Holocaust poems, translations of Holocaust poems, and early poems by Michael R. Burch.
These are Holocaust poems, translations of Holocaust poems, and early poems by Michael R. Burch.
Speechless at Auschwitz by Ko Un translation by Michael R. Burch
At Auschwitz piles of glasses mountains of shoes returning, we stared out different windows.
“Speechless” is my translation of a Holocaust poem by Ko Un that has also been published as “Speechless at Auschwitz.” This is an original poem I wrote in response to Ko Un's poem...
Ko Un was speechless at Auschwitz. Someday, when it’s too late, will we be speechless at Gaza? ―Michael R. Burch
Epitaph for a Child of the Holocaust
by Michael R. Burch
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
This is an early poem of mine about the Holocaust, which horrified me a child and continues to horrify me in my advancing age. I have also titled the poem "Epitaph for a Palestinian Child" and "Epitaph for a Child of Gaza." I believe we must protect all children from such horrors, regardless of race, color and creed.
Styx by Michael R. Burch
Black waters, deep and dark and still . . . all men have passed this way, or will.
Published by The Raintown Review and Blue Unicorn. Also translated into Romanian and published by Petru Dimofte. This is one of my early poems, written as a teenager.
Something ―for the children of the Holocaust and the Nakba by Michael R. Burch
Something inescapable is lost― lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight, vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars immeasurable and void.
Something uncapturable is gone― gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn, scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass and remembrance.
Something unforgettable is past― blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less, which denial has swept into a corner, where it lies in dust and cobwebs and silence.
This early poem of mine was my first poem that didn't rhyme; it was written in my teens.
Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers and children of Gaza
Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...
Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this―
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss ...
Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears ...
This is another early poem of mine about the need to protect children and their mothers from horrors like the Holocaust and the Nakba.
Night Labor
by Michael R. Burch
for Rachel Corrie
Tonight we keep the flame alive;
we keep the candle lit.
We burn bright incense in your name
and swear we’ll not forget―
your innocence, your courage,
your commitment―till bleak night
surrenders to irrevocable dawn
and hate yields to love’s light.
Amen.
Rachel Corrie was a young American peace activist who was murdered by a weaponized Israeli bulldozer as she tried to defend the home of a Palestinian pharmacist from being demolished.
We saw their pictures: tortured out of our imaginations like golems.
We could not believe in their frail extremities or their gaunt faces,
pallid as our disbelief. They are not with us now ...
We have: huddled them into the backroomsofconscience,
consigned them to the ovensofsilence,
buried them in the mass graves of circumstancesbeyondourcontrol.
We have so little left of them
now to remind us ...
This is an early poem of mine about the Holocaust, written after I began working with Yala Korwin and other Holocaust survivors. The poem was originally published in the Holocaust anthology Blood to Remember.
The Burning of the Books by Bertolt Brecht loose translation by Michael R. Burch
When the Regime commanded the unlawful books to be burned, teams of dull oxen hauled huge cartloads to the bonfires.
Then a banished writer, one of the best, scanning the list of excommunicated texts, became enraged ― he’d been excluded!
He rushed to his desk, full of contemptuous wrath, to write fiery letters to the morons in power ― Burn me! he wrote with his blazing pen Haven’t I always reported the truth? Now here you are, treating me like a liar! Burn me!
We embrace; my fingers trace rich cloth while yours encounter only moth- eaten fabric.
A quick hug: you were invited to the gay soiree while the minions of the "law" relentlessly pursue me.
We talk about the weather and our eternal friendship's magic. Anything else would be too bitter, too tragic.
The Mask of Evil by Bertolt Brecht loose translation by Michael R. Burch
A Japanese carving hangs on my wall ― the mask of an ancient demon, limned with golden lacquer. Not altogether unsympathetically, I observe the bulging veins of its forehead, noting the grotesque effort it takes to be evil.
Radio Poem by Bertolt Brecht loose translation by Michael R. Burch
You, little box, held tightly to me, escaping, so that your delicate tubes do not break; carried from house to house, from ship to train, so that my enemies may continue communicating with me on land and at sea and even in my bed, to my pain; the last thing I hear at night, the first when I awake, recounting their many conquests and my litany of cares, promise me not to go silent all of a sudden, unawares.
Death Fugue by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. We’re digging a grave like a hole in the sky; there’s sufficient room to lie there. The man of the house plays with vipers; he writes in the Teutonic darkness, “Your golden hair Margarete ...” He composes by starlight, whistles hounds to stand by, whistles Jews to dig graves, where together they’ll lie. He commands us to strike up bright tunes for the dance!
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come dawn, come midday, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house plays with serpents; he writes ... he writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete ... Your ashen hair Shulamith ...” We are digging dark graves where there’s more room, on high. His screams, “Hey you, dig there!” and “Hey you, sing and dance!” He grabs his black nightstick, his eyes pallid blue, screaming, “Hey you―dig deeper! You others―sing, dance!”
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house writes, “Your golden hair Margarete ... Your ashen hair Shulamith ...” as he cultivates snakes. He screams, “Play Death more sweetly! Death’s the master of Germany!” He cries, “Scrape those dark strings, soon like black smoke you’ll rise to your graves in the skies; there’s sufficient room for Jews there!”
Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come midnight; we drink you come midday; Death’s the master of Germany! We drink you come dusk; we drink you and drink you ... He’s a master of Death, his pale eyes deathly blue. He fires leaden slugs, his aim level and true. He writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete ...” He unleashes his hounds, grants us graves in the skies. He plays with his serpents; Death’s the master of Germany ...
“Your golden hair Margarete ... your ashen hair Shulamith ...”
O, Little Root of a Dream by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O, little root of a dream you enmire me here; I’m undermined by blood― made invisible, death's possession.
Touch the curve of my face, that there may yet be an earthly language of ardor, that someone else’s eyes may somehow still see me, though I’m blind,
here where you deny me voice.
You Were My Death by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You were my death; I could hold you when everything abandoned me― even breath.
Der Himmel "The Heavens" by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
These skies are leaden, heavy, gray ... I long for a pair of deep blue eyes.
The birds have fled far overseas; tomorrow I’ll migrate too, I said ...
These gloomy autumn days it rains and rains. Woe to the bird Who remains ...
This is powerful little poem, laden with irony. In the first stanza the poet longs for a pair of "deep blue eyes" because the Nazis prized Aryan features and despised Jews, who typically have darker hair, skin and eyes. Therefore, blue eyes are identified with a blue sky, and both are contrasted with darker, less "colorful" eyes and skies. In the second stanza, the birds able to migrate have all fled. The poet "promises" to migrate too, but realizes this is unlikely if not impossible. In the third stanza, the poet suggests a personal plight similar to that of a bird who failed to migrate before bad weather makes migration impossible. The poem's title is also ironic, as "Der Himmel" can mean both "the sky" and "the heavens." Where was God during the Holocaust, the poet seems to be asking, ironically.
Doctorn "Doctors" by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Early this morning I bandaged the lilac tree outside my house; I took thin branches that had broken away and patched their wounds with clay.
My mother stood there watering her window-level flower bed; The morning sun, quite motherly, kissed us both on our heads!
What a joy, my child, to heal! Finished doctoring, or not? The eggs are nicely poached And the milk's a-boil in the pot.
Broit “Bread” by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness. Why? On the hard uncomfortable floor the exhausted people lie.
Flung everywhere, scattered over the broken theater floor, the exhausted people sleep. Night. Late. Too tired to snore.
At midnight a little boy cries wildly into the gloom: "Mommy, I’m afraid! Let’s go home!”
His mother, reawakened into this frightful palace, presses her frightened child even closer to her breast …
"If you cry, I’ll leave you here, all alone! A little boy must sleep ... this is now our new home.”
Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness all around, exhausted people sleeping on the hard ground.
"My Lament" by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Nothingness enveloped me as tender green toadstools are enveloped by snow with its thick, heavy prayer shawl … After that, nothing could hurt me …
Excerpts from "A Page from the Deportation Diary" by Wladyslaw Szlengel loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I saw Janusz Korczak walking today, leading the children, at the head of the line. They were dressed in their best clothes―immaculate, if gray.
Some say the weather wasn’t dismal, but fine.
They were in their best jumpers and laughing (not loud), but if they’d been soiled, tell me―who could complain?
They walked like calm heroes through the haunted crowd, five by five, in a whipping rain.
The pallid, the trembling, watched high overhead, through barely cracked windows―pale, transfixed with dread.
And now and then, from the high, tolling bell a strange moan escaped, like a sea gull’s torn cry. Their “superiors” looked on, their eyes hard as stone. So let us not flinch, as they march on, to die.
Footfall . . . then silence . . . the cadence of feet . . . O, who can console them, their last mile so drear? The church bells peal on, over shocked Leszno Street. Will Jesus Christ save them? The high bells career.
No, God will not save them. Nor you, friend, nor I. But let us not flinch, as they march on, to die.
No one will offer the price of their freedom. No one will proffer a single word. His eyes hard as gavels, the silent policeman agrees with the priest and his terrible Lord: “Give them the Sword!”
At the town square there is no intervention. No one tugs Schmerling’s sleeve. No one cries “Rescue the children!” The air, thick with tension, reeks with the odor of vodka, and lies.
How calmly he walks, with a child in each arm: Gut Doktor Korczak, please keep them from harm!
A fool rushes up with a reprieve in hand: “Look Janusz Korczak―please look, you’ve been spared!”
No use for that. One resolute man, uncomprehending that no one else cared enough to defend them, his choice is to end with them.
Ninety-Three Daughters of Israel a Holocaust poem by Chaya Feldman loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
We washed our bodies and cleansed ourselves; we purified our souls and became clean.
Death does not terrify us; we are ready to confront him.
While alive we served God and now we can best serve our people by refusing to be taken prisoner.
We have made a covenant of the heart, all ninety-three of us; together we lived and learned, and now together we choose to depart.
The hour is upon us as I write these words; there is barely enough time to transcribe this prayer ...
Brethren, wherever you may be, honor the Torah we lived by and the Psalms we loved.
Read them for us, as well as for yourselves, and someday when the Beast has devoured his last prey, we hope someone will say Kaddish for us: we ninety-three daughters of Israel.
Amen
Shema by Primo Levi loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You who live secure in your comfortable homes, who return each evening to find warm food and welcoming faces ...
Consider: is this a "man" who slogs through the mud, who knows no peace, who fights for crusts of bread, who dies at another man's whim, at his "yes" or his "no."
Consider: is this is a "woman" bald and bereft of a name because she lacks the strength to remember, her eyes as void and her womb as frigid as a winter frog's.
Consider that such horrors have indeed been!
I commend these words to you. Engrave them in your hearts when you lounge in your beds and again when you rise, when you venture outside. Repeat them to your children, or may your houses crumble and disease render you helpless so that even your offspring avert their eyes.
Buna by Primo Levi loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Mangled feet, cursed earth, the long interminable line in the gray morning as Buna smokes corpses through industrious chimneys ...
Another gray day like every other day awaits us.
The terrible whistle shrilly announces dawn: "Rise, wretched multitudes, with your lifeless faces, welcome the monotonous hell of the mud ... another day’s suffering has begun!"
Weary companion, I know you well.
I see your dead eyes, my disconsolate friend. In your breast you bear the burden of cold, deprivation, emptiness. Life long ago broke what remained of the courage within you.
Colorless one, you once were a real man; a considerable woman once accompanied you.
But now, my invisible companion, you lack even a name. So forsaken, you are unable to weep. So poor in spirit, you can no longer grieve. So tired, your flesh can no longer shiver with fear ...
My once-strong man, now spent, were we to meet again in some other world, beneath some sunnier sun, with what unfamiliar faces would we recognize each other?
Note: Buna was the largest Auschwitz sub-camp, with around 40,000 foreigners “workers” who had been enslaved by the Nazis. Primo Levi called the Jews of Buna the “slaves of slaves” because the other slaves outranked them. Despite Buna’s immense size and four years of activity, according to Levi it never produced a kilo of its intended product: synthetic rubber. Levi described Buna as “desperately and essentially opaque and gray.” He said not a blade of grass grew within the compound because its soil had been impregnated with the “poisonous juices of coal and petroleum” so that nothing was alive but machines and slaves, with the former “more alive” than the latter. Levi also related hearing a Buna Kapo say that the only way Jews could leave Auschwitz was “through the Chimney” of the crematorium. It is possible that the companion being addressed in “Buna” is Primo Levi himself, recognizing what he had been reduced to.
After My Death by Chaim Nachman Bialik loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Say this when you eulogize me: Here was a man ― now, poof, he's gone!
He died before his time. The music of his life suddenly ground to a halt.. Such a pity! There was another song in him, somewhere, But now it's lost, forever. What a pity! He had a violin, a living, voluble soul to which he uttered the secrets of his heart, setting its strings vibrating, save the one he kept inviolate. Back and forth his supple fingers danced; one string alone remained mesmerized, yet unheard. Such a pity! All his life the string quivered, quavering silently, yearning for its song, its mate, as a heart saddens before its departure. Despite constant delays it waited daily, mutely beseeching its savior, Love, who lingered, loitered, tarried incessantly and never came. Great is the pain! There was a man ― now, poof, he is no more!
The music of his life suddenly interrupted. There was another song in him But now it is lost forever.
On The Slaughter by Chaim Nachman Bialik loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Merciful heavens, have pity on me! If there is a God approachable by men as yet I have not found him― Pray for me!
For my heart is dead, prayers languish upon my tongue, my right hand has lost its strength and my hope has been crushed, undone.
How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end? How long? Hangman, traitor, here’s my neck― rise up now, and slaughter!
Behead me like a dog―your arm controls the axe
and the whole world is a scaffold to me though we―the chosen few―
were once recipients of the Pacts.
Executioner!, my blood’s a paltry prize― strike my skull and the blood of innocents will rain down upon your pristine uniform again and again, staining your raiment forever.
If there is Justice―quick, let her appear!
But after I’ve been blotted out, should she reveal her face, let her false scales be overturned forever and the heavens reek with the stench of her disgrace.
You too arrogant men, with your cruel injustice, suckled on blood, unweaned of violence: cursed be the warrior who cries "Avenge!" on a maiden; such vengeance was never contemplated even by Satan.
Let innocents’ blood drench the abyss! Let innocents’ blood seep down into the depths of darkness, eat it away and undermine the rotting foundations of earth.
Al Hashechita ("On the Slaughter") was written by Bialik in response to the bloody Kishniev pogrom of 1903, which was instigated by agents of the Czar who wanted to divert social unrest and political anger from the Czar to the Jewish minority. The Hebrew word schechita (also transliterated shechita, shechitah, shekhitah, shehita) denotes the ritual kosher slaughtering of animals for food. The juxtapositioning of kosher slaughter with the slaughter of Jews makes the poem all the more powerful and ghastly. Such anti-Semitic incidents prompted a massive wave of Eastern European emigration that brought millions of Jews to the West. Unfortunately, there have been many similar slaughters in human history and the poem remains chillingly relevant to the more recent ones in Israel/Palestine, Rwanda, Bosnia and Kosovo.
Here We Shall Remain by Tawfiq Zayyad loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Like twenty impossibilities in Lydda, Ramla and Galilee ... here we shall remain.
Like brick walls braced against your chests; lodged in your throats like shards of glass or prickly cactus thorns; clouding your eyes like sandstorms.
Here we shall remain, like brick walls obstructing your chests, washing dishes in your boisterous bars, serving drinks to our overlords, scouring your kitchens' filthy floors in order to snatch morsels for our children from between your poisonous fangs.
Here we shall remain, like brick walls deflating your chests as we face our deprivation clad in rags, singing our defiant songs, chanting our rebellious poems, then swarming out into your unjust streets to fill dungeons with our dignity.
Like twenty impossibilities in Lydda, Ramla and Galilee, here we shall remain, guarding the shade of the fig and olive trees, fermenting rebellion in our children like yeast in dough.
Here we wring the rocks to relieve our thirst; here we stave off starvation with dust; but here we remain and shall not depart; here we spill our expensive blood and do not hoard it.
For here we have both a past and a future; here we remain, the Unconquerable; so strike fast, penetrate deep, O, my roots!
Distant light by Walid Khazindar loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Bitterly cold, winter clings to the naked trees. If only you would free the bright sparrows from the tips of your fingers and release a smile―that shy, tentative smile― from the imprisoned anguish I see.
Sing! Can we not sing as if we were warm, hand-in-hand, shielded by shade from a glaring sun? Can you not always remain this way, stoking the fire, more beautiful than necessary, and silent? Darkness increases; we must remain vigilant and this distant light is our only consolation― this imperiled flame, which from the beginning has been flickering, in danger of going out. Come to me, closer and closer. I don't want to be able to tell my hand from yours. And let's stay awake, lest the snow smother us.
Walid Khazindar was born in 1950 in Gaza City. He is considered one of the best Palestinian poets; his poetry has been said to be "characterized by metaphoric originality and a novel thematic approach unprecedented in Arabic poetry." He was awarded the first Palestine Prize for Poetry in 1997.
we did not Dye in vain! by Michael R. Burch
from “songs of the sea snails”
though i’m just a slimy crawler, my lineage is proud: my forebears gave their lives (oh, let the trumps blare loud!) so purple-mantled Royals might stand out in a crowd.
i salute you, fellow loyals, who labor without scruple as your incomes fall while deficits quadruple to swaddle unjust Lords in bright imperial purple!
Notes: In ancient times the purple dye produced from the secretions of purpura mollusks (sea snails) was known as “Tyrian purple,” “royal purple” and “imperial purple.” It was greatly prized in antiquity, and was very expensive according to the historian Theopompus: “Purple for dyes fetched its weight in silver at Colophon.” Thus, purple-dyed fabrics became status symbols, and laws often prevented commoners from possessing them. The production of Tyrian purple was tightly controlled in Byzantium, where the imperial court restricted its use to the coloring of imperial silks. A child born to the reigning emperor was literally porphyrogenitos ("born to the purple") because the imperial birthing apartment was walled in porphyry, a purple-hued rock, and draped with purple silks. Royal babies were swaddled in purple; we know this because the iconodules, who disagreed with the emperor Constantine about the veneration of images, accused him of defecating on his imperial purple swaddling clothes!
Cleansings by Michael R. Burch
Walk here among the walking specters. Learn inhuman patience. Flesh can only cleave to bone this tightly if their hearts believe that God is good, and never mind the Urn.
A lentil and a bean might plump their skin with mothers’ bounteous, soft-dimpled fat (and call it “health”), might quickly build again the muscles of dead menfolk. Dream, like that,
and call it courage. Cry, and be deceived, and so endure. Or burn, made wholly pure. One’s prayer is answered, “god” thus unbelieved.
No holy pyre this―death’s hissing chamber.
Two thousand years ago―a starlit manger,
weird Herod’s cries for vengeance on the meek, the children slaughtered. Fear, when angels speak,
the prophesies of man. Do what you "can," not what you must, or should. They call you “good,”
dead eyes devoid of tears; how shall they speak except in blankness? Fear, then, how they weep.
Escape the gentle clutching stickfolk. Creep away in shame to retch and flush away
your vomit from their ashes. Learn to pray.
This is an early poem about the Holocaust, written as I worked with Holocaust survivors to translate Holocaust poems written in Polish and Yiddish into English.
Starting from Scratch with Ol’ Scratch by Michael R. Burch
Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh went to the ovens. Please don’t bother to cry. You could have saved her, but you were all tied up complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp.
Scratch that. You were born after World War II. You had something more important to do: while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a religious tract against homosexual marriage and various things gods and evangelists disparage.)
Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I’m quite sure that your intentions were good and ineluctably pure. After all, what the hell does he care about Palestinians? Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians. Scratch that. You’re one of the Devil’s minions.
Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, Auschwitz, Holocaust Poem, Holocaust Poetry, Translation, Ko Un, Racism, Antisemitism, Shoah, Concentration Camp, Death Camp, Genocide, Ethnic Cleansing, Mass Murder, Torture, Horror, Silence, Denial
War, the God
by Michael R. Burch
War lifts His massive head and turns...
The world upon its axis spins.
... His head held low from weight of horns,
His hackles high. The sun He scorns
and seeks the rose not, but its thorns.
The sun must set, as night begins,
while, unrepentant of our sins,
we play His game, until He wins.
For War, our God, our bellicose Mars,
still rules our heavens, dominates our stars.
Leave Taking by Michael R. Burch
Brilliant leaves abandon battered limbs to waltz upon ecstatic winds until they die.
But the barren and embittered trees, lament the frolic of the leaves and curse the bleak November sky ...
Now, as I watch the leaves' high flight before the fading autumn light, I think that, perhaps, at last I may
have learned what it means to say― goodbye.
Published by The Lyric, Mindful of Poetry, There is Something in the Autumn (anthology). This is an early poem of mine, written as a teenager in high school. Several of my early poems were about aging, loss and death. Young poets can be so morbid! Like "Styx" this poem is the parings of a longer poem. This poem started out as a stanza in a much longer poem, "Jessamyn's Song," that dates to around age 14 or 15.
Lucifer, to the Enola Gay by Michael R. Burch
Go then, and give them my meaning so that their teeming streets become my city.
Bring back a pretty flower― a chrysanthemum, perhaps, to bloom if but an hour, within a certain room of mine where the sun does not rise or fall, and the moon, although it is content to shine, helps nothing at all.
There, if I hear the wistful call of their voices regretting choices made or perhaps not made in time, I can look back upon it and recall, in all its pale forms sublime, still Death will never be holy again.
Burn by Michael R. Burch
for Trump
Sunbathe, ozone baby, till your parched skin cracks in the white-hot flash of radiation.
Incantation from your pale parched lips shall not avail; you made this hell. Now burn.
This is an early poem of mine. I dedicated it to Trump after he pulled the U.S. out of the Paris accords.
Davenport Tomorrow by Michael R. Burch
Davenport tomorrow ... all the trees stand stark-naked in the sun.
Now it is always summer and the bees buzz in cesspools, adapted to a new life.
There are no flowers, but the weeds, being hardier, have survived.
The small town has become a city of millions; there is no longer a sea, only a huge sewer, but the children don't mind.
They still study rocks and stars, but biology is a forgotten science ... after all, what is life?
Davenport tomorrow ... all the children murmur through vein-streaked gills whispered wonders of long-ago.
I wrote this early poem as a high school student.
These are poems about war and defenses, and how those defenses may not be so defensive, after all.
Defenses by Michael R. Burch
Beyond the silhouettes of trees stark, naked and defenseless there stand long rows of sentinels: these pert white picket fences.
Now whom they guard and how they guard, the good Lord only knows; but savages would have to laugh observing the tidy rows.
Autumn Conundrum by Michael R. Burch
It’s not that every leaf must finally fall, it’s just that we can never catch them all.
Piercing the Shell by Michael R. Burch
If we strip away all the accouterments of war, perhaps we’ll discover what the heart is for.
Teach me to love: to fly beyond sterile Mars to percolating Venus. �"Michael R. Burch
What is life? The flash of a firefly. The breath of the winter buffalo. The shadow scooting across the grass that vanishes with sunset. �"Blackfoot saying, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Privilege by Michael R. Burch
This poem is dedicated to Harvey Stanbrough, an ex-marine who has written eloquently about the horror and absurdity of war in Lessons for a Barren Population.
No, I will never know what you saw or what you felt, thrust into the maw of Eternity,
watching the mortars nightly greedily making their rounds, hearing the soft damp hiss
of men’s souls like helium escaping their collapsing torn bodies, or lying alone, feeling the great roar
of your own heart. But I know: there is a bitter knowledge
of death I have not achieved, and in thankful ignorance, and especially for my son
and for all who benefit so easily at so unthinkable a price, I thank you.
Mending by Michael R. Burch
for the survivors of 9-11
I am besieged with kindnesses; sometimes I laugh, delighted for a moment, then resume the more seemly occupation of my craft.
I do not taste the candies; the perfume of roses is uplifted in a draft that vanishes into the ceiling’s fans
that spin like old propellers till the room is full of ghostly bits of yarn . . . My task is not to knit,
but not to end too soon.
Shock and Awe by Michael R. Burch
With megatons of “wonder,” we make our godhead clear: Death. Destruction. Fear.
The world’s heart ripped asunder, its dying pulse we hear: Death. Destruction. Fear.
Strange Trinity! We ponder this God we hold so dear: Death. Destruction. Fear.
The vulture and the condor proclaim: The feast is near!�" Death. Destruction. Fear.
Soon He will plow us under; the Anti-Christ is here: Death. Destruction. Fear.
We love to hear Him thunder! With Shock and Awe, appear!�" Death. Destruction. Fear.
For God can never blunder; we know He holds US dear: Death. Destruction. Fear.
Salve by Michael R. Burch
for the victims and survivors of 9-11
The world is unsalvageable ...
but as we lie here in bed stricken to the heart by love despite war’s flickering images,
sometimes we still touch,
laughing, amazed, that our flesh does not despair of love as we do,
that our bodies are wise
in ways we refuse to comprehend, still insisting we eat, drink ... even multiply.
And so we touch ...
touch, and only imagine ourselves immune: two among billions
in this night of wished-on stars,
caresses, kisses, and condolences.
We are not lovers of irony,
we who imagine ourselves beyond the redemption of tears because we have salvaged so few for ourselves ...
and so we laugh at our predicament, fumbling for the ointment.
America's Riches by Michael R. Burch
Balboa's dream was bitter folly�" no El Dorado near, nor far, though seas beguiled and rivers smiled from beds of gold and silver ore.
Drake retreated rich with plunder as Incan fled Conquistador. Aztecs died when Spaniards lied, then slew them for an ingot more.
The pilgrims came and died or lived in fealty to an oath they swore, and bought with pain the precious grain that made them rich though they were poor.
Apache blood, Comanche tears were shed, and still they went to war; they fought to be unbowed and free�" such were Her riches, and still are.
Performing Art by Michael R. Burch
Who teaches the wren in its drab existence to explode into song?
What parodies of irony does the jay espouse with its sharp-edged tongue?
What instinctual memories lend stunning brightness to the strange dreams
of the dull gray slug �"spinning its chrysalis, gluing rough seams�"
abiding in darkness its transformation, till, waving damp wings,
it applauds its performance? I am done with irony. Life itself sings.
Revision by Michael R. Burch
I found a stone ablaze in a streambed, honed to a flickering jewel by all the clear, swiftly-flowing millennia of water . . .
and as I kneeled to do it obeisance, the homage of retrieval, it occurred to me that perhaps its muddied underbelly
rooted precariously in the muck and excrescence of its slow loosening upward . . . might not be finished,
like a poem brilliantly faceted but only half revised, which sparkles seductively but is not yet worth
ecstatic digging.
The Trouble with Poets by Michael R. Burch
This morning the neighborhood girls were helping their mothers with chores, but one odd little girl went out picking roses by herself, looking very small and lonely.
Suddenly the odd one refused to pick roses anymore because it occurred to her that being plucked might “hurt” them. Now she just sits beside the bushes, rocking gently back and forth, weeping and consoling the vegetation!
Now she’s lost all interest in nature, which she finds “appalling.” She dresses in black “like Rilke” and murmurs that she prefers the “roses of the imagination”! Intermittently she mumbles something about being “pricked in conscience” and being “pricked to death.” What on earth can she mean? Does she plan to have sex until she dies?
For chrissake, now she’s locked herself in her room and refuses to come out until she “conjures” the “perfect rose of the imagination”! We haven’t seen her for days. Her only communications are texts punctuated liberally with dashes. They appear to be badly-rhymed poems. She signs them “starving artist” in lower-case. What on earth can she mean? Is she anorexic, or bulimic, or is this just another phase she’ll outgrow?
Her Grace Flows Freely by Michael R. Burch
July 7, 2007
Her love is always chaste, and pure. This I vow. This I aver. If she shows me her grace, I will honor her. This I vow. This I aver. Her grace flows freely, like her hair. This I vow. This I aver. For her generousness, I would worship her. This I vow. This I aver. I will not damn her for what I bear This I vow. This I aver. like a most precious incense�"desire for her, This I vow. This I aver. nor call her “wh-re” where I seek to repair. This I vow. This I aver. I will not wink, nor smirk, nor stare This I vow. This I aver. like a foolish child at the foot of a stair This I vow. This I aver. where I long to go, should another be there. This I vow. This I aver. I’ll rejoice in her freedom, and always dare This I vow. This I aver. the chance that she’ll flee me�"my starling rare. This I vow. This I aver. And then, if she stays, without stays, I swear This I vow. This I aver. that I will joy in her grace beyond compare. This I vow. This I aver.
Old Pantaloons, a Chiasmus by Michael R. Burch
Old pantaloons are soft and white, prudent days, imprudent nights when fingers slip through drawers to feel that which they long most to steal.
Old panty loons are soft and white, prudent days, imprudent nights when fingers slip through drawers to steal that which they long most to feel.
Reason Without Rhyme by Michael R. Burch
I once was averse to free verse, but now freely admit that your rhyming is worse!
But alas, in the end, it’s a losing game: all verse is unpaid and a crying shame.
jesus hates me, this i know by michael r. burch
jesus hates me, this I know, for Church libel tells me so: “little ones to him belong” but if they touch themselves, so long! yes, jesus hates me! yes, jesus baits me! yes, he berates me! Church libel tells me so!
jesus fleeces us, i know, for Religion scams us so: little ones are brainwashed to believe god saves the Chosen Few! yes, jesus fleeces! yes, he deceases the bunny and the rhesus because he’s mad at you!
jesus hates me�"christ who died so i might be crucified: for if i use my active brain, that will drive the “lord” insane! yes, jesus hates me! yes, jesus baits me! yes, he berates me! Church libel tells me so!
jesus hates me, this I know, for Church libel tells me so: first fools tell me “look above,” that christ’s the lamb and god’s the dove, but then they sentence me to Hell for using my big brain too well! yes, jesus hates me! yes, jesus baits me! yes, he berates me! Church libel tells me so!
This is the earliest of my early poems. I believe this was my first epigram, written after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven. But I think I came up with the epigram a bit later, sometime around age thirteen, when I started writing poetry.
ON LOOKING AT SCHILLER’S SKULL by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here in this charnel-house full of bleaching bones, like yesteryear’s fading souvenirs, I see the skulls arranged in strange ordered rows.
Who knows whose owners might have beheaded peers, packed tightly here despite once repellent hate? Here weaponless, they stand, in this gentled state.
These arms and hands, they once were so delicate! How articulately they moved! Ah me! What athletes once paced about on these padded feet?
Still there’s no hope of rest for you, lost souls! Deprived of graves, forced here like slaves to occupy this overworld, unlamented ghouls!
Now who’s to know who loved one orb here detained? Except for me; reader, hear my plea: I know the grandeur of the mind it contained!
Yes, and I know the impulse true love would stir here, where I stand in this alien land surrounded by these husks, like a treasurer!
Even in this cold, in this dust and mould I am startled by an a strange, ancient reverie, … as if this shrine to death could quicken me!
One shape out of the past keeps calling me with its mystery! Still retaining its former angelic grace! And at that ecstatic sight, I am back at sea ...
Swept by that current to where immortals race. O secret vessel, you gave Life its truth. It falls on me now to recall your expressive face.
I turn away, abashed here by what I see: this mould was worth more than all the earth. Let me breathe fresh air and let my wild thoughts run free!
What is there better in this dark Life than he who gives us a sense of man’s divinity, of his place in the universe? A man who’s both flesh and spirit―living verse!
Milestones Toward Oblivion by Michael R. Burch
A milestone here leans heavily against a gaunt, golemic tree. These words are chiseled thereupon: "One mile and then Oblivion."
Swift larks that once swooped down to feed on groping slugs, such insects breed within their radiant flesh and bones ... they did not heed the milestones.
Another marker lies ahead, the only tombstone to the dead whose eyeless sockets read thereon: "Alas, behold Oblivion."
Once here the sun shone fierce and fair; now night eternal shrouds the air while winter, never-ending, moans and drifts among the milestones.
This road is neither long nor wide . . . men gleam in death on either side. Not long ago, they pondered on milestones toward Oblivion.
This is an early poem of mine, written around age 19.
grave request by michael r. burch
come to ur doom in Tombstone;
the stars stark and chill over Boot Hill
care nothing for ur desire;
still,
imagine they wish u no ill, that u burn with the same antique fire;
for there’s nothing to life but the thrill of living until u expire;
so come, spend ur last hardearned bill on Tombstone.
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.
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 early 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."
Less Heroic Couplets: Liquidity Crisis by Michael R. Burch
And so I have loved you, and so I have lost, accrued disappointment, ledgered its cost, debited wisdom, credited pain . . . My assets remaining are liquid again.
This is an early poem of mine, written as a teenager in a college accounting class.
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