I Have Labored SoreA Poem by Michael R. Burch "I Have Labored Sore" medieval English translation I Have Labored Soreanonymous medieval lyric (circa the fifteenth century)
NOTE: This poem has a pronounced caesura (pause) in the middle of each line: a hallmark of Old English poetry. While this poem is closer to Middle English, it preserves the older tradition. I have represented the caesura with a double slash. I haue laborede sore // and suffered deyeth A Lyke-Wake Dirge
When from this earthly life you pass If you ever donated socks and shoes, But if you never helped your brother, If ever you shared your food and drink, But if you never helped your brother, This one night, this one night, This World's Joy
How Long the Night
Wulf and Eadwacer (ancient Anglo-Saxon poem) My clan’s curs pursue him like crippled game; Wulf's on one island; we’re on another. My hopes pursued Wulf like panting hounds, Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you Adam Lay Ybounden
The poem has also been rendered as "Adam lay i-bounden" and "Adam lay i-bowndyn." Here is the original poem in one of its ancient forms: Adam lay i-bounden, bounden in a bond; Excerpt from “Ubi Sunt Qui Ante Nos Fuerunt?”
Once eating and drinking made their hearts glad; Where are their laughter and their songs, Westron Wynde
NOTE: The original poem has "the smalle rayne down can rayne" which suggests a drizzle or mist, either of which would suggest a dismal day. Pity Mary
In the poem above, note how "wood" and "tree" invoke the cross while "sun" and "son" seem to invoke each other. Sun-day is also Son-day, to Christians. The anonymous poet who wrote the poem above may have been been punning the words "sun" and "son." The poem is also known as "Now Goeth Sun Under Wood" and "Now Go'th Sun Under Wood." Here's another poem from the same era: Fowles in the Frith
Sounds like an early animal rights activist! The use of "and" is intriguing ... is the poet saying that his walks in the wood drive him mad because he is also a "beast of bone and blood," facing a similar fate? I am of Ireland
Ich am of Irlaunde,
The Best Medieval Poems in Modern English Translations by Michael R. Burch These are modern English translations of Old English/Anglo-Saxon poems and Middle English poems by Anonymous, Caedmon, Geoffrey Chaucer, Thomas Campion, Deor, William Dunbar, Godric of Finchale, Charles d'Orleans, Layamon and Sir Thomas Wyatt. Sweet Rose of Virtue by William Dunbar (1460-1525) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness, delightful lily of youthful wantonness, richest in bounty and in beauty clear and in every virtue that is held most dear― except only that you are merciless. Into your garden, today, I followed you; there I saw flowers of freshest hue, both white and red, delightful to see, and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently― yet everywhere, no odor but rue. I fear that March with his last arctic blast has slain my fair rose and left her downcast, whose piteous death does my heart such pain that I long to plant love's root again― so comforting her bowering leaves have been. My translation of "Lament for the Makaris" by William Dunbar appears later on this page. "Now skruketh rose and lylie flour" is an early Middle English poem that gives a hint of things to come, in terms of meter and rhyme … Now skruketh rose and lylie flour (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 11th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Now the rose and the lily skyward flower, That will bear for awhile that sweet savor: In summer, that sweet tide; There is no queen so stark in her power Nor any lady so bright in her bower That Death shall not summon and guide; But whoever forgoes lust, in heavenly bliss will abide With his thoughts on Jesus anon, thralled at his side. skruketh = break forth, burst open; stour = strong, stern, hardy; tharled = thralled?, made a serf?, bound? Fowles in the Frith (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The fowls in the forest, the fishes in the flood and I must go mad: such sorrow I've had for beasts of bone and blood! Whan the turuf is thy tour (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 1. When the turf is your tower and the pit is your bower, your pale white skin and throat shall be sullen worms’ to note. What help to you, then, was all your worldly hope? 2. When the turf is your tower and the grave is your bower, your pale white throat and skin worm-eaten from within … what hope of my help then? The second translation leans more to the "lover's complaint" and carpe diem genres, with the poet pointing out to his prospective lover that by denying him her favors she make take her virtue to the grave where worms will end her virginity in macabre fashion. This poem may be an ancient precursor of poems like Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress." Ech day me comëth tydinges thre (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Each day I’m plagued by three doles, These gargantuan weights on my soul: First, that I must somehow exit this fen. Second, that I cannot know when. And yet it’s the third that torments me so, Because I don't know where the hell I will go! Ich have y-don al myn youth (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I have done it all my youth: Often, often, and often! I have loved long and yearned zealously … And oh what grief it has brought me! GEOFFREY CHAUCER Three Roundels by Geoffrey Chaucer I. Merciles Beaute ("Merciless Beauty") by Geoffrey Chaucer loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Your eyes slay me suddenly; their beauty I cannot sustain, they wound me so, through my heart keen. Unless your words heal me hastily, my heart's wound will remain green; for your eyes slay me suddenly; their beauty I cannot sustain. By all truth, I tell you faithfully that you are of life and death my queen; for at my death this truth shall be seen: your eyes slay me suddenly; their beauty I cannot sustain, they wound me so, through my heart keen. II. Rejection by Geoffrey Chaucer loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Your beauty from your heart has so erased Pity, that it’s useless to complain; For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain. I'm guiltless, yet my sentence has been cast. I tell you truly, needless now to feign,�" Your beauty from your heart has so erased Pity, that it’s useless to complain. Alas, that Nature in your face compassed Such beauty, that no man may hope attain To mercy, though he perish from the pain; Your beauty from your heart has so erased Pity, that it’s useless to complain; For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain. III. Escape by Geoffrey Chaucer loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat, I never plan to be in his prison lean; Since I am free, I count it not a bean. He may question me and counter this and that; I care not: I will answer just as I mean. Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat, I never plan to be in his prison lean. Love strikes me from his roster, short and flat, And he is struck from my books, just as clean, Forevermore; there is no other mean. Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat, I never plan to be in his prison lean; Since I am free, I count it not a bean. Welcome, Summer by Geoffrey Chaucer loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft, since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather and driven away her long nights’ frosts. Saint Valentine, in the heavens aloft, the songbirds sing your praises together! Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft, since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather. We have good cause to rejoice, not scoff, since love’s in the air, and also in the heather, whenever we find such blissful warmth, together. Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft, since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather and driven away her long nights’ frosts. CHARLES D'ORLEANS Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation/moderniz ation by Michael R. Burch Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray, Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains, Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain, Your little feet�"please, what more can I say? It is my fetish when you’re far away To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain�" Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray, Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains. So would I beg you, if I only may, To see such sights as I before have seen, Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene? I’ll be obsessed until my dying day By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray, Your ample breasts and slender arms’ twin chains! Spring by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation/moderniz ation by Michael R. Burch Young lovers, greeting the spring fling themselves downhill, making cobblestones ring with their wild leaps and arcs, like ecstatic sparks struck from coal. What is their brazen goal? They grab at whatever passes, so we can only hazard guesses. But they rear like prancing steeds raked by brilliant spurs of need, Young lovers. Oft in My Thought by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation/moderniz ation by Michael R. Burch So often in my busy mind I sought, Around the advent of the fledgling year, For something pretty that I really ought To give my lady dear; But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear, Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay And robbed the world of all that's precious here― God keep her soul, I can no better say. For me to keep my manner and my thought Acceptable, as suits my age's hour? While proving that I never once forgot Her worth? It tests my power! I serve her now with masses and with prayer; For it would be a shame for me to stray Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near�" God keep her soul, I can no better say. Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost And the cost of everything became so dear; Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host, Take my good deeds, as many as there are, And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere, As heaven's truest maid! And may I say: Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer�" God keep her soul, I can no better say. When I praise her, or hear her praises raised, I recall how recently she brought me pleasure; Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay And makes me wish to dress for my own bier�" God keep her soul, I can no better say. Winter has cast his cloak away by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation/moderniz ation by Michael R. Burch Winter has cast his cloak away of wind and cold and chilling rain to dress in embroidered light again: the light of day�"bright, festive, gay! Each bird and beast, without delay, in its own tongue, sings this refrain: "Winter has cast his cloak away!" Brooks, fountains, rivers, streams at play, wear, with their summer livery, bright beads of silver jewelry. All the Earth has a new and fresh display: Winter has cast his cloak away! This rondeau was set to music by Debussy in his Trois chansons de France. The year lays down his mantle cold by Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation/moderniz ation by Michael R. Burch The year lays down his mantle cold of wind, chill rain and bitter air, and now goes clad in clothes of gold of smiling suns and seasons fair, while birds and beasts of wood and fold now with each cry and song declare: "The year lays down his mantle cold!" All brooks, springs, rivers, seaward rolled, now pleasant summer livery wear with silver beads embroidered where the world puts off its raiment old. The year lays down his mantle cold. Fair Lady Without Peer by Charles d’Orleans loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Fair Lady, without peer, my plea, Is that your grace will pardon me, Since I implore, on bended knee. No longer can I, privately, Keep this from you: my deep distress, When only you can comfort me, For I consider you my only mistress. This powerful love demands, I fear, That I confess things openly, Since to your service I came here And my helpless eyes were forced to see Such beauty gods and angels cheer, Which brought me joy in such excess That I became your servant, gladly, For I consider you my only mistress. Please grant me this great gift most dear: to be your vassal, willingly. May it please you that, now, year by year, I shall serve you as my only Liege. I bend the knee here�"true, sincere�" Unfit to beg one royal kiss, Although none other offers cheer, For I consider you my only mistress. Chanson: Let Him Refrain from Loving, Who Can by Charles d’Orleans loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Let him refrain from loving, who can. I can no longer hover. I must become a lover. What will become of me, I know not. Although I’ve heard the distant thought that those who love all suffer, I must become a lover. I can no longer refrain. My heart must risk almost certain pain and trust in Beauty, however distraught. For if a man does not love, then what? Let him refrain from loving, who can. Her Beauty by Charles d’Orleans loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Her beauty, to the world so plain, Still intimately held my heart in thrall And so established her sole reign: She was, of Good, the cascading fountain. Thus of my Love, lost recently, I say, while weeping bitterly: “We cleave to this strange world in vain.” In ages past when angels fell The world grew darker with the stain Of their dear blood, then became hell While poets wept a tearful strain. Yet, to his dark and drear domain Death took his victims, piteously, So that we bards write bitterly: “We cleave to this strange world in vain.” Death comes to claim our angels, all, as well we know, and spares no pain. Over our pleasures, Death casts his pall, Then without joy we “living” remain. Death treats all Love with such disdain! What use is this world? For it seems to me, It has neither Love, nor Pity. Thus “We cleave to this strange world in vain.” Chanson: The Summer's Heralds by Charles d’Orleans loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The Summer’s heralds bring a dear Sweet season of soft-falling showers And carpet fields once brown and sere With lush green grasses and fresh flowers. Now over gleaming lawns appear The bright sun-dappled lengthening hours. The Summer’s heralds bring a dear Sweet season of soft-falling showers. Faint hearts once chained by sullen fear No longer shiver, tremble, cower. North winds no longer storm and glower. For winter has no business here. Traitorous Eye by Charles d’Orleans loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Traitorous eye, what’s new? What lewd pranks do you have in view? Without civil warning, you spy, And no one ever knows why! Who understands anything you do? You’re rash and crass in your boldness too, And your lewdness is hard to subdue. Change your crude ways, can’t you? Traitorous eye, what’s new? You should be beaten through and through With a stripling birch strap or two. Traitorous eye, what’s new? What lewd pranks do have you in view? SIR THOMAS WYATT “Whoso List to Hunt” has an alternate title, “The Lover Despairing to Attain Unto His Lady’s Grace Relinquisheth the Pursuit” and is commonly believed to have been written for Anne Boleyn, who married King Henry VIII only to be beheaded at his command when she failed to produce a male heir. (Ouch, talk about male chauvinism!) Whoever Longs to Hunt by Sir Thomas Wyatt loose translation/interpretation/moderniz ation by Michael R. Burch Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer; but as for me, alas!, I may no more. This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore I'm one of those who falters, at the rear. Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind away from the doe? Thus, as she flees before me, fainting I follow. I must leave off, therefore, since in a net I seek to hold the wind. Whoever seeks her out, I relieve of any doubt, that he, like me, must spend his time in vain. For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain, these words appear, her fair neck ringed about: Touch me not, for Caesar's I am, And wild to hold, though I seem tame. Brut, an excerpt by Layamon, circa 1100 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Now he stands on a hill overlooking the Avon, seeing steel fishes girded with swords in the stream, their swimming days done, their scales a-gleam like gold-plated shields, their fish-spines floating like shattered spears. Cædmon's Hymn (Old English circa 658-680 AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Come, let us honour heaven-kingdom's Guardian, the might of the Architect and his mind-plans, the work of the Glory-Father. First he, the Everlasting Lord, established the foundation of wonders. Then he, the Primeval Poet, created heaven as a roof for the sons of men, Holy Creator, Maker of mankind. Then he, the Eternal Entity, afterwards made men middle-earth: Master Almighty! A Proverb from Winfred's Time anonymous Old English poem, circa 757-786 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 1. The procrastinator puts off purpose, never initiates anything marvelous, never succeeds, dies dead alone. 2. The late-deed-doer delays glory-striving, never indulges daring dreams, never succeeds, dies dead alone. 3. Often the deed-dodger avoids ventures, never succeeds, dies dead alone. Franks Casket Runes anonymous Old English poems, circa 700 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The fish flooded the shore-cliffs; the sea-king wept when he swam onto the shingle: whale's bone. Romulus and Remus, twin brothers weaned in Rome by a she-wolf, far from their native land. "The Leiden Riddle" is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle Lorica ("Corselet"). The Leiden Riddle anonymous Old English riddle poem, circa 700 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb. I know I was not fashioned from woolen fleeces; nor was I skillfully spun from skeins; I have neither warp nor weft; no thread thrums through me in the thrashing loom; nor do whirring shuttles rattle me; nor does the weaver's rod assail me; nor did silkworms spin me like skillfull fates into curious golden embroidery. And yet heroes still call me an excellent coat. Nor do I fear the dread arrows' flights, however eagerly they leap from their quivers. Solution: a coat of mail. If you see a busker singing for tips, you're seeing someone carrying on an Anglo-Saxon tradition that goes back to the days of Beowulf … He sits with his harp at his thane's feet, Earning his hire, his rewards of rings, Sweeping the strings with his skillful nail; Hall-thanes smile at the sweet song he sings. �""Fortunes of Men" loose translation by Michael R. Burch Deor's Lament (Anglo Saxon poem, circa 10th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Weland knew the agony of exile. That indomitable smith was wracked by grief. He endured countless troubles: sorrows were his only companions in his frozen island dungeon after Nithad had fettered him, many strong-but-supple sinew-bonds binding the better man. That passed away; this also may. Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths but even more, her own sad state once she discovered herself with child. She predicted nothing good could come of it. That passed away; this also may. We have heard that the Geat's moans for Matilda, his lady, were limitless, that his sorrowful love for her robbed him of regretless sleep. That passed away; this also may. For thirty winters Theodric ruled the Mæring stronghold with an iron hand; many knew this and moaned. That passed away; this also may. We have also heard of Ermanaric's wolfish ways, of how he held wide sway in the realm of the Goths. He was a grim king! Many a warrior sat, full of cares and maladies of the mind, wishing constantly that his kingdom might be overthrown. That passed away; this also may. If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious, bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening, soon it seems to him that his troubles are endless. Then he must consider that the wise Lord often moves through the earth granting some men honor, glory and fame, but others only shame and hardship. This I will say for myself: that for awhile I was the Heodeninga's scop, dear to my lord. My name was Deor. For many winters I held a fine office, faithfully serving a just lord. But now Heorrenda a man skilful in songs, has received the estate the protector of warriors gave me. That passed away; this also may. The Wife's Lament loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I draw these words from deep wells of my grief, care-worn, unutterably sad. I can recount woes I've borne since birth, present and past, never more than now. I have won, from my exile-paths, only pain. First, my lord forsook his folk, left, crossed the seas' tumult, far from our people. Since then, I've known wrenching dawn-griefs, dark mournings … oh where, where can he be? Then I, too, left�"a lonely, lordless refugee, full of unaccountable desires! But the man's kinsmen schemed secretly to estrange us, divide us, keep us apart, across earth's wide kingdom, and my heart broke. Then my lord spoke: "Take up residence here." I had few friends in this unknown, cheerless region, none close. Christ, I felt lost! Then I thought I had found a well-matched man �" one meant for me, but unfortunately he was ill-starred and blind, with a devious mind, full of murderous intentions, plotting some crime! Before God we vowed never to part, not till kingdom come, never! But now that's all changed, forever �" our friendship done, severed. I must hear, far and near, contempt for my husband. So other men bade me, "Go, live in the grove, beneath the great oaks, in an earth-cave, alone." In this ancient cave-dwelling I am lost and oppressed �" the valleys are dark, the hills immense, and this cruel-briared enclosure�"an arid abode! The injustice assails me�"my lord's absence! On earth there are lovers who share the same bed while I pass through life dead in this dark abscess where I wilt, summer days unable to rest or forget the sorrows of my life's hard lot. A young woman must always be stern, hard-of-heart, unmoved, opposing breast-cares and her heartaches' legions. She must appear cheerful even in a tumult of grief. Like a criminal exiled to a far-off land, moaning beneath insurmountable cliffs, my weary-minded love, drenched by wild storms and caught in the clutches of anguish, is reminded constantly of our former happiness. Woe be it to them who abide in longing. The Husband's Message anonymous Old English poem, circa 960-990 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch See, I unseal myself for your eyes only! I sprang from a seed to a sapling, waxed great in a wood, was given knowledge, was ordered across saltstreams in ships where I stiffened my spine, standing tall, till, entering the halls of heroes, I honored my manly Lord. Now I stand here on this ship’s deck, an emissary ordered to inform you of the love my Lord feels for you. I have no fear forecasting his heart steadfast, his honor bright, his word true. He who bade me come carved this letter and entreats you to recall, clad in your finery, what you promised each other many years before, mindful of his treasure-laden promises. He reminds you how, in those distant days, witty words were pledged by you both in the mead-halls and homesteads: how he would be Lord of the lands you would inhabit together while forging a lasting love.
Alas, a vendetta drove him far from his feuding tribe, but now he instructs me to gladly give you notice that when you hear the returning cuckoo's cry cascading down warming coastal cliffs, come over the sea! Let no man hinder your course. He earnestly urges you: Out! To sea! Away to the sea, when the circling gulls hover over the ship that conveys you to him! Board the ship that you meet there: sail away seaward to seek your husband, over the seagulls' range, over the paths of foam. For over the water, he awaits you. He cannot conceive, he told me, how any keener joy could comfort his heart, nor any greater happiness gladden his soul, than that a generous God should grant you both to exchange rings, then give gifts to trusty liege-men, golden armbands inlaid with gems to faithful followers. The lands are his, his estates among strangers, his new abode fair and his followers true, all hardy heroes, since hence he was driven, shoved off in his ship from these shore in distress, steered straightway over the saltstreams, sped over the ocean, a wave-tossed wanderer winging away. But now the man has overcome his woes, outpitted his perils, lives in plenty, lacks no luxury, has a hoard and horses and friends in the mead-halls. All the wealth of the earth's great earls now belongs to my Lord … He only lacks you. He would have everything within an earl's having, if only my Lady will come home to him now, if only she will do as she swore and honor her vow. Led By Christ and Mary by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led that the earth never felt my bare foot’s tread! Crist and sainte marie swa on scamel me iledde þat ic on þis erðe ne silde wid mine bare fote itredie A Cry to Mary by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I. Saintë Marië Virginë, Mother of Jesus Christ the Nazarenë, Welcome, shield and help thin Godric, Fly him off to God’s kingdom rich! II. Saintë Marië, Christ’s bower, Virgin among Maidens, Motherhood’s flower, Blot out my sin, fix where I’m flawed, Elevate me to Bliss with God! Prayer to St. Nicholas by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Saint Nicholas, beloved of God, Build us a house that’s bright and fair; Watch over us from birth to bier, Then, Saint Nicholas, bring us safely there! Sainte Nicholaes godes druð tymbre us faire scone hus At þi burth at þi bare Sainte nicholaes bring vs wel þare The Rhymed Poem aka The Rhyming Poem and The Riming Poem anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem circa 990 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch He who granted me life created this sun and graciously provided its radiant engine. I was gladdened with glees, bathed in bright hues, deluged with joy’s blossoms, sunshine-infused. Men admired me, feted me with banquet-courses; we rejoiced in the good life. Gaily bedecked horses carried me swiftly across plains on joyful rides, delighting me with their long limbs' thunderous strides. That world was quickened by earth’s fruits and their flavors! I cantered under pleasant skies, attended by troops of advisers. Guests came and went, amusing me with their chatter as I listened with delight to their witty palaver. Well-appointed ships glided by in the distance; when I sailed myself, I was never without guidance. I was of the highest rank; I lacked for nothing in the hall; nor did I lack for brave companions; warriors, all, we strode through castle halls weighed down with gold won from our service to thanes. We were proud men, and bold. Wise men praised me; I was omnipotent in battle; Fate smiled on and protected me; foes fled before me like cattle. Thus I lived with joy indwelling; faithful retainers surrounded me; I possessed vast estates; I commanded all my eyes could see; the earth lay subdued before me; I sat on a princely throne; the words I sang were charmed; old friendships did not wane … Those were years rich in gifts and the sounds of happy harp-strings, when a lasting peace dammed shut the rivers’ sorrowings. My servants were keen, their harps resonant; their songs pealed, the sound loud but pleasant; the music they made melodious, a continual delight; the castle hall trembled and towered bright. Courage increased, wealth waxed with my talent; I gave wise counsel to great lords and enriched the valiant. My spirit enlarged; my heart rejoiced; good faith flourished; glory abounded; abundance increased. I was lavishly supplied with gold; bright gems were circulated … Till treasure led to treachery and the bonds of friendship constricted. I was bold in my bright array, noble in my equipage, my joy princely, my home a happy hermitage. I protected and led my people; for many years my life among them was regal; I was devoted to them and they to me. But now my heart is troubled, fearful of the fates I see; disaster seems unavoidable. Someone dear departs in flight by night who once before was bold. His soul has lost its light. A secret disease in full growth blooms within his breast, spreads in different directions. Hostility blossoms in his chest, in his mind. Bottomless grief assaults the mind's nature and when penned in, erupts in rupture, burns eagerly for calamity, runs bitterly about. The weary man suffers, begins a journey into doubt; his pain is ceaseless; pain increases his sorrows, destroys his bliss; his glory ceases; he loses his happiness; he loses his craft; he no longer burns with desires. Thus joys here perish, lordships expire; men lose faith and descend into vice; infirm faith degenerates into evil’s curse; faith feebly abandons its high seat and every hour grows worse. So now the world changes; Fate leaves men lame; Death pursues hatred and brings men to shame. The happy clan perishes; the spear rends the marrow; the evildoer brawls and poisons the arrow; sorrow devours the city; old age castrates courage; misery flourishes; wrath desecrates the peerage; the abyss of sin widens; the treacherous path snakes; resentment burrows, digs in, wrinkles, engraves; artificial beauty grows foul; the summer heat cools; earthly wealth fails; enmity rages, cruel, bold; the might of the world ages, courage grows cold. Fate wove itself for me and my sentence was given: that I should dig a grave and seek that grim cavern men cannot avoid when death comes, arrow-swift, to seize their lives in his inevitable grasp. Now night comes at last, and the way stand clear for Death to dispossesses me of my my abode here. When my corpse lies interred and the worms eat my limbs, whom will Death delight then, with his dark feast and hymns? Let men’s bones become one, and then finally, none, till there’s nothing left here of the evil ones. But men of good faith will not be destroyed; the good man will rise, far beyond the Void, who chastened himself, more often than not, to avoid bitter sins and that final black Blot. The good man has hope of a far better end and remembers the promise of Heaven, where he’ll experience the mercies of God for his saints, freed from all sins, dark and depraved, defended from vices, gloriously saved, where, happy at last before their cheerful Lord, men may rejoice in his love forevermore. I Sing of a Maiden (anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I sing of a maiden That is matchless. The King of all Kings For her son she chose. He came also as still To his mother's breast As April dew Falling on the grass. He came also as still To his mother's bower As April dew Falling on the flower. He came also as still To where his mother lay As April dew Falling on the spray. Mother and maiden? Never one, but she! Well may such a lady God's mother be! Tegner's Drapa loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I heard a voice, that cried, “Balder the beautiful lies dead, lies dead …” a voice like the flight of white cranes intent on a sun sailing high overhead�" but a sun now irretrievably setting. Then I saw the sun’s corpse �"dead beyond all begetting�" borne through disconsolate skies as blasts from the Nifel-heim rang out with dread, “Balder lies dead, our fair Balder lies dead! …” Lost�"the sweet runes of his tongue, so sweet every lark hushed its singing! Lost, lost forever�"his beautiful face, the grace of his smile, all the girls’ hearts wild-winging! O, who ever thought such strange words might be said, as “Balder lies dead, gentle Balder lies dead! …” Lament for the Makaris (Makers, or Poets) by William Dunbar (1460-1525) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch i who enjoyed good health and gladness am overwhelmed now by life’s terrible sickness and enfeebled with infirmity … how the fear of Death dismays me! our presence here is mere vainglory; the false world is but transitory; the flesh is frail; the Fiend runs free … how the fear of Death dismays me! the state of man is changeable: now sound, now sick, now blithe, now dull, now manic, now devoid of glee … how the fear of Death dismays me! no state on earth stands here securely; as the wild wind shakes the willow tree, so wavers this world’s vanity … how the fear of Death dismays me! Death leads the knights into the field (unarmored under helm and shield) sole Victor of each red mêlée … how the fear of Death dismays me! that strange, despotic Beast tears from its mother’s breast the babe, full of benignity … how the fear of Death dismays me! He takes the champion of the hour, the captain of the highest tower, the beautiful damsel in her tower … how the fear of Death dismays me! He spares no lord for his elegance, nor clerk for his intelligence; His dreadful stroke no man can flee … how the fear of Death dismays me! artist, magician, scientist, orator, debater, theologist, must all conclude, so too, as we: “how the fear of Death dismays me!” in medicine the most astute sawbones and surgeons all fall mute; they cannot save themselves, or flee … how the fear of Death dismays me! i see the Makers among the unsaved; the greatest of Poets all go to the grave; He does not spare them their faculty … how the fear of Death dismays me! i have seen Him pitilessly devour our noble Chaucer, poetry’s flower, and Lydgate and Gower (great Trinity!) … how the fear of Death dismays me! since He has taken my brothers all, i know He will not let me live past the fall; His next prey will be �" poor unfortunate me! … how the fear of Death dismays me! there is no remedy for Death; we all must prepare to relinquish breath so that after we die, we may be set free from “the fear of Death dismays me!” Fairest Between Lincoln and Lindsey (anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When the nightingale sings, the woods turn green; Leaf and grass again blossom in April, I know, Yet love pierces my heart with its spear so keen! Night and day it drinks my blood. The painful rivulets flow. I’ve loved all this year. Now I can love no more; I’ve sighed many a sigh, sweetheart, and yet all seems wrong. For love is no nearer and that leaves me poor. Sweet lover, think of me �" I’ve loved you so long! Sumer is icumen in anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1260 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Sing now cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo! Sing now cuckoo! Summer is a-comin'! Sing loud, cuckoo! The seed grows, The meadow blows, The woods spring up anew. Sing, cuckoo! The ewe bleats for her lamb; The cows contentedly moo; The bullock roots; The billy-goat poots … Sing merrily, cuckoo! Cuckoo, cuckoo, You sing so well, cuckoo! Never stop, until you're through! The Maiden Lay in the Wilds circa the 14th century loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The maiden in the moor lay, in the moor lay; seven nights full, seven nights full, the maiden in the moor lay, in the moor lay, seven nights full and a day. Sweet was her meat. But what was her meat? The primrose and the�" The primrose and the�" Sweet was her meat. But what was her meat? The primrose and the violet. Pure was her drink. But what was her drink? The cold waters of the�" The cold waters of the�" Pure was her drink. But what was her drink? The cold waters of the well-spring. Bright was her bower. But what was her bower? The red rose and the�" The red rose and the�" Bright was her bower. But what was her bower? The red rose and the lily flower. The World an Illusion circa 14th century loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This is the sum of wisdom bright: however things may appear, life vanishes like birds in flight; now it’s here, now there. Nor are we mighty in our “might”�" now on the bench, now on the bier. However vigilant or wise, in health it’s death we fear. However proud and without peer, no man’s immune to tragedy. And though we think all’s solid here, this world is but a fantasy. The sun’s course we may claim to know: arises east, sets in the west; we know which way earth’s rivers flow, into the seas that fill and crest. The winds rush here and there, also, it rains and snows without arrest. Will it all end? God only knows, with the wisdom of the Blessed, while we on earth remain hard-pressed, all bedraggled, or too dry, until we vanish, just a guest: this world is but a fantasy. Trust Only Yourself circa the 15th century loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Alas! Deceit lies in trust now, dubious as Fortune, spinning like a ball, as brittle when tested as a rotten bough. He who trusts in trust is ripe for a fall! Such guile in trust cannot be trusted, or a man will soon find himself busted. Therefore, “Be wary of trust!” is my advice. Trust only yourself and learn to be wise. See, Here, My Heart circa the 15th century loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O, mankind, please keep in mind where Passions start: there you will find me wholly kind�" see, here, my heart. How Death Comes circa the 13th century loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When my eyes mist and my ears hiss and my nose grows cold as my tongue folds and my face grows slack as my lips grow black and my mouth gapes as my spit forms lakes and my hair falls as my heart stalls and my hand shake as my feet quake: All too late! All too late! When the bier is at the gate. Then I shall pass from bed to floor, from floor to shroud, from shroud to bier, from bier to grave, the grave closed forever! Then my house will rest on my nose. This world’s not worth a farthing, Heaven knows! Johann Scheffler (1624-1677), also known as Johann Angelus Silesius, was a German Catholic priest and physician, known as a mystic and religious poet. He's a bit later than most of the other poets on this page, but seems to fit in … Unholy Trinity by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Man has three enemies: himself, the world, and the devil. Of these the first is, by far, the most irresistible evil. True Wealth by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch There is more to being rich than merely having; the wealthiest man can lose everything not worth saving. The Rose by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The rose merely blossoms and never asks why: heedless of her beauty, careless of every eye. The Rose by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The rose lack “reasons” and merely sways with the seasons; she has no ego but whoever put on such a show? Eternal Time by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Eternity is time, time eternity, except when we are determined to "see." Visions by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Our souls possess two eyes: one examines time, the other visions eternal and sublime. Godless by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch God is absolute Nothingness beyond our sense of time and place; the more we try to grasp Him, The more He flees from our embrace. The Source by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Water is pure and clean when taken at the well-head: but drink too far from the Source and you may well end up dead. Ceaseless Peace by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Unceasingly you seek life's ceaseless wavelike motion; I seek perpetual peace, all storms calmed. Whose is the wiser notion? Well Written by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Friend, cease! Abandon all pretense! You must yourself become the Writing and the Sense. Worm Food by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch No worm is buried so deep within the soil that God denies it food as reward for its toil. Mature Love by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch New love, like a sparkling wine, soon fizzes. Mature love, calm and serene, abides. God's Predicament by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch God cannot condemn those with whom he would dwell, or He would have to join them in hell! Clods by Angelus Silesius loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A ruby is not lovelier than a dirt clod, nor an angel more glorious than a frog. The original poem below is based on my teenage misinterpretation of a Latin prayer … Elegy for a little girl, lost by Michael R. Burch … qui laetificat juventutem meam … She was the joy of my youth, and now she is gone. … requiescat in pace … May she rest in peace. … amen … Amen. I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem. 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 Vulgate Latin Bible (circa 385 AD). Gallant Knight by Michael R. Burch for Alfred Dorn and Anita Dorn Till you rest with your beautiful Anita, rouse yourself, Poet; rouse and write. The world is not ready for your departure, Gallant Knight. Teach us to sing in the ringing cathedrals of your Verse, as you outduel the Night. Give us new eyes to see Love's bright Vision robed in Light. Teach us to pray, that the true Word may conquer, that the slaves may be freed, the blind have Sight. Write the word LOVE with a burning finger. I shall recite. O, bless us again with your chivalrous pen, Gallant Knight! It was my honor to have been able to publish the poetry of Dr. Alfred Dorn and his wife Anita Dorn. You! by Michael R. Burch For forty years You have not spoken to me; I heard the dull hollow echo of silence as though strange communion between us. For forty years You would not open to me; You remained closed, hard and tense, like a clenched fist. For forty years You have not broken me with Your alien ways, prevarications and distance. Like a child dismissed, I have watched You prey upon the hope in me, knowing "mercy" is chance and "heaven"―a list. Originally published by The Bible of Hell (anthology) I call mercy “chance” and heaven a “list” because the bible says its “god” predestines some people to be “vessels of mercy” and others to be “vessels of destruction.” Thus mercy is reduced to the chance of birth and heaven is a precompiled list of the lucky chosen few. Of course there is no reason to believe in such a diabolical “god” or such an unjust “heaven” ... but billions have, and do.
by Michael R. Burch for and after William Blake
At noon, smiles were seen By twilight, their cries Now night reigns supreme An Ecstasy of Fumbling
The poets conceive as something beyond belief, Franta Bass: The Little Boy With His Hands Up Frantisek “Franta” Bass was a Jewish boy born in Brno, Czechoslovakia in 1930. When he was just eleven years old, his family was deported by the Nazis to Terezin, where the SS had created a hybrid Ghetto/Concentration Camp just north of Prague (it was also known as Theresienstadt). Franta was one of many little boys and girls who lived there under terrible conditions for three years. He was then sent to Auschwitz, where on October 28th, 1944, he was murdered at age fourteen. The Garden A small garden, A small boy, a sweet boy, Jewish Forever I am a Jew and always will be, forever! But I will always fight for my people, And I will never be ashamed of them; How dignified they are, in their grief! Excerpts from “Travels with Einstein” for Trump I went to Berlin to learn wisdom So I flew off to ’Nam to learn wisdom I then sat at Christ’s feet to learn wisdom, So I traveled to bright Tel Aviv At last, done with learning, I stumbled Originally published by Café Dissensus Precipice for Jeremy
Do not believe them. There is no place safe for you to fall Star Crossed by Michael R. Burch Remember: night is not like day; the stars are closer than they seem ... now, bending near, they seem to say the morning sun was merely a dream ember. The State of the Art (?)
Are poets lacking fire, Shall poetry fade slowly, The Vision of the Overseer’s Right Hand by Michael R. Burch “Dust to dust ...” I stumbled, aghast, into a valley of dust and bone where all men become, at last, the same color . . . There a skeletal figure groped through blonde sand for a rigid right hand lost long, long ago . . . A hand now more white than he had wielded before. But he paused there, unsure, for he could not tell without the whip’s frenetic hiss which savage white hand was his. Kamal Nasser was a much-admired Palestinian poet, who due to his renowned integrity was known as "The Conscience." He was a member of Jordan's parliament in 1956. He was murdered in 1973 by an Israeli death squad whose most notorious member was future Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Barak. Here is one of his poems: The Story by Kamal Nasser translation by Michael R. Burch I will tell you a story ... a story that lived in the dreams of my people, a story that comes from the world of tents. It is a story inspired by hunger and embellished by dark nights of terror. It is the story of my country, a handful of refugees. Every twenty of them have a pound of flour between them and a few promises of relief ... gifts and parcels. It is the story of the suffering ones who stood waiting in line ten years, in hunger, in tears and agony, in hardship and yearning. It is a story of a people who were misled, who were thrown into the mazes of the years. And yet they stood defiant, disrobed yet united as they trudged from the light to their tents: the revolution of return into the world of darkness. Fadwa Tuqan has been called the Grand Dame of Palestinian letters and The Poet of Palestine. These are my translations of Fadwa Tuqan poems originally written in Arabic. Enough for Me by Fadwa Tuqan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Enough for me to lie in the earth, to be buried in her, to sink meltingly into her fecund soil, to vanish ... only to spring forth like a flower brightening the play of my countrymen's children. Enough for me to remain in my native soil's embrace, to be as close as a handful of dirt, a sprig of grass, a wildflower. Published by Palestine Today, Free Journal and Lokesh Tripathi Existence by Fadwa Tuqan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch In my solitary life, I was a lost question; in the encompassing darkness, my answer lay concealed. You were a bright new star revealed by fate, radiating light from the fathomless darkness. The other stars rotated around you ―once, twice― until I perceived your unique radiance. Then the bleak blackness broke and in the twin tremors of our entwined hands I had found my missing answer. Oh you! Oh you intimate and distant! Don't you remember the coalescence Of our spirits in the flames? Of my universe with yours? Of the two poets? Despite our great distance, Existence unites us. Published by This Week in Palestine, Arabic Literature (ArabLit.org) and Art-in-Society (Germany) Nothing Remains by Fadwa Tuqan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Tonight, we’re together, but tomorrow you'll be hidden from me thanks to life’s cruelty. The seas will separate us ... Oh!―Oh!―If I could only see you! But I'll never know where your steps led you, which routes you took, or to what unknown destinations your feet were compelled. You will depart and the thief of hearts, the denier of beauty, will rob us of all that's dear to us, will steal this happiness, leaving our hands empty. Tomorrow at dawn you'll vanish like a phantom, dissipating into a delicate mist dissolving quickly in the summer sun. Your scent―your scent!―contains the essence of life, filling my heart as the earth gulps up the lifegiving rain. I will miss you like the fragrance of trees when you leave tomorrow, and nothing remains. Just as everything beautiful and all that's dear to us is lost―lost!―and nothing remains. Published by This Week in Palestine and Hypercritic (read in Arabic by Souad Maddahi with my translation as a reference) Labor Pains by Fadwa Tuqan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Tonight the wind wafts pollen through ruined fields and homes. The earth shivers with love, with the agony of giving birth, while the Invader spreads stories of submission and surrender. O, Arab Aurora! Tell the Usurper: childbirth’s a force beyond his ken because a mother’s wracked body reveals a rent that inaugurates life, a crack through which light dawns in an instant as the blood’s rose blooms in the wound. Hamza by Fadwa Tuqan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Hamza was one of my hometown’s ordinary men who did manual labor for bread. When I saw him recently, the land still wore its mourning dress in the solemn windless silence and I felt defeated. But Hamza-the-unextraordinary said: “Sister, our land’s throbbing heart never ceases to pound, and it perseveres, enduring the unendurable, keeping the secrets of mounds and wombs. This land sprouting cactus spikes and palms also births freedom-fighters. Thus our land, my sister, is our mother!” Days passed and Hamza was nowhere to be seen, but I felt the land’s belly heaving in pain. At sixty-five Hamza’s a heavy burden on her back. “Burn down his house!” some commandant screamed, “and slap his son in a prison cell!” As our town’s military ruler later explained this was necessary for law and order, that is, an act of love, for peace! Armed soldiers surrounded Hamza’s house; the coiled serpent completed its circle. The bang at his door came with an ultimatum: “Evacuate, damn it!' So generous with their time, they said: “You can have an hour, yes!” Hamza threw open a window. Face-to-face with the blazing sun, he yelled defiantly: “Here in this house I and my children will live and die, for Palestine!” Hamza's voice echoed over the hemorrhaging silence. An hour later, with impeccable timing, Hanza’s house came crashing down as its rooms were blown sky-high and its bricks and mortar burst, till everything settled, burying a lifetime’s memories of labor, tears, and happier times. Yesterday I saw Hamza walking down one of our town’s streets ... Hamza-the-unextraordinary man who remained as he always was: unshakable in his determination. My translation follows one by Azfar Hussain and borrows a word here, a phrase there. Hear, O Israel! by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch When we were the oppressed, I was one with you, but how can we remain one now that you have become the oppressor? Your desire was to become powerful, like the nations who murdered you; now you have, indeed, become like them. You have outlived those who abused you; so why does their cruelty possess you now? You also commanded your victims: "Remove your shoes!" Like the scapegoat, you drove them into the wilderness, into the great mosque of death with its burning sands. But they would not confess the sin you longed to impute to them: the imprint of their naked feet in the desert sand will outlast the silhouettes of your bombs and tanks. So hear, O Israel … hear the whimpers of your victims echoing your ancient sufferings … "Hear, O Israel!" was written in 1967, after the Six Day War. What It Is by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch It is nonsense says reason. It is what it is says Love. It is a dangerous says discretion. It is terrifying says fear. It is hopeless says insight. It is what it is says Love. It is ludicrous says pride. It is reckless says caution. It is impractical says experience. It is what it is says Love. An Attempt by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch I have attempted while working to think only of my work and not of you, but I am encouraged to have been so unsuccessful. Humorless by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch The boys throw stones at the frogs in jest. The frogs die in earnest. Bulldozers by Erich Fried loose translation by Michael R. Burch Israel's bulldozers have confirmed their kinship to bulldozers in Beirut where the bodies of massacred Palestinians lie buried under the rubble of their former homes. And it has been reported that in the heart of Israel the Memorial Cemetery for the massacred dead of Deir Yassin has been destroyed by bulldozers ... "Not intentional," it's said, "A slight oversight during construction work." Also the murder of the people of Sabra and Shatila shall become known only as an oversight in the process of building a great Zionist power. 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 been lost, forever. What a pity! He had a violin, a living, eloquent 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 twirled; 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 falters before its departure. Despite constant delays it waited daily, mutely beseeching its savior, Love, who lingered, loitered, tarried incessantly and never came. Great was the pain! There was a man ― now, poof, he’s gone! The music of his life was suddenly interrupted. There was another song in him, somewhere, but now it is lost forever. Chaim Nachman Bialik (1873-1934), first name also Hayim or Haim, was a Jewish Holocaust poet who wrote in Hebrew. Bialik was one of the pioneers of modern Hebrew poetry; he came to be recognized as Israel's national poet and the foremost modern Hebrew poet. Holocaust Poem: "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 is undone. How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end? How long? Hangman, traitor, here’s my neck― rise up now, rise and slaughter! Behead me like a dog―your arm controls the axe and the whole world is a scaffold to me although 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 drenching 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 brutal injustice, suckled on blood, unweaned of violence: cursed be the warrior who cries "Vengeance!" on a maiden; such cruelty was never contemplated, even by Satan. Let innocents’ blood drench the abyss! Let innocents’ blood seep down into the congealing darkness, eat it away and undermine earth’s rotting foundations. Al Hashechita ("On the Slaughter") was written by Chaim Nachman 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. chrysalis by Michael R. Burch these are the days of doom u seldom leave ur room u live in perpetual gloom yet also the days of hope how to cope? u pray and u grope toward self illumination ... becoming an angel (pure love) and yet You must love Your Self If you know someone who is very caring and loving, but struggles with self worth, this may be a poem to consider. The Quickening by Michael R. Burch for Beth I never meant to love you when I held you in my arms promising you sagely wise, noncommittal charms. And I never meant to need you when I touched your tender lips with kisses that intrigued my own: such kisses I had never known, nor a heartbeat in my fingertips! Our English Rose by Michael R. Burch for Christine Ena Burch The rose is― the ornament of the earth, the glory of nature, the archetype of the flowers, the blush of the meadows, a lightning flash of beauty. This is my loose translation/interpretation of a Sappho epigram. Final Lullaby for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
Sleep peacefully―immune to all distress, like pebbles unaware of raging waves. Sleep peacefully―like fields of fragrant clover unmoved by any motion of the wind. Sleep peacefully―like clouds untouched by earthquakes. Sleep peacefully―like stars that never blink and have no thoughts at all, nor need to think. Sleep peacefully―in your eternal vault, immaculate, past perfect, without fault. Ah! Sunflower by Michael R. Burch after William Blake
Almost
You almost ran your fingers through my hair. You almost contemplated using Nair I almost found the words to say, “I care.” You almost called me suave and debonair I almost asked you where you kept your lair We almost danced like Rogers and Astaire I almost was strange Sonny to your Cher. Keywords/Tags: Almost, love, relationship, relationships, hesitation, procrastination, hesitancy, vacillation, near, near miss, nearly, close call, miss you, missing you, missing Survivors Tea Party Madness by Michael R. Burch for Connor Kelly Since we agree, let’s have a nice tea with our bats in the belfry. Murder Most Fowl! by Michael R. Burch “Murder most foul!” cried the mouse to the owl. “Friend, I’m no sinner; you’re merely my dinner. As you fall on my sword, take it up with the LORD!” the wise owl replied as the tasty snack died. Well, Almost by Michael R. Burch All Christians say “Never again!” to the inhumanity of men (except when the object of phlegm is a Palestinian). Keywords/Tags: epitaph, death, funeral, grave, loss, tragedy, Palestine, Palestinian, Gaza, Nakba Twice by Michael R. Burch Now twice she has left me and twice I have listened and taken her back, remembering days when love lay upon us and sparkled and glistened with the brightness of dew through a gathering haze. But twice she has left me to start my life over, and twice I have gathered up embers, to learn: rekindle a fire from ash, soot and cinder and softly it sputters, refusing to burn. Originally published by The Lyric Spring Was Delayed by Michael R. Burch Winter came early: the driving snows, the delicate frosts that crystallize all we forget or refuse to know, all we regret that makes us wise. Spring was delayed: the nubile rose, the tentative sun, the wind’s soft sighs, all we omit or refuse to show, whatever we shield behind guarded eyes. Originally published by Borderless Journal Prose Poem: The Trouble with Poets by Michael R. Burch This morning the neighborhood girls were helping their mothers with chores, but one odd little girl was out picking roses by herself, looking very small and lonely. Suddenly the odd one refused to pick roses anymore because she decided it 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 says she prefers the “roses of the imagination”! She mumbles constantly 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 has “conjured” 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 a phase she’ll outgrow?
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