stumbled and I climbed rainslickened slopes that led me home to the hope that I might find a life I lived before.
The door is wet; my cheeks are wet, but not with rain or tears ... as I knock I sweat and the raining seems the rhythm of the years.
Now you stand outlined in the doorway ―a man as large as I left― and with bated breath I take a step into the accusing light.
Your eyes are grayer than I remembered; your hair is grayer, too. As the red rust runs down the dripping drains, our voices exclaim―
"My father!" "My son!"
This poem appeared in my 1978 poetry contest manuscript, so it was written either in high school or during my first two years of college. While 1976 is an educated guess, it was definitely written sometime between 1974 and 1978. At that time thirty seemed "old" to me and I used that age more than once to project my future adult self. For instance, in the poem "You."
Ah! Sunflower
by Michael R. Burch
after William Blake
O little yellow flower like a star ... how beautiful, how wonderful we are!
Published as the collection "Anacreon Translations"
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