Poems about IcarusA Poem by Michael R. BurchPoems about Icarus
What do you know of the world’s despair, Only a little longer the wind invests its sighs; and flaps the houses watch with baffled eyes.
I held the switch in trembling fingers, asked why existence felt so small, so purposeless, like a minnow wriggling feebly in my grasp ... vibrations of huge engines thrummed my arms as, glistening with sweat, I nudged the switch to OFF ... I heard the klaxon's shrill alarms like vultures’ shriekings ... earthward, in a stall ... we floated ... earthward ... wings outstretched, aghast like Icarus ... as through the void we fell ... till nothing was so beautiful, so blue ... so vivid as that moment ... and I held an image of your face, and dreamed I flew into your arms. The earth rushed up. I knew such comfort, in that moment, loving you. I AM!
sunblackened Icarus, chary fly, I am not one of ten billion, I. I am not one life has left unsquashed― I am not one life has left unsquashed. I am not one without spots of disease, I am not one without spots of disease. I am not one of ten billion―I― scion of Daedalus, blackwinged fly I am not one of ten billion, I Finally to Burn
and we go levitating where Apollo sleeps and Passion seems and all I remember is: to Love sometimes one’s Being―to glide heroically beyond thought, forsaking the here * O, finally to Burn, To plummet is Bliss rain down red scabs Feathers and wax Flocculent sheep, I will rock me to sleep * To sleep's sweet relief for the Night has Wings they will flit me to Life fluttering off * Riddlemethis, Rynosseross, Quixotic, I seek Love rusted-out steel To Dream―that’s the thing! Aye, that Genie I’ll rub, soak by the candle, * Riddlemethis, Rynosseross, Somewhither, somewhither we must moult off all knowledge * I am reconciled to Life I’ll Live the Elsewhere, Methinks it no journey; so fatten the oxen; I’m coming, Fool Tom, though we injure noone,
Free Fall (II)
back to solid existence, despite the air’s sparseness: all But since I touched you, fire consumes each wing!
Fledglings
unweaned of love, the chirping nestlings still pinkly exposed, who have not yet learned from which men must fly like improbable dreams lose all in the sudden realization of gravity, The Higher Atmospheres
I break upon the rocks; I break; I fling Oh, some will call the sun my doom, but Love Notes toward an Icarian philosophy of life ...
If there was only light, with no occluding matter, What becomes of man’s vision, apart from terrestrial shadows? And what of man’s character, formed What becomes of man’s aims in the end, If man should confront his terrible Creator, what then? Once man has taken revenge what then? Or, if revenge is not possible, what then? Perhaps there’s nothing left but for man to perfect his character, or perhaps not, if the mystics are right Is there a source of knowledge beyond faith, The Hebrew prophets seemed to think so, Does hope spring eternal in the human breast, Icarus Bickerous
Like Icarus, waxen wings melting, They look up amazed was it heaven’s or hell’s furious smelting that fashioned such vulturish wings? the higher you “rise,” the more halting? Earthbound, a Vision of Crazy Horse
Earthbound, Like a bird, Published by American Indian Pride and Boston Poetry Magazine
Originally published by Hibiscus (India) The Wonder Boys
The stars were always there, too-bright cliches: in dream of shocks that suddenly came true . . . but came almost as static―background noise, a song out of the cosmos no one hears, They thought to feel the lightning’s brilliant sparks You will not find them here; they blew away― their words are with us still. Devout and fey, Originally published by The Lyric American Eagle, Grounded
Her raptor beak, Her hard talon, Her clipped wings, Published as “Tremble” by The Lyric, Verses Magazine, Romantics Quarterly, Journeys, The Raintown Review, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom (All-Star Tribute), The Fabric of a Vision, NPAC―Net Poetry and Art Competition, Poet’s Haven, Listening To The Birth Of Crystals(Anthology), Poetry Renewal, Inspirational Stories, Poetry Life & Times, MahMag (Iranian/Farsi), The Eclectic Muse (Canada) Album
and I see how young they were, and how unwise; their blissful arc through alien blue skies ... And I touch them here through leaves which―tattered, frayed― are also wings, but wings that never flew: their features never merged, remaining two ... And Grief, which lurked unseen beyond the lens and slavers for Its meat―those young, unwise, who naively dare to dream, yet fail to see Springtime Prayer
And so I toss them loaves of bread, Originally published by The HyperTexts Learning to Fly
learning to fly― O, love is not in the ephemeral flight, graced land of eternal sunrise, radiant beyond night! In the Whispering Night for George King In the whispering night, when the stars bend low Published by Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly, The Chained Muse and Poetry Life & Times. This is a poem I wrote for my favorite college English teacher, George King, about poetic kinship, brotherhood and romantic flights of fancy. For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies Where does the butterfly go Where does the rose hide its bloom And where shall the spirit flee Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times, Victorian Violet Press (where it was nominated for a “Best of the Net”), The Contributor (a Nashville homeless newspaper), Siasat (Pakistan), and set to music as a part of the song cycle “The Children of Gaza” which has been performed in various European venues by the Palestinian soprano Dima Bawab Sioux Vision Quest by Crazy Horse, Oglala Lakota Sioux (circa 1840-1877) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A man must pursue his Vision as the eagle explores the sky's deepest blues. Published by Better Than Starbucks, A Hundred Voices
by Michael R. Burch serene, almost angelic, the lights of the city ―― extend ―― over lumbering behemoths shrilly screeching displeasure; they say that nothing is certain, that nothing man dreams or ordains long endures his command here the streetlights that flicker and those blazing steadfast seem one: from a distance; descend, they abruptly part ―――――― ways, so that nothing is one which at times does not suddenly blend into garish insignificance in the familiar alleyways, in the white neon flash and the billboards of Convenience and man seems the afterthought of his own Brilliance as we thunder down the enlightened runways. Originally published by The Aurorean and subsequently nominated for the Pushcart Prize Flight by Michael R. Burch Eagle, raven, blackbird, crow . . . What you are I do not know. Where you go I do not care. I’m unconcerned whose meal you bear. But as you mount the sunlit sky, I only wish that I could fly. I only wish that I could fly. Robin, hawk or whippoorwill . . . Should men care that you hunger still? I do not wish to see your home. I do not wonder where you roam. But as you scale the sky's bright stairs, I only wish that I were there. I only wish that I were there. Sparrow, lark or chickadee . . . Your markings I disdain to see. Where you fly concerns me not. I scarcely give your flight a thought. But as you wheel and arc and dive, I, too, would feel so much alive. I, too, would feel so much alive. This is a poem that I believe I wrote as a high school sophomore. But it could have been written a bit later. I seem to remember the original poem being influenced by William Cullen Bryant's "To a Waterfowl."
by Michael R. Burch I shall rise and try the bloody wings of thought ten thousand times before I fly ... and then I'll sleep and waste ten thousand nights before I dream; but when at last ... I soar the distant heights of undreamt skies where never hawks nor eagles dared to go, as I laugh among the meteors flashing by somewhere beyond the bluest earth-bound seas ... if I'm not told I’m just a man, then I shall know just what I am. This is one of my early poems, written around age 16-17. According to my notes, I may have revised the poem later, in 1978, but if so the changes were minor because the poem remains very close to the original. Stage Craft-y by Michael R. Burch There once was a dromedary who befriended a crafty canary. Budgie said, "You can’t sing, but now, here’s the thing just think of the tunes you can carry!" Clyde Lied! by Michael R. Burch There once was a mockingbird, Clyde, who bragged of his prowess, but lied. To his new wife he sighed, "When again, gentle bride?" "Nevermore!" bright-eyed Raven replied. Less Heroic Couplets: 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!” the wise owl replied as the tasty snack died. Published by Lighten Up Online and in Potcake Chapbook #7 NOTE: In an attempt to demonstrate that not all couplets are heroic, I have created a series of poems called “Less Heroic Couplets.” I believe even poets should abide by truth-in-advertising laws! ― MRB Lance-Lot by Michael R. Burch Preposterous bird! Inelegant! Absurd! Until the great & mighty heron brandishes his fearsome sword. Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ by Michael R. Burch Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ the bees rise in a dizzy circle of two. Oh, when I’m with you, I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too. Delicacy by Michael R. Burch for all good mothers Your love is as delicate as a butterfly cleaning its wings, as soft as the predicate the hummingbird sings to itself, gently murmuring “Fly! Fly! Fly!” Your love is the string soaring kites untie. Lone Wild Goose by Du Fu (712-770) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The abandoned goose refuses food and drink; he cries querulously for his companions. Who feels kinship for that strange wraith as he vanishes eerily into the heavens? You watch it as it disappears; its plaintive calls cut through you. The indignant crows ignore you both: the bickering, bantering multitudes. Du Fu (712-770) is also known as Tu Fu. The first poem is addressed to the poet's wife, who had fled war with their children. Ch'ang-an is an ironic pun because it means "Long-peace." The Red Cockatoo by Po Chu-I (772-846) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A marvelous gift from Annam a red cockatoo, bright as peach blossom, fluent in men's language. So they did what they always do to the erudite and eloquent: they created a thick-barred cage and shut it up. Po Chu-I (772-846) is best known today for his ballads and satirical poems. Po Chu-I believed poetry should be accessible to commoners and is noted for his simple diction and natural style. His name has been rendered various ways in English: Po Chu-I, Po Chü-i, Bo Juyi and Bai Juyi. The Migrant Songbird Li Qingzhao aka Li Ching-chao (c. 1084-1155) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The migrant songbird on the nearby yew brings tears to my eyes with her melodious trills; this fresh downpour reminds me of similar spills: another spring gone, and still no word from you ... Lines from Laolao Ting Pavilion by Li Bai (701-762) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The spring breeze knows partings are bitter; The willow twig knows it will never be green again. The Day after the Rain Lin Huiyin (1904-1955) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I love the day after the rain and the meadow's green expanses! My heart endlessly rises with wind, gusts with wind ... away the new-mown grasses and the fallen leaves ... away the clouds like smoke ... vanishing like smoke ... Untitled Translations Cupid, if you incinerate my soul, touché! For like you she has wings and can fly away! ―Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch As autumn deepens, a butterfly sips chrysanthemum dew. ―Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Come, butterfly, it’s late and we’ve a long way to go! ―Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Up and at ’em! The sky goes bright! Let’s hit the road again, Companion Butterfly! ―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Ah butterfly, what dreams do you ply with your beautiful wings? ―Chiyo-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Oh, dreamlike winter butterfly: a puff of white snow cresting mountains ―Kakio Tomizawa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Dry leaf flung awry: bright butterfly, goodbye! ―Michael R. Burch, original haiku Will we remain parted forever? Here at your grave: two flowerlike butterflies ―Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch a soaring kite flits into the heart of the sun? Butterfly & Chrysanthemum ―Michael R. Burch, original haiku The cheerful-chirping cricket contends gray autumn's gay, contemptuous of frost ―Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Whistle on, twilight whippoorwill, solemn evangelist of loneliness ―Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch The sea darkening, the voices of the wild ducks: my mysterious companions! ―Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Lightning shatters the darkness the night heron's shriek ―Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch This snowy morning: cries of the crow I despise (ah, but so beautiful!) ―Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch A crow settles on a leafless branch: autumn nightfall. ―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Hush, cawing crows; what rackets you make! Heaven's indignant messengers, you remind me of wordsmiths! ―O no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation by Michael R. Burch Higher than a skylark, resting on the breast of heaven: this mountain pass. ―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch An exciting struggle with such a sad ending: cormorant fishing. ―Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Does my soul abide in heaven, or hell? Only the sea gull in his high, lonely circuits, may tell. ―Glaucus, translation by Michael R. Burch The eagle sees farther from its greater height our ancestors’ wisdom ―Michael R. Burch, original haiku A kite floats at the same place in the sky where yesterday it floated ... ―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
by Michael R. Burch I have listened to the rain all this morning and it has a certain gravity, as if it knows its destination, perhaps even its particular destiny. I do not believe mine is to be uplifted, although I, too, may be flung precipitously and from a great height. Ultimate Sunset by Michael R. Burch for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr. he now faces the Ultimate Sunset, his body like the leaves that fray as they dry, shedding their vital fluids (who knows why?) till they’ve become even lighter than the covering sky, ready to fly ... Free Fall by Michael R. Burch for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr. I see the longing for departure gleam in his still-keen eye, and I understand his desire to test this last wind, like those late autumn leaves with nothing left to cling to ... Leaf Fall by Michael R. Burch Whatever winds encountered soon resolved to swirling fragments, till chaotic heaps of leaves lay pulsing by the backyard wall. In lieu of rakes, our fingers sorted each dry leaf into its place and built a high, soft bastion against earth's gravitron a patchwork quilt, a trampoline, a bright impediment to fling ourselves upon. And nothing in our laughter as we fell into those leaves was like the autumn's cry of also falling. Nothing meant to die could be so bright as we, so colorful clad in our plaids, oblivious to pain we'd feel today, should we leaf-fall again. Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea The Folly of Wisdom by Michael R. Burch She is wise in the way that children are wise, looking at me with such knowing, grave eyes I must bend down to her to understand. But she only smiles, and takes my hand. We are walking somewhere that her feet know to go, so I smile, and I follow ... And the years are dark creatures concealed in bright leaves that flutter above us, and what she believes I can almost remember―goes something like this: the prince is a horned toad, awaiting her kiss. She wiggles and giggles, and all will be well if only we find him! The woodpecker’s knell as he hammers the coffin of some dying tree that once was a fortress to someone like me rings wildly above us. Some things that we know we are meant to forget. Life is a bloodletting, maple-syrup-slow. Originally published by Romantics Quarterly 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. Songstress by Michael R. Burch Within its starkwhite ribcage, how the heart must flutter wildly, O, and always sing against the pressing darkness: all it knows until at last it feels the numbing sting of death. Then life's brief vision swiftly passes, imposing night on one who clearly saw. Death held your bright heart tightly, till its maw envenomed, fanged―could swallow, whole, your Awe. And yet it was not death so much as you who sealed your doom; you could not help but sing and not be silenced. Here, behold your tomb's white alabaster cage: pale, wretched thing! But you'll not be imprisoned here, wise wren! Your words soar free; rise, sing, fly, live again. A poet like Nadia Anjuman can be likened to a caged bird, deprived of flight, who somehow finds it within herself to sing of love and beauty. But when the world finally robs her of both flight and song, what is left for her but to leave the world, thus bereaving the world of herself and her song? Performing Art by Michael R. Burch Who teaches the wren in its drab existence to explode into song? What parodies of irony does the jay espouse with its sharp-edged tongue? What instinctual memories lend stunning brightness to the strange dreams of the dull gray slug ―spinning its chrysalis, gluing rough seams abiding in darkness its transformation, till, waving damp wings, it applauds its performance? I am done with irony. Life itself sings. Lean Harvests by Michael R. Burch for T.M. the trees are shedding their leaves again: another summer is over. the Christians are praising their Maker again, but not the disconsolate plover: i hear him berate the fate of his mate; he claims God is no body’s lover. Published by The Rotary Dial and Angle My Forty-Ninth Year by Michael R. Burch My forty-ninth year and the dew remembers how brightly it glistened encrusting September, ... one frozen September when hawks ruled the sky and death fell on wings with a shrill, keening cry. My forty-ninth year, and still I recall the weavings and windings of childhood, of fall ... of fall enigmatic, resplendent, yet sere, ... though vibrant the herald of death drawing near. My forty-ninth year and now often I've thought on the course of a lifetime, the meaning of autumn, the cycle of autumn with winter to come, of aging and death and rebirth ... on and on. Originally published by Romantics Quarterly as “My Twenty-Ninth Year” Myth by Michael R. Burch Here the recalcitrant wind sighs with grievance and remorse over fields of wayward gorse and thistle-throttled lanes. And she is the myth of the scythed wheat hewn and sighing, complete, waiting, lain in a low sheaf full of faith, full of grief. Here the immaculate dawn requires belief of the leafed earth and she is the myth of the mown grain golden and humble in all its weary worth. 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. Desdemona by Michael R. Burch Though you possessed the moon and stars, you are bound to fate and wed to chance. Your lips deny they crave a kiss; your feet deny they ache to dance. Your heart imagines wild romance. Though you cupped fire in your hands and molded incandescent forms, you are barren now, and―spent of flame― the ashes that remain are borne toward the sun upon a storm. You, who demanded more, have less, your heart within its cells of sighs held fast by chains of misery, confined till death for peddling lies imprisonment your sense denies. You, who collected hearts like leaves and pressed each once within your book, forgot. None―winsome, bright or rare― not one was worth a second look. My heart, as others, you forsook. But I, though I loved you from afar through silent dawns, and gathered rue from gardens where your footsteps left cold paths among the asters, knew each moonless night the nettles grew and strangled hope, where love dies too. Published by Penny Dreadful, Carnelian, Romantics Quarterly, Grassroots Poetry and Poetry Life & Times Transplant by Michael R. Burch You float, unearthly angel, clad in flesh as strange to us who briefly knew your flame as laughter to disease. And yet you laugh. Behind your smile, the sun forfeits its claim to earth, and floats forever now the same light captured at its moment of least height. You laugh here always, welcoming the night, and, just a photograph, still you can claim bright rapture: like an angel, not of flesh but something more, made less. Your humanness this moment of release becomes a name and something else―a radiance, a strange brief presence near our hearts. How can we stand and chain you here to this nocturnal land of burgeoning gray shadows? Fly, begone. I give you back your soul, forfeit all claim to radiance, and welcome grief’s dark night that crushes all the laughter from us. Light in someone Else’s hand, and sing at ease some song of brightsome mirth through dawn-lit trees to welcome morning’s sun. O daughter! these are eyes too weak for laughter; for love’s sight, I welcome darkness, overcome with light. Rilke Translations Archaic Torso of Apollo by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch We cannot know the beheaded god nor his eyes' forfeited visions. But still the figure's trunk glows with the strange vitality of a lamp lit from within, while his composed will emanates dynamism. Otherwise the firmly muscled abdomen could not beguile us, nor the centering loins make us smile at the thought of their generative animus. Otherwise the stone might seem deficient, unworthy of the broad shoulders, of the groin projecting procreation's triangular spearhead upwards, unworthy of the living impulse blazing wildly within like an inchoate star―demanding our belief. You must change your life. Herbsttag ("Autumn Day") by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Lord, it is time. Let the immense summer go. Lay your long shadows over the sundials and over the meadows, let the free winds blow. Command the late fruits to fatten and shine; O, grant them another Mediterranean hour! Urge them to completion, and with power convey final sweetness to the heavy wine. Who has no house now, never will build one. Who's alone now, shall continue alone; he'll wake, read, write long letters to friends, and pace the tree-lined pathways up and down, restlessly, as autumn leaves drift and descend. Originally published by Measure The Panther by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch His weary vision's so overwhelmed by iron bars, his exhausted eyes see only blank Oblivion. His world is not our world. It has no stars. No light. Ten thousand bars. Nothing beyond. Lithe, swinging with a rhythmic easy stride, he circles, his small orbit tightening, an electron losing power. Paralyzed, soon regal Will stands stunned, an abject thing. Only at times the pupils' curtains rise silently, and then an image enters, descends through arrested shoulders, plunges, centers somewhere within his empty heart, and dies. Come, You by Ranier Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This was Rilke's last poem, written ten days before his death. He died open-eyed in the arms of his doctor on December 29,1926, in the Valmont Sanatorium, of leukemia and its complications. I had a friend who died of leukemia and he was burning up with fever in the end. I believe that is what Rilke was describing here: he was literally burning alive. Come, you―the last one I acknowledge; return― incurable pain searing this physical mesh. As I burned in the spirit once, so now I burn with you; meanwhile, you consume my flesh. This wood that long resisted your embrace now nourishes you; I surrender to your fury as my gentleness mutates to hellish rage uncaged, wild, primal, mindless, outré. Completely free, no longer future's pawn, I clambered up this crazy pyre of pain, certain I'd never return―my heart's reserves gone― to become death's nameless victim, purged by flame. Now all I ever was must be denied. I left my memories of my past elsewhere. That life―my former life―remains outside. Inside, I'm lost. Nobody knows me here. Love Song by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch How can I withhold my soul so that it doesn't touch yours? How can I lift mine gently to higher things, alone? Oh, I would gladly find something lost in the dark in that inert space that fails to resonate until you vibrate. There everything that moves us, draws us together like a bow enticing two taut strings to sing together with a simultaneous voice. Whose instrument are we becoming together? Whose, the hands that excite us? Ah, sweet song! The Beggar's Song by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I live outside your gates, exposed to the rain, exposed to the sun; sometimes I'll cradle my right ear in my right palm; then when I speak my voice sounds strange, alien... I'm unsure whose voice I'm hearing: mine or yours. I implore a trifle; the poets cry for more. Sometimes I cover both eyes and my face disappears; there it lies heavy in my hands looking peaceful, instead, so that no one would ever think I have no place to lay my head. Ivy by Michael R. Burch “Van trepando en mi viejo dolor como las yedras.” ― Pablo Neruda “They climb on my old suffering like ivy.” Ivy winds around these sagging structures from the flagstones to the eave heights, and, clinging, holds intact what cannot be saved of their loose entrails. Through long, blustery nights of dripping condensation, cured in the humidors of innumerable forgotten summers, waxy, unguent, palely, indifferently fragrant, it climbs, pausing at last to see the alien sparkle of dew beading delicate sparrowgrass. Coarse saw grass, thin skunk grass, clumped mildewed yellow gorse grow all around, and here remorse, things past, watch ivy climb and bend, and, in the end, we ask if grief is worth the gaps it leaps to mend. Keywords/Tags: past, memory, memories, remembrance, regret, regrets, time, loss, age, aging, grief Joy in the Morning by Michael R. Burch for my grandparents George Edwin Hurt and Christine Ena Hurt There will be joy in the morning for now this long twilight is over and their separation has ended. For fourteen years, he had not seen her whom he first befriended, then courted and married. Let there be joy, and no mourning, for now in his arms she is carried over a threshold vastly sweeter. He never lost her; she only tarried until he was able to meet her. Keywords/Tags: George Edwin Hurt Christine Ena Spouse reunited heaven joy together forever Prodigal by Michael R. Burch This poem is dedicated to Kevin Longinotti, who died four days short of graduation from Vanderbilt University, the victim of a tornado that struck Nashville on April 16, 1998. You have graduated now, to a higher plane and your heart’s tenacity teaches us not to go gently though death intrudes. For eighteen days ―jarring interludes of respite and pain with life only faintly clinging, like a cashmere snow, testing the capacity of the blood banks with the unstaunched flow of your severed veins, in the collapsing declivity, in the sanguine haze where Death broods, you struggled defiantly. A city mourns its adopted son, flown to the highest ranks while each heart complains at the harsh validity of God’s ways. On ponderous wings the white clouds move with your captured breath, though just days before they spawned the maelstrom’s hellish rift. Throw off this mortal coil, this envelope of flesh, this brief sheath of inarticulate grief and transient joy. Forget the winds which test belief, which bear the parchment leaf down life’s last sun-lit path. We applaud your spirit, O Prodigal, O Valiant One, in its percussive flight into the sun, winging on the heart’s last madrigal. Breakings by Michael R. Burch I did it out of pity. I did it out of love. I did it not to break the heart of a tender, wounded dove. But gods without compassion ordained: Frail things must break! Now what can I do for her shattered psyche’s sake? I did it not to push. I did it not to shove. I did it to assist the flight of indiscriminate Love. But gods, all mad as hatters, who legislate in all such matters, ordained that everything irreplaceable shatters. The Quickening by Michael R. Burch 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! An Illusion by Michael R. Burch The sky was as hushed as the breath of a bee and the world was bathed in shades of palest gold when I awoke. She came to me with the sound of falling leaves and the scent of new-mown grass; I held out my arms to her and she passed into oblivion ... This is one of my early poems, written around age 16 and published in my high school literary journal, The Lantern. 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. Incommunicado by Michael R. Burch All I need to know of life I learned in the slap of a moment, as my outward eye turned toward a gauntlet of overhanging lights which coldly burned, hissing "There is no way back! . . ." As the ironic bright blood trickled down my face, I watched strange albino creatures twisting my flesh into tight knots of separation all the while tediously insisting “He's doing just fine!" Letdown by Michael R. Burch Life has not lived up to its first bright vision the light overhead fluorescing, revealing no blessing―bestowing its glaring assessments impersonally (and no doubt carefully metered). That first hard SLAP demanded my attention. Defiantly rigid, I screamed at their backs as they, laughingly, ripped my mother’s pale flesh from my unripened shell, snapped it in two like a pea pod, then dropped it somewhere―in a dustbin or a furnace, perhaps. And that was my clue that some deadly, perplexing, unknowable task lay, inexplicable, ahead in the white arctic maze of unopenable doors, in the antiseptic gloom . . . Keywords/Tags: birth, umbilical cord, harsh, overhead, florescent, light, slap, maze, gloom, earth, life, death Recursion by Michael R. Burch In a dream I saw boys lying under banners gaily flying and I heard their mothers sighing from some dark distant shore. For I saw their sons essaying into fields―gleeful, braying― their bright armaments displaying; such manly oaths they swore! From their playfields, boys returning full of honor’s white-hot burning and desire’s restless yearning sired new kids for the corps. In a dream I saw boys dying under banners gaily lying and I heard their mothers crying from some dark distant shore. Poet to poet by Michael R. Burch I have a dream pebbles in a sparkling sand of wondrous things. I see children variations of the same man playing together. Black and yellow, red and white, stone and flesh, a host of colors together at last. I see a time each small child another's cousin when freedom shall ring. I hear a song sweeter than the sea sings of many voices. I hear a jubilation respect and love are the gifts we must bring shaking the land. I have a message, sea shells echo, the melody rings the message of God. I have a dream all pebbles are merely smooth fragments of stone of many things. I live in hope all children are merely small fragments of One that this dream shall come true. I have a dream . . . but when you're gone, won't the dream have to end? Oh, no, not as long as you dream my dream too! Here, hold out your hand, let's make it come true. i can feel it begin Lovers and dreamers are poets too. poets are lovers and dreamers too Beast 666 by Michael R. Burch “... what rough beast ... slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?”―W. B. Yeats Brutality is a cross wooden, blood-stained, gas hissing, sibilant, lungs gilled, deveined, red flecks on a streaked glass pane, jeers jubilant, mocking. Brutality is shocking tiny orifices torn, impaled with hard lust, the fetus unborn tossed in a dust- bin. The scarred skull shorn, nails bloodied, tortured, an old wound sutured over, never healed. Brutality, all its faces revealed, is legion: Death March, Trail of Tears, Inquisition . . . always the same. The Beast of the godless and of man’s “religion” slouching toward Jerusalem: horned, crowned, gibbering, drooling, insane. Kindergarten by Michael R. Burch Will we be children as puzzled tomorrow our lessons still not learned? Will we surrender over to sorrow? How many times must our fingers be burned? Will we be children sat in the corner, paddled again and again? How long must we linger, playing Jack Horner? Will we ever learn, and when? Will we be children wearing the dunce cap, giggling and playing the fool, re-learning our lessons forever and ever, still failing the golden rule? Photographs by Michael R. Burch Here are the effects of a life and they might tell us a tale (if only we had time to listen) of how each imperiled tear would glisten, remembered as brightness in her eyes, and how each dawn’s dramatic skies could never match such pale azure. Like dreams of her, these ghosts endure and they tell us a tale of impatient glory . . . till a line appears―a trace of worry?― or the wayward track of a wandering smile which even now can charm, beguile? We might find good cause to wonder as we see her pause (to frown?, to ponder?): what vexed her in her loveliness . . . what weight, what crushing heaviness turned her lustrous hair a frazzled gray, and stole her youth before her day? We might ask ourselves: did Time devour the passion with the ravaged flower? But here and there a smile will bloom to light the leaden, shadowed gloom that always seems to linger near . . . And here we find a single tear: its shimmers like translucent dew and tells us Anguish touched her too, and did not spare her for her hair of copper, or her eyes so blue. Published in Tucumcari Literary Review (the first poem in its issue) Numbered by Michael R. Burch He desired an object to crave; she came, and she altared his affection. He asked her for something to save: a memento for his collection. But all that she had was her need; what she needed, he knew not to give. They compromised on a thing gone to seed to complete the half lives they would live. One in two, they were less than complete. Two plus one, in their huge fractious home left them two, the new one in the street, then he, by himself, one, alone. He awoke past his prime to new dawn with superfluous dew all around, in ten thousands bright beads on his lawn, and he knew that, at last, he had found a number of things he had missed: things shining and bright, unencumbered by their price, or their place on a list. Then with joy and despair he remembered and longed for the lips he had kissed when his days were still evenly numbered. Nucleotidings by Michael R. Burch “We will walk taller!” said Gupta, sorta abrupta, hand-in-hand with his mom, eyeing the A-bomb. “Who needs a mahatma in the aftermath of NAFTA? Now, that was a disaster,” cried glib Punjab. “After Y2k, time will spin out of control anyway,” flamed Vijay. “My family is relatively heavy, too big even for a pig-barn Chevy; we need more space,” spat What’s His Face. “What does it matter, dirge or mantra,” sighed Serge. “The world will wobble in Hubble’s lens till the tempest ends,” wailed Mercedes. “The world is going to hell in a bucket. So f**k it and get outta my face! We own this place! Me and my friends got more guns than ISIS, so what’s the crisis?” cried Bubba Billy Joe Bob Puckett. Shadowselves by Michael R. Burch In our hearts, knowing fewer days―and milder―beckon, how are we, now, to measure that flame by which we reckon the time we have remaining? We are shadows spawned by a blue spurt of candlelight. Darkly, we watch ourselves flicker. Where shall we go when the flame burns less bright? When chill night steals our vigor? Why are we less than ourselves? We are shadows. Where is the fire of youth? We grow cold. Why does our future loom dark? We are old. Why do we shiver? In our hearts, seeing fewer days―and briefer―breaking, now, even more, we treasure the brittle leaf-like aching that tells us we are living. Pressure by Michael R. Burch Pressure is the plug of ice in the frozen hose, the hiss of water within vinyl rigidly green and shining, straining to writhe. Pressure is the kettle’s lid ceaselessly tapping its tired dance, the hot eye staring, its frantic issuance unavailing. Pressure is the bellow’s surge, the hard forged metal shedding white heat, the beat of the clawed hammer on cold anvil. Pressure is a day’s work compressed into minutes, frantic minute vessels constricted, straining and hissing, unable to writhe, the fingers drumming and tapping their tired dance, eyes staring, cold and reptilian, hooded and blind. Pressure is the spirit sighing―reflective, restrictive compression―an endless drumming― the bellows’ echo before dying. The cold eye―unblinking, staring. The hot eye―sinking, uncaring. Open Portal by Michael R. Burch “You already have zero privacy―get over it.” While you’re at it don’t bother to wear clothes: We all know what you’re concealing underneath. Let the bathroom door swing open. Let, O let Us peer in! What you’re doing, We’ve determined, may be a sin! When you visit your mother and it’s time to brush your teeth, it’s okay to openly spit. And, while you’re at it, go ahead take a long, noisy s**t. What the he|ll is your objection? What on earth is all this fuss? Just what is it, exactly, you would hide from US? beMused by Michael R. Burch Perhaps at three you'll come to tea, to sip a cuppa here? You'll just stop in to drink 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 rhythm wild as Dylan! 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. The Century’s Wake by Michael R. Burch lines written at the close of the 20th century Take me home. The party is over, the century passed―no time for a lover. And my heart grew heavy as the fireworks hissed through the dark over Central Park, past high-towering spires to some backwoods levee, hurtling banner-hung docks to the torchlit seas. And my heart grew heavy; I felt its disease its apathy, wanting the bright, rhapsodic display to last more than a single day. If decay was its rite, now it has learned to long for something with more intensity, more gaudy passion, more song like the huddled gay masses, the wildly-cheering throng. You ask me How can this be? A little more flair, or perhaps only a little more clarity. I leave her tonight to the century’s wake; she disappoints me. Salve by Michael R. Burch for the victims and survivors of 9-11 The world is unsalvageable ... but as we lie here in bed stricken to the heart by love despite war’s flickering images, sometimes we still touch, laughing, amazed, that our flesh does not despair of love as we do, that our bodies are wise in ways we refuse to comprehend, still insisting we eat, drink ... even multiply. And so we touch ... touch, and only imagine ourselves immune: two among billions in this night of wished-on stars, caresses, kisses, and condolences. We are not lovers of irony, we who imagine ourselves beyond the redemption of tears because we have salvaged so few for ourselves ... and so we laugh at our predicament, fumbling for the ointment. Stump by Michael R. Burch This used to be a poplar, oak or elm . . . we forget the names of trees, but still its helm, green-plumed, like some Greek warrior’s, nobly fringed, with blossoms almond-white, but verdant-tinged, this massive helm . . . this massive, nodding head here contemplated life, and now is dead . . . Perhaps it saw its future, furrow-browed, and flung its limbs about, dejectedly. Perhaps it only dreamed as, cloud by cloud, the sun plod through the sky. Heroically, perhaps it stood against the mindless plots of concrete that replaced each flowered bed. Perhaps it heard thick loggers draw odd lots and could not flee, and so could only dread . . . The last of all its kind? They left its stump with timeworn strange inscriptions no one reads (because a language lost is just a bump impeding someone’s progress at mall speeds). We leveled all such “speed bumps” long ago just as our quainter cousins leveled trees. Shall we, too, be consumed by what we know? Once gods were merely warriors; august trees were merely twigs, and man the least divine . . . mere fables now, dust, compost, turpentine. First Dance by Michael R. Burch for Sykes and Mary Harris Beautiful ballerina so pert, pretty, poised and petite, how lightly you dance for your waiting Beau on those beautiful, elegant feet! How palely he now awaits you, although he’ll glow from the sparks when you meet! Keep the Body Well by Michael R. Burch for William Sykes Harris III Is the soul connected to the brain by a slender silver thread, so that when the thread is severed we call the body “dead” while the soul ― released from fear and pain ― is finally able to rise beyond earth’s binding gravity to heaven’s welcoming skies? If so ― no need to quail at death, but keep the body well, for when the body suffers the soul experiences hell. On Looking into Curious George’s Mirrors by Michael R. Burch for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon Maya was made in the image of God; may the reflections she sees in those curious mirrors always echo back Love. Amen Maya’s Beddy-Bye Poem by Michael R. Burch for Maya McManmon, granddaughter of the poet Jim McManmon With a hatful of stars and a stylish umbrella and her hand in her Papa’s (that remarkable fella!) and with Winnie the Pooh and Eeyore in tow, may she dance in the rain cheek-to-cheek, toe-to-toe till each number’s rehearsed ... My, that last step’s a leap! the high flight into bed when it’s past time to sleep! Note: “Hatful of Stars” is a lovely song and image by Cyndi Lauper. Chip Off the Block by Michael R. Burch for Jeremy In the fusion of poetry and drama, Shakespeare rules! Jeremy’s a ham: a chip off the block, like his father and mother. Part poet? Part ham? Better run for cover! Now he’s Benedick ― most comical of lovers! NOTE: Jeremy’s father is a poet and his mother is an actress; hence the fusion, or confusion, as the case may be. Whose Woods by Michael R. Burch Whose woods these are, I think I know. Dick Cheney’s in the White House, though. He will not see me stopping here To watch his chip mills overflow. My sterile horse must think it queer To stop without a ’skeeter near Beside this softly glowing “lake” Of six-limbed frogs gone nuclear. He gives his hairless tail a shake; I fear he’s made his last mistake He took a sip of water blue (Blue-slicked with oil and HazMat waste). Get out your wallets; Dick’s not through Enron’s defunct, the bill comes due . . . Which he will send to me, and you. Which he will send to me, and you. 1-800-HOT-LINE by Michael R. Burch “I don’t believe in psychics,” he said, “so convince me.” When you were a child, the earth was a joy, the sun a bright plaything, the moon a lit toy. Now life’s minor distractions irk, frazzle, annoy. When the crooked finger beckons, scythe-talons destroy. “You’ll have to do better than that, to convince me.” As you grew older, bright things lost their meaning. You invested your hours in commodities, leaning to things easily fleeced, to the convenient gleaning. I see a pittance of dirt―untended, demeaning. “Everyone knows that!” he said, “so convince me.” Your first and last wives traded in golden bands for vacations from the abuses of your hands. Where unwatered blooms litter a dark plot of land, the two come together, waving fans. “Everyone knows that. Convince me.” As your father left you, you left those you brought to the doorstep of life as an afterthought. Two sons and a daughter tap shoes, undistraught. Their tears are contrived, their condolences bought. “Everyone knows that. CONVINCE me.” A moment, an instant . . . a life flashes by, a tunnel appears, but not to the sky. There is brightness, such brightness it sears the eye. When a life grows too dull, it seems better to die. “I could have told you that!” he shrieked, “I think I’ll kill myself!” Originally published by Penny Dreadful Virginal For an hour But she is mine; Medusa Friends, beware Many suitors drowned there― Originally published in Grand Little Things
for mothers battling addiction
or rise up, resist Bikini Undersea, by the shale and the coral forming, Something old when the world was forming Lines for My Ascension by Michael R. Burch I. If I should die, there will come a Doom, and the sky will darken to the deepest Gloom. But if my body should not be found, never think of me in the cold ground. II. If I should die, let no mortal say, “Here was a man, with feet of clay, or a timid sparrow God’s hand let fall.” But watch the sky darken to an eerie pall and know that my Spirit, unvanquished, broods, and cares naught for graves, prayers, coffins, or roods. And if my body should not be found, never think of me in the cold ground. III. If I should die, let no man adore his incompetent Maker: Zeus, Jehovah, or Thor. Think of Me as One who never died the unvanquished Immortal with the unriven side. And if my body should not be found, never think of me in the cold ground. IV. And if I should “die,” though the clouds grow dark as fierce lightnings rend this bleak asteroid, stark ... If you look above, you will see a bright Sign the sun with the moon in its arms, Divine. So divine, if you can, my bright meaning, and know my Spirit is mine. I will go where I go. And if my body should not be found, never think of me in the cold ground. © 2020 Michael R. BurchReviews
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