The imbecile constructs cages for everyone he knows, while the sage (who has to duck his head whenever the moon glows) keeps dispensing keys all night long to the beautiful, rowdy, prison gang.
The Tally by Hafiz aka Hafez loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lovers don't reveal all their Secrets; under the covers they may count each other's Moles (that reside and hide in the shy regions by forbidden holes), then keep the final tally strictly from Aunt Sally!
This is admittedly a very loose translation of the original Hafiz poem!
don’t forget to remember that Space is curved (like your Heart) and that even Light is bent by your Gravity.
I dedicated this poem to the love of my life, but you are welcome to dedicate it to the love of yours, if you like it. The opening lines were inspired by a famous love poem by e. e. cummings. I went through a "cummings phase" around age 15 and wrote a number of poems "under the influence."
Friends, beware of her iniquitous hair― long, ravenblack & melancholy.
Many suitors drowned there― lost, unaware of the length & extent of their folly.
Originally published in Grand Little Things
Was a teenage boy the first of the great Romantic poets? Well, the capital-R Romantics themselves seemed to think so: William Wordsworth called Thomas Chatterton “the Marvellous Boy” and he was extolled in verse by John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley and Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
Song from Ælla: Under the Willow Tree, or, Minstrel's Song by Thomas Chatterton, age 17 or younger modernization/translation by Michael R. Burch
O! sing unto my roundelay, O! drop the briny tear with me, Dance no more at holy-day, Like a running river be: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow tree.
Black his crown as the winter night, White his skin as the summer snow, Red his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow tree.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought can be, Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; O! he lies by the willow tree! My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing In the briar'd dell below; Hark! the death-owl loudly sings To the nightmares, as they go: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true love's shroud: Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow tree.
Here upon my true love's grave Shall the barren flowers be laid; Not one holy saint to save All the coolness of a maid: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow tree.
With my hands I'll frame the briars Round his holy corpse to grow: Elf and fairy, light your fires, Here my body, stilled, shall go: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow tree.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Drain my heart’s red blood away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
Water witches, crowned with plaits, Bear me to your lethal tide. I die; I come; my true love waits. Thus the damsel spoke, and died.
The song above is, in my opinion, competitive with Shakespeare's songs in his plays, and may be the best of Thomas Chatterton's so-called "Rowley" poems. The fact that Chatterton wrote it in his teens is astounding.
An Excelente Balade of Charitie (“An Excellent Ballad of Charity”) by Thomas Chatterton, age 17 modernization/translation by Michael R. Burch
As wroten bie the goode Prieste Thomas Rowley 1464
In Virgynë the swelt'ring sun grew keen, Then hot upon the meadows cast his ray; The apple ruddied from its pallid green And the fat pear did extend its leafy spray; The pied goldfinches sang the livelong day; 'Twas now the pride, the manhood of the year, And the ground was mantled in fine green cashmere.
The sun was gleaming in the bright mid-day, Dead-still the air, and likewise the heavens blue, When from the sea arose, in drear array, A heap of clouds of sullen sable hue, Which full and fast unto the woodlands drew, Hiding at once the sun's fair festive face, As the black tempest swelled and gathered up apace.
Beneath a holly tree, by a pathway's side, Which did unto Saint Godwin's convent lead, A hapless pilgrim moaning did abide. Poor in his sight, ungentle in his weed, Long brimful of the miseries of need, Where from the hailstones could the beggar fly? He had no shelter there, nor any convent nigh.
Look in his gloomy face; his sprite there scan; How woebegone, how withered, dried-up, dead! Haste to thy parsonage, accursèd man! Haste to thy crypt, thy only restful bed. Cold, as the clay which will grow on thy head, Is Charity and Love among high elves; Knights and Barons live for pleasure and themselves.
The gathered storm is ripe; the huge drops fall; The sunburnt meadows smoke and drink the rain; The coming aghastness makes the cattle pale; And the full flocks are driving o'er the plain; Dashed from the clouds, the waters float again; The heavens gape; the yellow lightning flies; And the hot fiery steam in the wide flamepot dies.
Hark! now the thunder's rattling, clamoring sound Heaves slowly on, and then enswollen clangs, Shakes the high spire, and lost, dispended, drown'd, Still on the coward ear of terror hangs; The winds are up; the lofty elm-tree swings; Again the lightning―then the thunder pours, And the full clouds are burst at once in stormy showers.
Spurring his palfrey o'er the watery plain, The Abbot of Saint Godwin's convent came; His chapournette was drenchèd with the rain, And his pinched girdle met with enormous shame; He cursing backwards gave his hymns the same; The storm increasing, and he drew aside With the poor alms-craver, near the holly tree to bide.
His cape was all of Lincoln-cloth so fine, With a gold button fasten'd near his chin; His ermine robe was edged with golden twine, And his high-heeled shoes a Baron's might have been; Full well it proved he considered cost no sin; The trammels of the palfrey pleased his sight For the horse-milliner loved rosy ribbons bright.
"An alms, Sir Priest!" the drooping pilgrim said, "Oh, let me wait within your convent door, Till the sun shineth high above our head, And the loud tempest of the air is o'er; Helpless and old am I, alas!, and poor; No house, no friend, no money in my purse; All that I call my own is this―my silver cross.
"Varlet," replied the Abbott, "cease your din; This is no season alms and prayers to give; My porter never lets a beggar in; None touch my ring who in dishonor live." And now the sun with the blackened clouds did strive, And shed upon the ground his glaring ray; The Abbot spurred his steed, and swiftly rode away.
Once more the sky grew black; the thunder rolled; Fast running o'er the plain a priest was seen; Not full of pride, not buttoned up in gold; His cape and jape were gray, and also clean; A Limitour he was, his order serene; And from the pathway side he turned to see Where the poor almer lay beneath the holly tree.
"An alms, Sir Priest!" the drooping pilgrim said, "For sweet Saint Mary and your order's sake." The Limitour then loosen'd his purse's thread, And from it did a groat of silver take; The needy pilgrim did for happiness shake. "Here, take this silver, it may ease thy care; "We are God's stewards all, naught of our own we bear."
"But ah! unhappy pilgrim, learn of me, Scarce any give a rentroll to their Lord. Here, take my cloak, as thou are bare, I see; 'Tis thine; the Saints will give me my reward." He left the pilgrim, went his way abroad. Virgin and happy Saints, in glory showered, Let the mighty bend, or the good man be empowered!
TRANSLATOR'S NOTES: It is possible that some words used by Chatterton were his own coinages; some of them apparently cannot be found in medieval literature. In a few places I have used similar-sounding words that seem to not overly disturb the meaning of the poem. ― Michael R. Burch
I liked the first passage of her poem―where it led
(though not nearly enough to retract what I said.) Now the book propped up here flutters, scarcely half read. It will keep. Before sleep, let me read yours instead.
There's something like love in the rhythms of night ―in the throb of streets where the late workers drone, in the sounds that attend each day’s sad, squalid end― that reminds us: till death we are never alone.
So we write from the hearts that will fail us anon, words in red truly bled though they cannot reveal whence they came, who they're for. And the tap at the door goes unanswered. We write, for there is nothing more than a verse, than a song, than this chant of the blessed: If these words be my sins, let me die unconfessed! Unconfessed, unrepentant; I rescind all my vows! Write till sleep: it’s the leap only Talent allows.
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.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly
Let Me Give Her Diamonds by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Let me give her diamonds for my heart's sharp edges.
Let me give her roses for my soul's thorn.
Let me give her solace for my words of treason.
Let the flowering of love outlast a winter season.
Let me give her books for all my lack of reason.
Let me give her candles for my lack of fire.
Let me kindle incense, for our hearts require
the breath-fanned flaming perfume of desire.
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 its sway . . .
For, as suns seek horizons― boys fall, men decline. As the grape sags with its burden, remember―the wine!
I believe I wrote the original version of this poem in my 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 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 while yielding all my virtue to her grace.
You Never Listened by Michael R. Burch
You never listened, though each night the rain wove its patterns again and trembled and glistened . . .
You were not watching, though each night the stars shone, brightening the tears in her eyes palely fetching . . .
You paid love no notice, though she lay in my arms as the stars rose in swarms like a legion of poets,
as the lightning recited its opus before us, and the hills boomed the chorus, all strangely delighted . . .
Incommunicado by Michael R. Burch
All I need to know of life I learned in the slap of a moment, as my outward eye turned toward a gauntlet of overhanging lights which coldly burned, hissing― "There is no way back!"
As the ironic bright blood trickled down my face, I watched strange albino creatures twisting my flesh into tight knots of separation while tediously insisting― “He's doing just fine!"
The Song of Amergin loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I am the sea breeze I am the ocean wave I am the surf's thunder I am the stag of the seven tines I am the cliff hawk I am the sunlit dewdrop I am the fairest flower I am the rampaging boar I am the swift-swimming salmon I am the placid lake I am the excellence of art I am the vale echoing voices I am the battle-hardened spearhead I am the God who gave you fire Who knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen Who understands the cycles of the moon Who knows where the sunset settles ...
The Song of Amergin an original poem by Michael R. Burch
He was our first bard and we feel in his dim-remembered words the moment when Time blurs . . .
and he and the Sons of Mil heave oars as the breakers mill till at last Ierne�"green, brooding�"nears,
while Some implore seas cold, fell, dark to climb and swamp their flimsy bark . . . and Time here also spumes, careers . . . while the Ban Shee shriek in awed dismay to see him still the sea, this day, then seek the dolmen and the gloam.
He Lived: Excerpts from “Gilgamesh”
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I.
He who visited hell, his country’s foundation,
Was well-versed in mysteries’ unseemly dark places.
He deeply explored many underworld realms
Where he learned of the Deluge and why Death erases.
II.
He built the great ramparts of Uruk-the-Sheepfold
And of holy Eanna. Then weary, alone,
He recorded his thoughts in frail scratchings called “words”:
But words made immortal, once chiseled in stone.
III.
These walls he erected are ever-enduring:
Vast walls where the widows of dead warriors weep.
Stand by them. O, feel their immovable presence!
For no other walls are as strong as this keep’s.
IV.
Come, climb Uruk’s tower on a starless night�"
Ascend its steep stairway to escape modern error.
Cross its ancient threshold. You are close to Ishtar,
The Goddess of Ecstasy and of Terror!
V.
Find the cedar box with its hinges of bronze;
Lift the lid of its secrets; remove its dark slate;
Read of the travails of our friend Gilgamesh�"
Of his descent into hell and man’s terrible fate!
VI.
Surpassing all kings, heroic in stature,
Wild bull of the mountains, the Goddess his dam
�"Bedding no other man; he was her sole rapture�"
Who else can claim fame, as he thundered, “I am!”
Enkidu Enters the House of Dust
an original poem by Michael R. Burch
I entered the house of dust and grief.
Where the pale dead weep there is no relief,
for there night descends like a final leaf
to shiver forever, unstirred.
There is no hope left when the tree’s stripped bare,
for the leaf lies forever dormant there
and each man cloaks himself in strange darkness, where
all company’s unheard.
No light’s ever pierced that oppressive night
so men close their eyes on their neighbors’ plight
or stare into darkness, lacking sight ...
each a crippled, blind bat-bird.
Were these not once eagles, gallant men?
Who sits here�"pale, wretched and cowering�"then?
O, surely they shall, they must rise again,
gaining new wings? “Absurd!
For this is the House of Dust and Grief
where men made of clay, eat clay. Relief
to them’s to become a mere windless leaf,
lying forever unstirred.”
“Anu and Enlil, hear my plea!
Ereshkigal, they all must go free!
Beletseri, dread scribe of this Hell, hear me!”
But all my shrill cries, obscured
by vast eons of dust, at last fell mute
as I took my place in the ash and soot.
Reclamation
an original poem 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,
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