In the Whispering Night

In the Whispering Night
by Michael R. Burch

for George King

In the whispering night, when the stars bend low
till the hills ignite to a shining flame,
when a shower of meteors streaks the sky
while the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame,
we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen,
and gather our vigor, and all our intent.
We must heave our bodies to some famished ocean
and laugh as they vanish, and never repent.
We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us,
soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze ...
blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning
to the heights of awareness from which we were seized.

Published by Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly, The Chained Muse and Poetry Life & Times. This is a poem I wrote for my favorite college English teacher, George King, about poetic kinship, brotherhood and romantic flights of fancy.

In the Whispering Night (II)

by Michael R. Burch

for George King

In the whispering night, when the stars bend low

till the hills ignite to a shining flame,

when a shower of meteors streaks the sky,

and the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame,

we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen,

and gather our vigor, and all our intent.

We must heave our husks into some savage ocean

and laugh as they shatter, and never repent.

We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us,

soar, SOAR! through the night on a butterfly's breeze,

blown high, upward yearning,

twin spirits returning

to the world of resplendence from which we were seized.

In the whispering night, when the mockingbird calls

while denuded vines barely cling to stone walls,

as the red-rocked rivers rush on to the sea,

like a bright Goddess calling

a meteor falling

may flare like desire through skeletal trees.

If you look to the east, you will see a reminder

of days that broke warmer and nights that fell kinder;

but you and I were not meant for this life,

a life of illusions

and painful delusions:

a life without meaning―unless it is life.

So turn from the east and look to the west,

to the stars―argent fire ablaze at God's breast―

but there you'll find nothing but dreams of lost days:

days lost forever,

departed, and never,

oh never, oh never shall they be regained.

So turn from those heavens―night’s pale host of stars―

to these scarred pitted mountains, these wild grotesque tors

which―looming in darkness―obscure lustrous seas.

We are men, we must sing

till enchanted vales ring;

we are men; though we wither, our spirits soar free.

This is the original version of "In the Whispering Night" and one of my most Romantic poems, if not *the* most Romantic. I wrote the poem in my teens, my freshman year of college, for my favorite English teacher and fellow poet, George King.

Keywords/Tags: dance, dancing, flash, flight, heaven, hill, hills, night, nightfall, ocean, ocean waves, mountain, mountains, romantic, romanticism, kin, kinship

beMused

by Michael R. Burch

Perhaps at three

you'll come to tea,

to have a cuppa here?

You'll just stop in

to sip dry gin?

I only have a beer.

To name the "greats":

Pope, Dryden, mates?

The whole world knows their names.

Discuss the "songs"