The State of the Art (?)A Poem by Michael R. BurchThe State of the Art (?) Has rhyme lost all its reason Are poets lacking fire, Must poetry fade slowly, Originally published by Tucumcari Literary Review. Keywords/Tags: poetry, art, rhyme, reason, meter, form, sonnets, fire, passion, Latin, stale, outdated, past, tense, archaic, readers, readership, write, writing, creation, motion, doggerel, light verse, humor, humorous verse Currents How can I write and not be true Originally published by The Lyric Kin
what do we know of love, Originally published by The HyperTexts Discrimination The meter I had sought to find, perplexed, I heard the sleigh bells’ jingles, vampish ads, Originally published by The Chariton Review The Harvest of Roses
Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer― Originally published by The Raintown Review
then bend this way and that, and slowly cool of water so contrary just a hiss It writhes, a thing of senseless shapelessness ... And then the driven hammer falls and falls. A sound of ancient import, with the ring Originally published by The Chariton Review Goddess
"Naked, I bore your child naked, and gladly." absently stroked my hand. Originally published by Unlikely Stories Caveat Spender It’s better not to speculate The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...) Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts Keywords/Tags: Humor, Light Verse, Writing, Poetry, Plagiarism, Editor, Editors, Poet, Poets, Unknown, Anonymous The State of the Art These are my "ars poetica" poems: the ones about the art and craft of writing poetry in a modern world that doesn't always recognize the artists or their work. Safe Harbor by Michael R. Burch for Kevin N. Roberts The sea at night seems an alembic of dreams― the moans of the gulls, the foghorns’ bawlings. A century late to be melancholy, I watch the last shrimp boat as it steams to safe harbor again. In the twilight she gleams with a festive light, done with her trawlings, ready to sleep . . . Deep, deep, in delight glide the creatures of night, elusive and bright as the poet’s dreams. Published by The Lyric, Grassroots Poetry, Romantics Quarterly, Angle, Poetry Life & Times Ophelia Ophelia, madness suits you well, Poetry by Michael R. Burch Poetry, I found you where at last they chained and bound you; with devices all around you to torture and confound you, I found you: shivering, bare. They had shorn your raven hair and taken both your eyes which, once cerulean as Gogh’s skies, had leapt with dawn to wild surmise of what was waiting there. Your back was bent with untold care; there savage brands had left cruel scars as though the wounds of countless wars; your bones were broken with the force with which they’d lashed your flesh so fair. You once were loveliest of all. So many nights you held in thrall a scrawny lad who heard your call from where dawn’s milling showers fall: pale meteors through sapphire air. I learned the eagerness of youth to temper for a lover’s touch; I felt you, tremulant, reprove each time I fumbled over-much. Your merest word became my prayer. You took me gently by the hand and led my steps from boy to man; now I look back, remember when you shone, and cannot understand why here, tonight, you bear their brand. I will take and cradle you in my arms, remindful of the gentle charms you showed me once, of yore; and I will lead you from your cell tonight back into that incandescent light which flows out of the core of a sun whose robes you wore. And I will wash your feet with tears for all those blissful years... my love, whom I adore. I consider "Poetry" to be my Ars Poetica. However, the poem has been misinterpreted as the poet claiming to be Poetry's "savior." The poet never claims to be a savior or hero. The poem only says that when Poetry is finally freed, in some unspecified way, the poet will be there to take her hand and watch her glory be re-revealed to the world. The poet expresses love for Poetry, and gratitude, but never claims to have done anything himself. This is a poem of love, compassion and reverence. Poetry is the Messiah, not the poet. The poet washes her feet with his tears, like Mary Magdalene. Originally published by The Lyric. 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, 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 bodies to some violent 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. Originally published by Songs of Innocence What the Poet Sees by Michael R. Burch What the poet sees, he sees as a swimmer ~~~~underwater~~~~ watching the shoreline blur sees through his breath’s weightless bubbles ... Both worlds grow obscure. Originally published by Byline In Praise of Meter by Michael R. Burch The earth is full of rhythms so precise the octave of the crystal can produce a trillion oscillations, yet not lose a second’s beat. The ear needs no device to hear the unsprung rhythms of the couch drown out the mouth’s; the lips can be debauched by kisses, should the heart put back its watch and find the pulse of love, and sing, devout. If moons and tides in interlocking dance obey their numbers, what’s been left to chance? Should poets be more lax―their circumstance as humble as it is?―or readers wince to see their ragged numbers thin, to hear the moans of drones drown out the Chanticleer? Originally published by Poetry Porch/Sonnet Scroll What Works by Michael R. Burch for David Gosselin What works― hewn stone; the blush the iris shows the sun; the lilac’s pale-remembered bloom. The frenzied fly: mad-lively, gay, as seconds tick his time away, his sentence―one brief day in May, a period. And then decay. A frenzied rhyme’s mad tip-toed time, a ballad’s languid as the sea, seek, striving―"immortality. When gloss peels off, what works will shine. When polish fades, what works will gleam. When intellectual prattle pales, the dying buzzing in the hive of tedious incessant bees, what works will soar and wheel and dive and milk all honey, leap and thrive, and teach the pallid poem to seethe. Originally published by The HyperTexts Kin by Michael R. Burch for Richard Moore 1. Shrill gulls, how like my thoughts you, struggling, rise to distant bliss― the weightless blue of skies that are not blue in any atmosphere, but closest here ... 2. You seek an air so clear, so rarified the effort leaves you famished; earthly tides soon call you back― one long, descending glide ... 3. Disgruntledly you grope dirt shores for orts you pull like mucous ropes from shells’ bright forts ... You eye the teeming world with nervous darts― this way and that ... Contentious, shrewd, you scan― the sky, in hope, the earth, distrusting man. Originally published by Able Muse At Wilfred Owen's Grave by Michael R. Burch A week before the Armistice, you died. They did not keep your heart like Livingstone's, then plant your bones near Shakespeare's. So you lie between two privates, sacrificed like Christ to politics, your poetry unknown except for one brief flurry: thirteen months with Gaukroger beside you in the trench, dismembered, as you babbled, as the stench of gangrene filled your nostrils, till you clenched your broken heart together and the fist began to pulse with life, so close to death. Or was it at Craiglockhart, in the care of "ergotherapists" that you sensed life is only in the work, and made despair a thing that Yeats despised, but also breath, a mouthful's merest air, inspired less than wrested from you, and which we confess we only vaguely breathe: the troubled air that even Sassoon failed to share, because a man in pieces is not healed by gauze, and breath's transparent, unless we believe the words are true despite their lack of weight and float to us like chlorine―scalding eyes, and lungs, and hearts. Your words revealed the fate of boys who retched up life here, gagged on lies. Originally published by The Chariton Review Abide by Michael R. Burch after Philip Larkin's "Aubade" It is hard to understand or accept mortality― such an alien concept: not to be. Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion, or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea boiling like goopy green tea in a kettle. Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle. And so we abide . . . even in life, staring out across that dark brink. And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink, it is best not to drink (or, drinking, certainly not to think). Originally published by Light Quarterly US Verse, after Auden by Michael R. Burch “Let the living creature lie, Mortal, guilty, but to me The entirely beautiful.” Verse has small value in our Unisphere, nor is it fit for windy revelation. It cannot legislate less taxing fears; it cannot make us, several, a nation. Enumerator of our sins and dreams, it pens its cryptic numbers, and it sings, a little quaintly, of the ways of love. (It seems of little use for lesser things.) Published by The Raintown Review, The Barefoot Muse and Poetry Life & Times Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor by Michael R. Burch After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs, Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs: “Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!” (His name, let’s assume, was, er . . . Percival Queemly.) “Expel me! Expel me!”―She flashes her eyes. “Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise, for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name . . . Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!” “Continue to live here―carouse as you please!” the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees. Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose: “I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose ... but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.” (Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.) Originally published by Lucid Rhythms This poem is based on an account of Edna St. Vincent Millay being confronted by a male Vassar authority. However, there is a some poetic license involved, for the sake of humor. It was actually Vassar President Henry Noble MacCracken who mentioned Shelley. Here is his account in a response to a question about Millay cutting classes: “She cut everything. I once called her in and told her, ‘I want you to know that you couldn’t break any rule that would make me vote for your expulsion. I don’t want to have any dead Shelleys on my doorstep, and I don’t care what you do.’ She went to the window and looked out and she said, “Well on those terms I think I can continue to live in this hellhole.” The stuff about Enoch and Moloch is, of course, pure fabrication on my part. Come Down by Michael R. Burch for Harold Bloom Come down, O, come down from your high mountain tower. How coldly the wind blows, how late this chill hour ... and I cannot wait for a meteor shower to show you the time must be now, or not ever. Come down, O, come down from the high mountain heather now brittle and brown as fierce northern gales sever. Come down, or your heart will grow cold as the weather when winter devours and spring returns never. Originally published by The HyperTexts NOTE: I dedicated this poem to Harold Bloom after reading his introduction to the Best American Poetry anthology he edited. Bloom seemed intent on claiming poetry as the province of the uber-reader (i.e., himself), but I remember reading poems by Blake, Burns, cummings, Dickinson, Frost, Housman, Eliot, Pound, Shakespeare, Whitman, Yeats, et al, and grokking them as a boy, without any “advanced” instruction from anyone. Orpheus by Michael R. Burch after William Blake I. Many a sun and many a moon I walked the earth and whistled a tune. I did not whistle as I worked: the whistle was my work. I shirked nothing I saw and made a rhyme to children at play and hard time. II. Among the prisoners I saw the leaden manacles of Law, the heavy ball and chain, the quirt. And yet I whistled at my work. III. Among the children’s daisy faces and in the women’s frowsy laces, I saw redemption, and I smiled. Satanic millers, unbeguiled, were swayed by neither girl, nor child, nor any God of Love. Yet mild I whistled at my work, and Song broke out, ere long. Originally published by The HyperTexts The Composition of Shadows by Michael R. Burch for poets who write late at night We breathe and so we write; the night hums softly its accompaniment. Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn leads onward, and we smile, content. And what we mean we write to learn: the vowels of love, the consonants’ strange golden weight, each plosive’s shape― curved like the heart. Here, resonant, sounds’ shadows mass beneath bright glass like singing voles curled in a maze of blank white space. We touch a face― long-frozen words trapped in a glaze that insulates our hearts. Nowhere can love be found. Just shrieking air. The Composition of Shadows (II) by Michael R. Burch We breathe and so we write; the night hums softly its accompaniment. Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn leads onward, and we smile, content. And what we mean we write to learn: the vowels of love, the consonants’ strange golden weight, the blood’s debate within the heart. Here, resonant, sounds’ shadows mass against bright glass, within the white Labyrinthian maze. Through simple grace, I touch your face, (ah words!) And I would gaze the night’s dark length in waning strength to find the words to feel such light again. O, for a pen to spell love so ethereal. Keywords/Tags: composition, write, writing, poetry, poem, night, pen, pencil, computer, monitor, love, alienation, lonely, loneliness 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. Brother 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. To Please The Poet by Michael R. Burch for poets who still write musical verse To please the poet, words must dance― staccato, brisk, a two-step: so! Or waltz in elegance to time of music―mild, adagio. To please the poet, words must chance emotion in catharsis― flame. Or splash into salt seas, descend in sheets of silver-shining rain. To please the poet, words must prance and gallop, gambol, revel, rail. Or muse upon a moment―mute, obscure, unsure, imperfect, pale. To please the poet, words must sing, or croak, wart-tongued, imagining. Originally published by The Lyric An Obscenity Trial by Michael R. Burch The defendant was a poet held in many iron restraints against whom several critics cited numerous complaints. They accused him of trying to reach the "common crowd," and they said his poems incited recitals far too loud. The prosecutor alleged himself most stylish and best-dressed; it seems he’d never lost a case, nor really once been pressed. He was known far and wide for intensely hating clarity; twelve dilettantes at once declared the defendant another fatality. The judge was an intellectual well-known for his great mind, though not for being merciful, honest, sane or kind. Clerks loved the "Hanging Judge" and the critics were his kin. Bystanders said, "They'll crucify him!" The public was not let in. The prosecutor began his case by spitting in the poet's face, knowing the trial would be a farce. "It is obscene," he screamed, "to expose the naked heart!" The recorder (bewildered Society) greeted this statement with applause. "This man is no poet. Just look―his Hallmark shows it. Why, see, he utilizes rhyme, symmetry and grammar! He speaks without a stammer! His sense of rhythm is too fine! He does not use recondite words or conjure ancient Latin verbs. This man is an imposter! I ask that his sentence be the almost perceptible indignity of removal from the Post-Modernistic roster." The jury left in tears of joy, literally sequestered. The defendant sighed in mild despair, "Please, let me answer to my peers." But how His Honor giggled then, seeing no poets were let in. Later, the clashing symbols of their pronouncements drove him mad and he admitted both rhyme and reason were bad. Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea and Poetry Life & Times. A well-known poet/editor criticized this poem for being "journalistic." But then the poem is written from the point of view of a journalist who's covering the trial of a poet about to be burned at the stake by his peers. The poem was completed by the end of my sophomore year in college. It appears in my 1978 poetry contest folder. But I believe I wrote the original version a bit earlier, probably around age 18 or 19. The Humpback by Michael R. Burch The humpback is a gullet equipped with snarky fins. It has a winning smile: and when it SMILES, it wins as miles and miles of herring excite its fearsome grins. So beware, unwary whalers, lest you drown, sans feet and shins! Door Mouse by Michael R. Burch I’m sure it’s not good for my heart― the way it will jump-start when the mouse scoots the floor (I try to kill it with the door, never fast enough, or fling a haphazard shoe ... always too slow too) in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion absurdly inconvenient for mashin’, till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’, make us both early candidates for heaven. Ding Dong ... by Michael R. Burch for Fliss An impertinent bit of sunlight defeated a goddess, NIGHT. Hooray!, cried the clover, Her reign is over! But she certainly gave us a fright! Be very careful what you pray for! by Michael R. Burch Now that his T’s been depleted the Saint is upset, feeling cheated. His once-fiery lust? Just a chemical bust: no “devil” cast out or defeated. The Flu Fly Flew by Michael R. Burch A fly with the flu foully flew up my nose―thought I’d die―had to sue! Was the small villain fined? An abrupt judge declined my case, since I’d “failed to achoo!” Hell-Bound Hounds by Michael R. Burch We have five dogs and every one’s a sinner! I swear it’s true―they’ll steal each other’s dinner! They’ll hump before they’re married. That’s unlawful! They’ll even screw in public. Eek, so awful! And when it’s time for treats (don’t gasp!), they’ll beg! They have no pride! They’ll even hump your leg! Our oldest Yorkie murdered dear, sweet Olive, our helpless hamster! None will go to college or work to pay their room and board, or vets! When the Devil says, “Pee here!” they all yip, “Let’s!” And yet they’re sweet and loyal, so I doubt the Lord will dump them in hell’s dark redoubt . . . which means there’s hope for you, perhaps for me. But as for cats? I say, “Best wait and see.” Menu Venue by Michael R. Burch At the passing of the shark the dolphins cried Hark!; cute cuttlefish sighed, Gee there will be a serener sea to its utmost periphery!; the dogfish barked, so joyously!; pink porpoises piped Whee! excitedly, delightedly. But ... Will there be as much glee when there’s no you and me? Anti-Vegan Manifesto by Michael R. Burch Let us avoid lettuce, sincerely, and also celery! Rising Fall by Michael R. Burch after Keats Seasons of mellow fruitfulness collect at last into mist some brisk wind will dismiss ... Where, indeed, are the showers of April? Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May? But feel no dismay ... It’s time to make hay! How It Goes, Or Doesn’t by Michael R. Burch My face is getting craggier. My pants are getting saggier. My ear-hair’s getting shaggier. My wife is getting naggier. I’m getting old! My memory’s plumb awful. My eyesight is unlawful. I eschew a tofu waffle. My wife’s an Eiffel eyeful. I’m getting old! My temperature is colder. My molars need more solder. Soon I’ll need a boulder-holder. My wife seized up. Unfold her! I’m getting old! A More Likely Plot for “Romeo and Juliet” by Michael R. Burch Wont to croon by the light of the moon on a rickety ladder, mad as a hatter, Romeo crashed to the earth in a swoon, broke his leg, had to beg, repented of falling in love too soon. A nurse, averse to his seductive verse, aware of his madness and familial badness, searched for the stiletto in her purse. Meanwhile, Juliet began to fret that the roguish poet (wouldn’t you know it?) had pledged his “love” because of a bet! A gang of young thugs and loutish lugs had their faces engraved on “wanted” mugs. They were doomed to fail, ended up in jail, became young fascists and cried “Sieg Heil!” No tickets were sold, no tickets were bought, because, in the end, it all came to naught. Exeunt stage left. Apologies to España by Michael R. Burch the reign in Trump’s brain falls mainly as mansplain No Star by Michael R. Burch Trump, you're no "star." Putin made you an American Czar. Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen, pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen. tRUMP is the butt of many jokes.―Michael R. Burch Alien Nation by Michael R. Burch for J. S. S., a "Christian" poet who believes in "hell" On a lonely outpost on Mars the astronaut practices “speech” as alien to primates below as mute stars winking high, out of reach. And his words fall as bright and as chill as ice crystals on Kilimanjaro― far colder than Jesus’s words over the “fortunate” sparrow. And I understand how gentle Emily felt, when all comfort had flown, gazing into those inhuman eyes, feeling zero at the bone. Oh, how can I grok his arctic thought? For if he is human, I am not. Heroin or Heroine? by Michael R. Burch for mothers battling addiction serve the Addiction; worship the Beast; feed the foul Pythons your flesh, their fair feast ... or rise up, resist the huge many-headed hydra; for the sake of your Loved Ones decapitate medusa. Published by The HyperTexts Loose Knit by Michael R. Burch She blesses the needle, fetches fine red stitches, criss-crossing, embroidering dreams in the delicate fabric. And if her hand jerks and twitches in puppet-like fits, she tells herself reality is not as threadbare as it seems ... that a little more darning may gather loose seams. She weaves an unraveling tapestry of fatigue and remorse and pain; ... only the nervously pecking needle pricks her to motion, again and again. Published by The Chariton Review, Penumbra, Black Bear Review, Triplopia. Keywords/Tags: drugs, addiction, user, heroin, needle, tracks, marks, pain, despair, agony, hopelessness, defeat, misery Medusa by Michael R. Burch Friends, beware of her iniquitous hair: long, ravenblack & melancholy. Many suitors drowned there: lost, unaware of the length & extent of their folly. Originally published in Grand Little Things The Octopi Jars by Michael R. Burch Long-vacant eyes now lodged in clear glass, a-swim with pale arms as delicate as angels'... you are beyond all hope of salvage now... and yet I would pause, no fear!, to once touch your arcane beaks... I, more alien than you to this imprismed world, notice, most of all, the scratches on the inside surfaces of your hermetic cells ... and I remember documentaries of albino Houdinis slipping like wraiths over the walls of shipboard aquariums, slipping down decks' brine-lubricated planks, spilling jubilantly into the dark sea, parachuting through clouds of pallid ammonia... and I know now in life you were unlike me: your imprisonment was never voluntary. Published by Triplopia and The Poetic Musings of Sam Hudson Sonnet: Second Sight (II) by Michael R. Burch (Newborns see best at a distance of 8 to 14 inches.) Wiser than we know, the newborn screams, red-faced from breath, and wonders what life means this close to death, amid the arctic glare of warmthless lights above. Beware! Beware!― encrypted signals, codes? Or ciphers, noughts? Interpretless, almost, as his own thoughts― the brilliant lights, the brilliant lights exist. Intruding faces ogle, gape, insist― this madness, this soft-hissing breath, makes sense. Why can he not float on, in dark suspense, and dream of life? Why did they rip him out? He frowns at them―small gnomish frowns, all doubt― and with an ancient mien, O sorrowful!, re-closes eyes that saw in darkness null ecstatic sights, exceeding beautiful. Published as the collection "The State of the Art" Hearthside by Michael R. Burch “When you are old and grey and full of sleep...” ― W. B. Yeats For all that we professed of love, we knew this night would come, that we would bend alone to tend wan fires’ dimming bars―the moan of wind cruel as the Trumpet, gelid dew an eerie presence on encrusted logs we hoard like jewels, embrittled so ourselves. The books that line these close, familiar shelves loom down like dreary chaperones. Wild dogs, too old for mates, cringe furtive in the park, as, toothless now, I frame this parchment kiss. I do not know the words for easy bliss and so my shriveled fingers clutch this stark, long-unenamored pen and will it: Move. I loved you more than words, so let words prove. Originally published by Sonnet Writers This sonnet is written from the perspective of the great Irish poet William Butler Yeats in his loose translation or interpretation of the Pierre de Ronsard sonnet “When You Are Old.” The aging Yeats thinks of his Muse and the love of his life, the fiery Irish revolutionary Maude Gonne. As he seeks to warm himself by a fire conjured from ice-encrusted logs, he imagines her doing the same. Although Yeats had insisted that he wasn’t happy without Gonne, she said otherwise: “Oh yes, you are, because you make beautiful poetry out of what you call your unhappiness and are happy in that. Marriage would be such a dull affair. Poets should never marry. The world should thank me for not marrying you!” NOVELTIES by Thomas Campion loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Booksellers laud authors for novel editions as pimps praise their w****s for exotic positions. The State of the Art (II) by Michael R. Burch The Editor A poet may work from sun to sun, but his editor's work is never done. The Critic The editor’s work is never done. The critic adjusts his cummerbund. The Audience While the critic adjusts his cummerbund, the audience exits to mingle and slum. The Anthologist As the audience exits to mingle and slum, the anthologist rules, a pale jury of one. Finally to Burn (the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus) by Michael R. Burch Athena takes me sometimes by the hand and we go levitating through strange Dreamlands where Apollo sleeps in his dark forgetting and Passion seems like a wise bloodletting and all I remember ,upon awaking, is: to Love sometimes is like forsaking one’s Being―to drift heroically beyond thought, forsaking the here for the There and the Not. * O, finally to Burn, gravity beyond escaping! To plummet is Bliss when the blisters breaking rain down red scabs on the earth’s mudpuddle ... Feathers and wax and the watchers huddle ... Flocculent sheep, O, and innocent lambs!, I will rock me to sleep on the waves’ iambs. * To Sleep, that is Bliss in Love’s recursive Dream, for the Night has Wings pallid as moonbeams― they will flit me to Life, like a huge-eyed Phoenix fluttering off to quarry the Sphinx. * Riddlemethis, riddlemethat, Rynosseross, throw out the Welcome Mat. Quixotic, I seek Love amid the tarnished rusted-out steel when to live is varnish. To Dream―that’s the thing! Aye, that Genie I’ll rub, soak by the candle, aflame in the tub. * Riddlemethis, riddlemethat, Rynosseross, throw out the Welcome Mat. Somewhither, somewhither aglitter and strange, we must moult off all knowledge or perish caged. * I am reconciled to Life somewhere beyond thought― I’ll Live in the There, I’ll Dream of the Naught. Methinks it no journey; to tarry’s a waste, so fatten the oxen; make a nice baste. I’m coming, Fool Tom, we have Somewhere to Go, though we injure noone, ourselves wildaglow. Published by The Lyric and The Ekphrastic Review This odd poem invokes and merges with the anonymous medieval poem “Tom O’Bedlam’s Song” and W. H. Auden’s modernist poem “Musee des Beaux Arts,” which in turn refers to Pieter Breughel’s painting “The Fall of Icarus.” In the first stanza Icarus levitates with the help of Athena, the goddess or wisdom, through “strange dreamlands” while Apollo, the sun god, lies sleeping. In the second stanza, Apollo predictably wakes up and Icarus plummets to earth, or back to mundane reality, as in Breughel’s painting and Auden’s poem. In the third stanza the grounded Icarus can still fly, but only in flights of imagination in dreams of love. In stanzas four and five Icarus joins Tom Rynosseross of the Bedlam poem in embracing madness by deserting “knowledge” and its cages (ivory towers, etc.). In the final stanza Icarus agrees with Tom that it is “no journey” to wherever they’re going together and also agrees that they will injure no one along the way, no matter how intensely they glow and radiate. The poem can be taken as a metaphor for the death and rebirth of Poetry, and perhaps as a prophecy that Poetry will rise, radiate and reattain its former glory ... Chit Chat: in the Poetry Chat Room by Michael R. Burch WHY SHULD I LERN TO SPELL? HELL, NO ONE REEDS WHAT I SAY ANYWAY!!! :( Sing for the cool night, whispers of constellations. Sing for the supple grass, the tall grass, gently whispering. Sing of infinities, multitudes, of all that lies beyond us now, whispers begetting whispers. And i am glad to also whisper . . . I WUS HURT IN LUV I’M DYIN’ FER TH’ TEARS I BEEN A-CRYIN’!!! i abide beyond serenities and realms of grace, above love’s misdirected earth, i lift my face. i am beyond finding now . . . I WAS IN, LOVE, AND HE SCREWED ME!!! THE JERK!!! TOTALLY!!! i loved her once, before, when i was mortal too, and sometimes i would listen and distinctly hear her laughter from the juniper, but did not go . . . I JUST DON’T GET POETRY, SOMETIMES. IT’S OKAY, I GUESS. I REALLY DON’T READ THAT MUCH AT ALL, I MUST CONFESS!!! ;-) Travail, inherent to all flesh, i do not know, nor how to feel, although i sing them nighttimes still: the bitter woes, that do not heal . . . POETRY IS BORING!!! SEE, IT SUCKS!!! I’M SNORING!!! ZZZZZZZ!!! The words like breath, i find them here, among the fragrant juniper, and conifers amid the snow, old loves imagined long ago . . . WHY DON’T YOU LIKE MY PERFICKT WORDS YOU USELESS UN-AMERIC’N TURDS?!!! What use is love, to me, or Thou? O Words, my awe, to fly so smooth above the anguished hearts of men to heights unknown, Thy bare remove . . . BeMused You will find in her hair If you like Her looks … meet me in the long rows, We were young, Safe Harbor by Michael R. Burch for Kevin N. Roberts The sea at night seems an alembic of dreams― the moans of the gulls, the foghorns’ bawlings. A century late to be melancholy, I watch the last shrimp boat as it steams to safe harbor again. In the twilight she gleams with a festive light, done with her trawlings, ready to sleep... Deep, deep, in delight glide the creatures of night, elusive and bright as the poet’s dreams. Published by The Lyric, Grassroots Poetry, Romantics Quarterly, Angle, Poetry Porch, and Poetry Life & Times. "Safe Harbor" is a commentary on writing romantic poetry in the 21st century (“a century late to be melancholy”) and the term “safe harbor” is primarily ironic. The shrimp boat, though it seems “festive,” actually represents the unnatural “industry” of modern technical” poetry. By “technical,” I mean poetry that is more of an academic enterprise than an affair of the heart. The “creatures of night” shine with a natural luminescence, like the poet’s dreams and words. Keywords/Tags: Kevin Roberts, Kevin N. Roberts, Kevin Nicholas Roberts, Romantic, Poet, Romanticism, safe, harbor, night, dreams, imagination These are poems I wrote for my friend Kevin Nicholas Roberts, who in addition to being a talented Romantic poet, was the founder and first editor of Romantics Quarterly. Ophelia by Michael R. Burch for Kevin N. Roberts Ophelia, madness suits you well, as the ocean sounds in an empty shell, as the moon shines brightest in a starless sky, as suns supernova before they die ... Talent by Michael R. Burch for Kevin Nicholas Roberts 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. Keywords/Tags: talent, friendship, poem, poetry, poet, book, sounds, write, writing, words, art, creation, creativity, rhyme, Kevin Roberts, Kevin N. Roberts, Kevin Nicholas Roberts Goddess by Michael R. Burch for Kevin N. Roberts “What will you conceive in me?”― I asked her. But she only smiled. “Naked, I bore your child when the wolf wind howled, when the cold moon scowled . . . naked, and gladly.” “What will become of me?”― I asked her, as she absently stroked my hand. Centuries later, I understand: she whispered―“I Am.” Published by Romantics Quarterly (the first poem in the first issue), Penny Dreadful, Unlikely Stories, Underground Poets, Poetically Speaking, Poetry Life & Times, Little Brown Poetry. Keywords: Muse, Goddess, Erato, Beloved, poetic, inspiration, lyric, poetry, divinity, Orpheus, Sappho Too Gentle, Angelic by Michael R. Burch for Kevin Nicholas Roberts Too gentle, angelic for Nature, child, too pure of heart for Religion’s vice . . . Oh, charm us again, let us be beguiled!
Beloved by Michael R. Burch a prayer-poem for Kevin Nicholas Roberts O, let me be the Beloved and let the Longing be Yours; but if You should “love” without Force, how then shall I love―stone, unmoved? But let me be the Beloved, and let the Longing be Yours. And as for the Saint, my dear friend, tonight let his suffering end!, and let him be your Beloved . . . no longer be stone: Love unmoved! But light on him now―Love, descend! Tonight, let his suffering end. For how can true Love be unmoved? If he suffers for love, Love reproved, I will never be your Beloved, so love him instead, so behooved! Yes, let him be your Beloved, or let You be nothing, so proved. Must this be our one and sole pact― keep you hymen forever intact? I wrote this poem a few months before Kevin’s death. Nightfall by Michael R. Burch for Kevin Nicholas Roberts Only the long dolor of dusk delights me now, as I await death. The rain has ruined the unborn corn, and the wasting breath of autumn has cruelly, savagely shorn each ear of its radiant health. As the golden sun dims, so the dying land seems to relinquish its vanishing wealth. Only a few erratic, trembling stalks still continue to stand, half upright, and even these the winds have continually robbed of their once-plentiful, golden birthright. I think of you and I sigh, forlorn, on edge with the rapidly encroaching night. Ten thousand stillborn lilies lie limp, mixed with roses, unable to ignite. Whatever became of the magical kernel, golden within at the winter solstice? What of its promised kingdom, Amen!, meant to rise again from this balmless poultice, this strange bottomland where one Scarecrow commands dark legions of ravens and mice? And what of the Giant whose bellows demand our negligible lives, his black vice? I find one bright grain here aglitter with rain, full of promise and purpose and drive. Through lightning and hail and nightfalls and pale, cold sunless moons it will strive to rise up from its “place” on a network of lace, to the glory of being alive. Why does it bother, I wonder, my brother? O, am I unwise to believe? But Jack had his beanstalk and you had your poems and the sun seems intent to ascend and so I also must climb to the end of my time, however the story may unwind and end. This poem was written around a month after Kevin’s death. Storied Lovers by Michael R. Burch for Kevin and Janice Roberts In your quest for the Beloved, my brother, did you make a near-fatal mistake? * Did you trust in the Enchantress, La Belle Dame, as they say, Sans Merci? Shall I pray more kindly hands to gather you to warmer breasts, and hold your Spirit there, enfold your heart in love’s sweet blessedness? * No need! One Angel’s fond caress was your sweet haven here. None ever held more dear, you harbored with your Anchoress whenever storms drew near. * Whatever storms drew near, however great the Flood, she held you, kind and good, no imperious savage Empress, but as earthly Angels should. * In your quest for the Beloved did the road take some strange fork where ecstatic feys cavort that led you to her hermitage and her hearth, safe from that wood. (Did La Belle Dame’s dark eyes hood?) * I am thankful for the marriage two tender spirits shared. When the raging waters glared and the deadly bugles blared like cruel Trumps of Doom, below how strong death’s undertow! * But true spirits never sink. Though he swam through hell’s fell stink and a sea of putrid harms, he swam back to your arms! * Life lived upon the brink of death, man’s human fate, can yet such Love create that the hosts above, spellbound, fall silent. So confound the heavens with your Love and fly, O tender Dove!, to wherever hearts may rest once having sweetly blessed a heart like my dear brother’s and be both storied lovers. Amen I wrote this poem on New Year’s Day, January 1, 2009. You Were the One Who Talked to Angels by Michael R. Burch for Kevin Nicholas Roberts You were the one who talked to Angels while I was the one who berated God, calling him Tyrant, Infidel, Fool, Killer, Clown, Brute, Sod, Despot, Clod. But you were the one who talked to Angels― who, bathed in celestial light, stood unarmed, except for your pen and your journal, ecstatic, to write. How kind their baptisms, how gentle their voices! Considering their nature the world rejoices, and you were their gentle, their chosen one . . . you, my kind friend, now unkindly gone. But you were the one who talked to Angels, in empathy, being their kind, a child of compassion whose tender heart burst beneath skin’s ruptured rind. You sought the Beloved with a questing Heart; once found, the heav’n-quickened Spirit must fly! You mastered Man’s strange, fatalistic Art― to live, to love, to laugh, then die. But living here, Angel, you found the arms of a human Angel and, living, you knew the glories of temporal, mortal love where one and one eclipses two. And now she mourns you, as we all do. But you were the one who talked to Angels, as William Blake did, in his day, and, childlike, felt their eclectic grace― sweet warmth, illuminating clay. Two kinds of Warmth―a Wife’s, and Theirs. Two kinds of Love―Human, Divine. Two kinds of Grace―the Angels’, Hers. Two Planes within one Heart combine. And so you brought far heaven near, and so you elevated earth and Human Love, to where the Cloud of Witnesses might see man’s worth. * My Christlike brother, who talked to Angels, where do you soar today, I wonder? Do you fly on white percussive wings, far, far beyond earth’s abyssal thunder, and looking back, regard the earth and its lightnings and their bellowed hymns as the sparks and groans of a temporal Forge, as merely momentary things? There, looking up, do you see the Host of those who ascended, of those who see all things more clearly, having slipped thin veils of flesh, for Eternity? And will you, in your Joy, forget the sufferings of serfs below, or will you remember, cry “Relent!” to those with the power to bestow the gifts of spirit upon the many rather than just the Chosen Few, who sell bottled grace for a pretty penny and break the hearts of doves like you? Or will you be the Advocate of those who live―the f*g; the w***e; the homeless man; the indigent; the waif who begs at the kirk’s barred door and dares not enter, for her “sins” which the rich-robed mannequins deplore as they circle her and mind the store? Will mercy, pity, peace conspire to hold you in their gravity so that, still Human, you aspire to change earth’s dark trajectory? I wrote this poem the day after Kevin died. Keywords/Tags: poetry, poems, poet, Kevin Roberts, Kevin N. Roberts, Kevin Nicholas Roberts, romantic, Romantics Quarterly Wonderland by Michael R. Burch We stood, kids of the Lamb, to put to test the beatific anthems of the blessed, the sentence of the martyr, and the pen’s sincere religion. Magnified, the lens shot back absurd reflections of each face: a carnival-like mirror. In the space between the silver backing and the glass, we caught a glimpse of Joan, a frumpy lass who never brushed her hair or teeth, and failed to pass on GO, and frequently was jailed for awe’s beliefs. Like Alice, she grew wee to fit the door, then couldn’t lift the key. We failed the test, and so the jury’s hung. In Oz, “The Witch is Dead” ranks number one. Originally published by The HyperTexts Reason Without Rhyme by Michael R. Burch I used to be averse to free verse, but now I admit YOUR rhyming is WORSE! But alas, in the end, it’s all the same: all verse is unpaid and a crying shame. a peom in supsport of a dsylexci peot (supsport = to be red at tea time whilts wathcing a ball gaem) for ken d williams pay no hede to the saynayers, what the hell due ur criticks no? ur every peom has a good haert There are a number of puns, including ur (my term for original/ancient/first), no/know, pay/due, the critic as both absurd and an as(s)-burd who is he(artless), and the poet as the (seer)v of an (i)-chart for all. Here is an encoded version: (pay) k(no)w hede to the say(nay)ers, what the hell (due) ur (cry)(ticks) k(no)w? (ur) every peom has a good haert The Board by Michael R. Burch Accessible rhyme is never good. The penalty is understood: soft titters from dark board rooms where the businessmen paste on their hair and, Walter Mitties, woo the Muse with reprimands of Dr. Seuss. The best book of the age sold two, or three, or four (but not to you), strange copies of the ones before, misreadings that delight the board. They sit and clap; their revenues fall trillions short of Mother Goose. Originally published by The HyperTexts A Passing Observation about Thinking Outside the Box by Michael R. Burch William Blake had no public, and yet he’s still read. His critics are dead. The Difference by Michael R. Burch The chimneysweeps will weep for Blake, who wrote his poems for their dear sake. The critics clap, polite, for you. Another poem for poets, Whooo! Ah! Sunflower by Michael R. Burch for and after William Blake O little yellow flower like a star ... how beautiful, how wonderful we are! blake take by michael r. burch we became ashamed of our bodies; we became ashamed of sweet sex; we became ashamed of the LORD with each terrible CURSE and HEX; we became ashamed of the planet (it’s such a slovenly hovel); and we came to see, in the end, that we really agreed with the devil. dark matter(s) by Michael R. Burch for and after William Blake the matter is dark, despairful, alarming: ur Creator is hardly prince charming! yes, ur “Great I Am” created blake’s lamb but He also created the tyger ... and what about trump and rod steiger? Rod Steiger is best known for his portrayals of weirdos, oddballs, mobsters, bandits, serial killers, and fascists like Mussolini and Napoleon. The Echoless Green by Michael R. Burch for and after William Blake At dawn, laughter rang on the echoing green as children at play greeted the day. At noon, smiles were seen on the echoing green as, children no more, many fine oaths they swore. By twilight, their cries had subsided to sighs. Now night reigns supreme on the echoless green. evol-u-shun by michael r. burch for and after william blake does GOD adore the Tyger while it’s ripping ur lamb apart? does GOD applaud the Plague while it’s eating u à la carte? does GOD admire ur brains while ur claimng IT has a heart? does GOD endorse the Bible you blue-lighted at k-mart? Mongrel Dreams (II) by Michael R. Burch for Thomas Rain Crowe I squat in my Cherokee lodge, this crude wooden hutch of dry branches and leaf-thatch as the embers smolder and burn, hearing always the distant tom-toms of your rain dance. I relax in my rustic shack on the heroned shores of Gwynedd, slandering the English in the amulet gleam of the North Atlantic, hearing your troubadour’s songs, remembering Dylan. I stand in my rough woolen kilt in the tall highland heather feeling the freezing winds through the trees leaning sideways, hearing your bagpipes’ lament, dreaming of Burns. I slave in my drab English hovel, tabulating rents while dreaming of Blake and burning your poems like incense. I abide in my pale mongrel flesh, writing in Nashville as the thunderbolts flash and the spring rains spill, till the quill gently bleeds and the white page fills, dreaming of Whitman, calling you brother. 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” of Emerson? But these are children's games. Give me rhythms wild as Dylan’s! Give me Bobbie Burns! Give me Psalms, or Hopkins’ poems, Hart Crane’s, if he returns! Or Langston railing! Blake assailing! Few others I desire. Or go away, yes, leave today: your tepid poets tire.
I Learned Too Late by Michael R. Burch “Show, don’t tell!” I learned too late that poetry has rules, although they may be rules for greater fools. In any case, by dodging rules and schools, I avoided useless duels. I learned too late that sentiment is bad― that Blake and Keats and Plath had all been had. In any case, by following my heart, I learned to walk apart. I learned too late that “telling” is a crime. Did Shakespeare know? Is Milton doing time? In any case, by telling, I admit: I think such rules are s**t. tyger, lamb, free love, etc. by michael r. burch for and after william blake the tiger’s a ferocious slayer. he has no say in it. hence, ur Creator’s a s**t. the lamb led to the slaughter extends her neck to the block and bit. she has no say in it. so don’t be a nitwit: drink, carouse and revel! why obey the Devil? Sun Poem by Michael R. Burch I have suffused myself in poetry as a lizard basks, soaking up sun, scales nakedly glinting; its glorious light he understands: when it comes, it comes. A flood of light leaches down to his bones, his feral eye blinks: bold, curious, bright. Now night and soon winter lie brooding, damp, chilling; here shadows foretell the great darkness ahead. Yet he stretches in rapture, his hot blood thrilling, simple yet fierce on his hard stone bed, his tongue flicking rhythms, the sun: throbbing, spilling.
Bound by Michael R. Burch Now it is winter�"the coldest night. And as the light of the streetlamp casts strange shadows to the ground, I have lost what I once found in your arms. Now it is winter�"the coldest night. And as the light of distant Venus fails to penetrate dark panes, I have remade all my chains and am bound. This is my translation of one of my favorite Dimash Kudaibergen songs, the
French song "S.O.S." ...
ITALIAN POETRY TRANSLATIONS These are my modern English translations of the Roman, Latin and Italian poets Anonymous, Marcus Aurelius, Catullus, Guido Cavalcanti, Cicero, Dante Alighieri, Veronica Franco, Guido Guinizelli, Hadrian, Primo Levi, Martial, Michelangelo, Seneca, Seneca the Younger and Leonardo da Vinci. I also have translations of Latin poems by the English poets Aldhelm, Thomas Campion and Saint Godric of Finchale. Wall, I'm astonished that you haven't collapsed, My objective is not to side with the majority, but to avoid the ranks of the insane.�"Marcus Aurelius, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Little sparks ignite great Infernos.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation Michael R. Burch MARTIAL I must admit I'm partial You ask me why I've sent you no new verses? You ask me to recite my poems to you? You ask me why I choose to live elsewhere? You ask me why I love fresh country air? You ask me why I love fresh country air? 1. 2. He undertook to be a doctor but turned out to be an undertaker.
Recite my epigrams? I decline, for then they’d be yours, not mine.
I do not love you: no reason, no lie. You’re young and lovely, wealthy too, but that changes nothing: you're a shrew. You never wrote a poem, He starts everything but finishes nothing; You dine in great magnificence You alone own prime land, dandy! To you, my departed parents, dear mother and father, To you, my departed parents, with much emotion, Coq au vin 1. 2. Amaro is an after-dinner liqueur thought to aid the digestion after a large meal. 3. 4. CATULLUS Catullus LXXXV: 'Odi et Amo' 1. 2. 3. Catullus CVI: 'That Boy' See that young boy, by the auctioneer? Catullus LI: 'That Man' I'd call that man the equal of the gods, Meanwhile, in my misery, Lesbia, there's nothing left of me My limbs tingle, my ears ring, my eyes water Call it leisure, Catullus, or call it idleness, Catullus 1 ('cui dono lepidum novum libellum') To whom do I dedicate this novel book Catullus XLIX: 'A Toast to Cicero' Cicero, please confess: Catullus CI: 'His Brother's Burial' 1. 2. [Here 'offered in the time-honored manner of our fathers' is from another translation by an unknown translator.] [What do the gods know, with their superior airs, Hortalus, I’m exhausted by relentless grief, Never again will I hear you speak, Yet even amidst such unfathomable sorrows, O Hortalus, Sparrow, my sweetheart's pet, Catullus V: 'Let us live, Lesbia, let us love' Let us live, Lesbia, let us love, Suns may set then rise again, Give me a thousand kisses, a hundred more, Then, once we've tallied the many thousands, Catullus VII: 'How Many Kisses' You ask, Lesbia, how many kisses As many as the Libyan sands Or as many as the stars observing amorous men As many of your kisses are enough, Catullus VIII: 'Advice to Himself' Snap out of it Catullus, stop this foolishness! Catullus LX: 'Lioness' Did an African mountain lioness Catullus LXX: 'Marriage Vows' My sweetheart says she'd marry no one else but me, CICERO The famous Roman orator Cicero employed 'tail rhyme' in this pun: O Fortunatam natam me consule Romam. MICHELANGELO Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564) is considered by many experts to be the greatest artist and sculptor of all time. He was also a great poet. Michelangelo Epigram Translations I saw the angel in the marble and freed him. SONNET: RAVISHED Ravished, by all our eyes find fine and fair, SONNET: TO LUIGI DEL RICCIO, AFTER THE DEATH OF CECCHINO BRACCI A pena prima. I had barely seen the beauty of his eyes In my tardiness, I wept, too late made wise, Therefore, Luigi, since the task is mine And since the artist cannot work alone, BEAUTY AND THE ARTIST Al cor di zolfo. A heart aflame; alas, the flesh not so; A witless mind that - halt, lame, weak - must go Add beauteous Art, which, Heaven-Promethean, SONNET XVI: LOVE AND ART Sì come nella penna. Just as with pen and ink, SONNET XXXI: LOVE'S LORDSHIP, TO TOMMASO DE' CAVALIERI A che più debb' io. Am I to confess my heart's desire Why should my aching heart aspire Therefore, because I cannot dodge the blow, LEONARDO DA VINCI Once we have flown, we will forever walk the earth with our eyes turned heavenward, for there we were and will always long to return.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The great achievers rarely relaxed and let things happen to them. They set out and kick-started whatever happened.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Nothing enables authority like silence.�"Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch The greatest deceptions spring from men's own opinions.�"Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch There are three classes of people: Those who see by themselves. Those who see only when they are shown. Those who refuse to see.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Blinding ignorance misleads us. Myopic mortals, open your eyes! �"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch It is easier to oppose evil from the beginning than at the end.�"Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch Small minds continue to shrink, but those whose hearts are firm and whose consciences endorse their conduct, will persevere until death.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I am impressed with the urgency of doing. Knowledge is not enough; we must apply ourselves. Wanting and being willing are insufficient; we must act.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Time is sufficient for anyone who uses it wisely.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Where the spirit does not aid and abet the hand there is no art.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Necessity is the mistress of mother nature's inventions.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Nature has no effect without cause, no invention without necessity.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Did Leonardo da Vinci anticipate Darwin with his comments about Nature and necessity being the mistress of her inventions? Yes, and his studies of comparative anatomy, including the intestines, led da Vinci to say explicitly that 'apes, monkeys and the like' are not merely related to humans but are 'almost of the same species.' He was, indeed, a man ahead of his time, by at least 350 years. Excerpts from 'Paragone of Poetry and Painting' and Other Writings Sculpture requires light, received from above, Painting is the more beautiful, the more imaginative, the more copious, Painting encompasses infinite possibilities While as soon as the Poet abandons nature, he ceases to resemble the Painter; Painting is poetry seen but not heard, And if the Poet calls painting dumb poetry, Yet poor is the pupil who fails to surpass his master! Because I find no subject especially useful or pleasing Thus, I will load my humble cart full of despised and rejected merchandise, And what can I do when a woman plucks my heart? The Point Here forms, colors, the character of the entire universe, contract to a point, VERONICA FRANCO Veronica Franco (1546-1591) was a Venetian courtesan who wrote literary-quality poetry and prose. A Courtesan's Love Lyric (I) My rewards will be commensurate with your gifts Here is a second version of the same poem... I Resolved to Make a Virtue of My Desire (II) My rewards will match your gifts Capitolo 24 (written by Franco to a man who had insulted a woman) Please try to see with sensible eyes When I bed a man We danced a youthful jig through that fair city�" I wish it were not a sin to have liked it so. ANONYMOUS The poem below is based on my teenage misinterpretation of a Latin prayer... Elegy for a little girl, lost for my mother, Christine Ena Burch, who was always a little girl at heart ... qui laetificat juventutem meam... Amen I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem, which I started in high school and revised as an adult. From what I now understand, 'ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam' means 'to the God who gives joy to my youth, ' but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Latin Vulgate Bible (circa 385 AD) . I can't remember exactly when I read the novel or wrote the poem, but I believe it was around my junior year of high school, age 17 or thereabouts. This was my first translation. I revised the poem slightly in 2001 after realizing I had 'misremembered' one of the words in the Latin prayer. The Latin hymn 'Dies Irae' employs end rhyme: Dies irae, dies illa The day of wrath, that day
Hadrian's Elegy My delicate soul, THOMAS CAMPION NOVELTIES Booksellers laud authors for novel editions PRIMO LEVI These are my translations of poems by the Italian Jewish Holocaust survivor Primo Levi. Shema You who live secure Buna Wasted feet, cursed earth, Note: Buna was the largest Auschwitz sub-camp. ALDHELM 'The Leiden Riddle' is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle 'Lorica' or 'Corselet.' The Leiden Riddle The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb. Solution: a coat of mail. SAINT GODRIC OF FINCHALE The song below is said in the 'Life of Saint Godric' to have come to Godric when he had a vision of his sister Burhcwen, like him a solitary at Finchale, being received into heaven. She was singing a song of thanksgiving, in Latin, and Godric renders her song in English bracketed by a Kyrie eleison. Led By Christ and Mary By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led DANTE Translations of Dante Epigrams and Quotes by Michael R. Burch Little sparks may ignite great Infernos.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch In Beatrice I beheld the outer boundaries of blessedness.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch She made my veins and even the pulses within them tremble.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Her sweetness left me intoxicated.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Love commands me by determining my desires.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Follow your own path and let the bystanders gossip.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The devil is not as dark as depicted.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch There is no greater sorrow than to recall how we delighted in our own wretchedness.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch As he, who with heaving lungs escaped the suffocating sea, turns to regard its perilous waters.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you nosedive in the mildest breeze? �"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you quail at the least breath of wind? �"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Midway through my life's journey INSCRIPTION ON THE GATE OF HELL Before me nothing existed, to fear. Excerpts from LA VITA NUOVA Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi. Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra. Heu miser! quia frequenter impeditus ero deinceps. Fili mi, tempus est ut prætermittantur simulata nostra. Ego tanquam centrum circuli, cui simili modo se habent circumferentiæ partes: tu autem non sic. Translations of Dante Cantos by Michael R. Burch Paradiso, Canto III: 1-33, The Revelation of Love and Truth That sun, which had inflamed my breast with love, Excerpt from 'Paradiso' O Virgin Mother, daughter of your Son, Translations of Dante Sonnets by Michael R. Burch Sonnet: 'A Vision of Love' or 'Love's Faithful Ones' from LA VITA NUOVA To every gentle heart true Love may move, Sonnet: 'Love's Thoroughfare' from LA VITA NUOVA 'O voi che par la via' All those who travel Love's worn tracks, Sonnet: 'Cry for Pity' from LA VITA NUOVA These thoughts lie shattered in my memory: Sonnet: 'Ladies of Modest Countenance' from LA VITA NUOVA You who wear a modest countenance Translations of Poems by Other Italian Poets Sonnet IV: ‘S'io prego questa donna che Pietate' If I should ask this lady, in her grace, Guido Guinizelli, also known as Guido di Guinizzello di Magnano, was born in Bologna. He became an esteemed Italian love poet and is considered to be the father of the 'dolce stil nuovo' or 'sweet new style.' Dante called him 'il saggio' or 'the sage.' Sonetto In truth I sing her honor and her praise: This is a poem of mine that has been translated into Italian by Comasia Aquaro. Her Grace Flows Freely July 7,2007 Her love is always chaste, and pure. Her Grace Flows Freely La sua grazia vola libera 7 luglio 2007 Il suo amore è sempre casto, e puro. A risqué Latin epigram: C-nt, while you weep and seep neediness all night, References to Dante in other Translations by Michael R. Burch THE MUSE My being hangs by a thread tonight I have also translated this tribute poem written by Marina Tsvetaeva for Anna Akhmatova: Excerpt from 'Poems for Akhmatova' You outshine everything, even the sun Dante-Related Poems and Dante Criticism by Michael R. Burch Of Seabound Saints and Promised Lands Judas sat on a wretched rock, Saint Brendan, full of mercy, stood O, behoove yourself, if ever you can, In Dante's 'Inferno' Satan gnaws on Judas Iscariot's head. A curragh is a boat fashioned from wood and ox hides. Saint Brendan of Ireland is the patron saint of sailors and whales. According to legend, he sailed in search of the Promised Land and discovered America centuries before Columbus. Dante's was a defensive reflex Dante, you Dunce! The earth is hell, Dante, you Dunce! How Dante Forgot Christ Dante damned the brightest and the fairest
There's something glorious about man, RE: Paradiso, Canto III for the most 'Christian' of poets What did Dante do, Intimations V We had not meditated upon sound Endgame The honey has lost all its sweetness, The drones are those who drone on about the love of God in a world full of suffering and death: dead prophets, dead pontiffs, dead preachers. Spewers of dead words and false promises. The queen is disenthroned, as in Dis-enthroned. In Dante's Inferno, the lower regions of hell are enclosed within the walls of Dis, a city surrounded by the Stygian marshes. The river Styx symbolizes death and the journey from life to the afterlife. But in Norse mythology, Dis was a goddess, the sun, and the consort of Heimdal, himself a god of light. DIS is also the stock ticker designation for Disney, creator of the Magic Kingdom. The 'promised white stone' appears in Revelation, which turns Jesus and the Angels into serial killers.
Here I am, talking to myself again... Brief Encounters: Other Roman, Italian and Greek Epigrams No wind is favorable to the man who lacks direction.�"Seneca the Younger, translation by Michael R. Burch Little sparks ignite great Infernos.�"Dante, translation by Michael R. Burch The danger is not aiming too high and missing, but aiming too low and hitting the mark.�"Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch He who follows will never surpass.�"Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch Nothing enables authority like silence.�"Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch My objective is not to side with the majority, but to avoid the ranks of the insane.�"Marcus Aurelius, translation by Michael R. Burch Time is sufficient for anyone who uses it wisely.�"Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch Blinding ignorance misleads us. Myopic mortals, open your eyes! �"Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch It is easier to oppose evil from the beginning than at the end.�"Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch Fools call wisdom foolishness.�"Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch One true friend is worth ten thousand kin.�"Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch Not to speak one's mind is slavery.�"Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch I would rather die standing than kneel, a slave.�"Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch Fresh tears are wasted on old griefs.�"Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch Improve yourself by other men's writings, attaining less painfully what they gained through great difficulty.�"Socrates, translation by Michael R. Burch Just as I select a ship when it's time to travel, or a house when it's time to change residences, even so I will choose when it's time to depart from life.―Seneca, speaking about the right to euthanasia in the first century AD, translation by Michael R. Burch Booksellers laud authors for novel editions TRANSLATIONS OF GILDAS These are my English translations of Gildas, also known as Gildas Sapiens (“Gildas the Wise”). Gildas was a 6th-century British monk who is one of the first native writers of the British Isles we know by name. Gildas is remembered for his scathing religious polemic De Excidio et Conquestu Britanniae (“On the Ruin and Conquest of Britain” or simply “On the Ruin of Britain”). The work has been dated to circa 480-550 AD.
Furthermore, I respectfully request: Allow Your heavenly host Send, I implore, these living thrones, May Christ, whose righteous Visage frightens away foul throngs, May God the Unconquerable Guardian Free my manacled limbs, Lord Jesus Christ, be my sure armor, I pray! Cover me, O God, with Your impenetrable breastplate! Cover me so that, from head to toe, Until, with the gift of old age granted by God, Amen #GILDAS #LATIN #LORICA #RUIN #MRBGILDAS #MRBLATIN #MRBLORICA #MRBRUIN #POEMS #POETRY #LATIN #ROMAN #ITALIAN #TRANSLATION #MRB-POEMS #MRB-POETRY #MRBPOEMS #MRBPOETRY #MRBLATIN #MRBROMAN #MRBITALIAN #MRBTRANSLATION © 2024 Michael R. Burch |
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