We almost loved (that's always how love goes)A Poem by Michael R. BurchThese are poems about relationships that didn't work out, poems about relationships on the rocks ...
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 Remembering Not to Call by Michael R. Burch a villanelle permitting mourning, for my mother, Christine Ena Burch The hardest thing of all, after telling her everything, is remembering not to call. Now the phone hanging on the wall will never announce her ring: the hardest thing of all for children, however tall. And the hardest thing this spring will be remembering not to call the one who was everything. That the songbirds will nevermore sing is the hardest thing of all for those who once listened, in thrall, and welcomed the message they bring, since they won’t remember to call. And the hardest thing this fall will be a number with no one to ring. No, the hardest thing of all is remembering not to call. Survivors What is life? 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 Infinity Have you tasted the bitterness of tears of despair? Might I lift you tonight from earth’s wreckage and damage The Greatest of These ... The hands that held me tremble. Angelic flesh, now parchment, But her undimmed eyes still embrace me; I can almost believe such unfathomable love A Possible Argument for Mercy Did heaven ever seem so far? Originally published by First Things What Immense Silence What immense silence What luminescence stained What brings them here― Or could they be right? Perhaps why is it God that they fear? Published in The Bible of Hell Star Crossed Thirty Thirty crept upon me slowly Snap Shots Our daughters must be celibate, We like to hook a little tail. The soul is all that matters; why The second stanza is a punning reference to the Tailhook scandal, in which US Navy and Marine aviation officers were alleged to have sexually assaulted up to 83 women and seven men. Ars Brevis, Proofreading Longa Poets may labor from sun to sun, Trump’s real goals are obvious You are too beautiful, too full of irresistible candor Come, my beautiful Bambi After the Poetry Recital Later there’ll be talk of saving whales Myth Here the recalcitrant wind And she is the myth of the scythed wheat Here the immaculate dawn I believe I wrote the first version of this poem toward the end of my senior year of high school, around age 18. To my recollection this is my only poem directly influenced by the “sprung rhythm” of Dylan Thomas (more so than that of Gerard Manley Hopkins). Villanelle of an Opportunist I’m not looking for someone to save. How many highways to hell must I pave Fools praise compassion while weaklings rave, Some praise the Lord but the Devil’s my fave In the land of the free and the home of the brave, Every day without meds becomes a close shave He Lived: Excerpts from “Gilgamesh”
O, surely they shall, they must rise again,
by vast eons of dust, at last fell mute H.B. for Hermann Broch by Hannah Arendt loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Survival. But how does one live without the dead? Where is the sound of their lost company? Where now, their companionable embraces? We wish they were still with us. We are left with the cry that ripped them from us. Left with the veil that shrouds their empty gazes. What avails? That we commit ourselves to them, and through this commitment, learn to survive. I Love the Earth by Hannah Arendt loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I love the earth like a trip to a foreign land and not otherwise. Even so life spins me on its loom softly into never-before-seen patterns. Until suddenly like the last farewells of a new journey, the great silence breaks the frame. Abdul Ghani Khan aka Ghani Baba was an Pakistani poet, philosopher, engineer, sculptor, painter, writer and politician who wrote in Pashto. Excerpts from “Zama Mahal” (“My Palace”) I fashioned a palace from the river’s white sands, The Chalice A note of drunkenness floats on the dusk; Entreaty I do not need your polished lips, (Written at age 15, in July 1929, on the ship Neldera) To God i don’t say You don’t exist, i say You do, za khu na wayam che neshta, za khu wayama che e, khu jahan de dasi khkarey laka be-malika kur Look Up To understand the magnificence of the Universe, Stargey bara ka ta portha, che pa shaan poi da jahan she The Brain and the Heart The brain and the heart? Two powerful independent kings governing one country. Khudaya aqal che o zra de wali rako, pa yu mulk ke dhwa khodhsara bachayaan Someone please tell me: Last night the mountain peak Paradise lay beneath my mother’s feet. Wherever our mothers walk, beneath their feet lies Paradise. Federico Garcia Lorca Translations Federico Garcia Lorca was a notable Spanish poet, playwright and theater director. These are English translations of poems by Federico Garcia Lorca. Arbolé, arbolé (“Tree, Tree”) Sapling, sapling, The girl with the lovely countenance Four dandies ride by Three young bullfighters pass by, When twilight falls and the sky purples The girl, with the lovely countenance Sapling, sapling, Paisaje (“Landscape”) The olive orchard La balada del agua del mar (“The Ballad of the Sea Water”) The sea What do you sell, shadowy child Sir, I sell What do you bear, dark child, Sir, I bear Those briny tears, Sir, I weep Heart, this bitterness, So very bitter, The sea Gacela de la huida (“Ghazal of the Flight”) I have been lost, many times, by the sea I have often been lost by the sea, At night, no one giving a kiss
Because roses root through the forehead Thus, I have lost myself in children’s hearts
Gacela of the Dark Death I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of apples
I don't want to hear how the corpse retains its blood,
I want to sleep awhile, When Dawn arrives, cover me with a veil, Because I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of the apples, Canción del jinete (“The Horseman’s Song” or “Song of the Rider”) Cordoba. Distant and lone.
High plains, high winds.
Such a long, long way! Cordoba. Distant and lone. Despedida (“Farewell”) by Federico Garcia Lorca If I die, The boy eats oranges. The reaper scythes barley. If I die, *** In the green morning
In the ripe evening
(Soul, In the living morning
At nightfall
Soul, *** I want to return to childhood, Are you going, nightingale? Go! I want return to the darkness Are you leaving, aroma? I want to return to the flower Are you departing, love? (To my deserted heart!) Untitled That country wench bewitches your heart? "The Descent into the Underworld" for Martin Mc Carthy The Sibyl began to speak: “God-blooded Trojan, son of Anchises, The King of Beasts in the Museum of the Extinct The king of beasts, my child, His roaring shook the earth And all things feared his might: Now here these bones attest and the pain he caused his prey For he slew them just for sport with a mushrooming cloud and wild thunder; The Lingering and the Unconsoled Heart
when the moon, when the breath comes low and complaining, There is a grief: There is no emptier time, nor place, beyond this: seeing its own stricken face I’m afraid Donald Justice was a bit over-optimistic in his poem “Men at Forty” … Men at Sixty after Donald Justice's "Men at Forty" Learn to gently close Rest against the stair rail Rediscover in mirrors TRANSLATIONS OF CHINESE POETRY These are my modern English translations of Chinese poems by Li Bai, Su Shi, Wang Wei and other Chinese poets. Huazi Ridge A bird in flight soars, limitless, "Lu Zhai" ("Deer Park") Uninhabited hills ... "Lovesickness" Those bright red berries you have in the South, The Ormosia (a red bean called the “love pea”) is a symbol of lovesickness. Farewell (I) Where the mountain began its ascent, Farewell (II) We dismounted, drank to your departure. Spring Night I'm as idle as the osmanthus flowers... The osmanthus is a flowering evergreen also known as the devilwood. Quiet Night Thoughts Moonlight illuminates my bed My interpretation of this famous poem is a bit different from the norm. The moon symbolizes love, so I imagine the moon shining on Li Bai’s bed to be suggestive, an invitation. A man might lower his eyes to avoid seeing something his wife would not approve of. On Parting My feelings are fond, yet “unfeeling” I feign; Farewell to a Friend Rolling hills rim the northern border; Li Shen (772-846) is better known in the West as Duke Wensu of Zhao. He was a Chinese poet, professor, historian, military general and politician of the Tang Dynasty who served as chancellor during the reign of Emperor Wuzong. Toiling Farmers Farmers toil, weeding and hoeing, at noon, Luo Binwang (c. 619-684) was a Tang Dynasty poet who wrote his famous goose poem at age seven. Ode to the Goose Goose, goose, goose! David Hinton said T'ao Ch'ien (365-427) "stands at the head of the great Chinese poetic tradition like a revered grandfather: profoundly wise, self-possessed, quiet, comforting." T'ao gained quasi-mythic status for his commitment to life as a recluse farmer, despite poverty and hardship. Today he is remembered as one of the best Chinese poets of the Six Dynasties Period. Swiftly the years mount Swiftly the years mount, exceeding remembrance. Drinking Wine V I built my hut here amid the hurriedness of men, Harvesting chrysanthemums by the eastern hedge, Returning to Live in the Country The caged bird longs for its ancient woodland; Dim, dim lies the distant hamlet; My courtyard and door are free from turmoil; Su Tungpo (1037-1101) is better known as Su Shi. A towering figure of the Northern Song era, Su Shi is considered to be one of China’s greatest poets and essayists. More than 2,000 of his poems survive. “Pining” You’re ten years dead and your memory fades, Your lonely grave, so distant, If we met today, you wouldn’t recognize me: In a dream last night suddenly I was home, You turned to gaze at me, not speaking, Year after year will it continue to break my heart― Visiting the Temple of the God of Mercy during a Deluge The silkworms age, Our Lives 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. Mid-Autumn Moon The sunset’s clouds are distant, the air clear and cold, Neither this vista nor life will last long, so who will admire this bright moon tomorrow? Benevolent Moon, an excerpt from “The Moon Festival” Rounding the red pavilion, “The Moon Festival” “Where else is there moonlight?” I long to ride the wind home, Instead, I begin to dance with my moon-lit shadow. Rounding the red pavilion, As men experience grief and joy, parting and union, My wish for you is a long, blessed life Su Shi wrote this famous lyric for his brother Ziyou (1039-1112), when the poet was far from the imperial court. "Red Light District" A lonely sick old man, Untitled For fear the roses might sleep tonight, Red Peonies 1. Even if cleverer fingers could preserve both rings, [1] Now the apartment we shared stands empty 2. It’s vain to recall her long-ago letters: When spring returns to the river landing, [1] The Empress Dowager of Qi separated complexly linked rings of carved jade by smashing them to pieces. [2] In Chinese poetry the pear blossom symbolizes the transience of life and the ephemeral beauty of nature. A Song of Two Voices “About to depart, still I linger in the lamplight, “Dancing here with your hand on my waist, keeping time, Untitled A cicada drones sadly in the distance Departure Dawn’s clouds hang heavy, The well-oiled carriage stands ready to depart, Hanging low enough to brush our faces, willow limbs invite being tied into knots. The land is vast, the sky immense, Here arise a myriad complications, The wine cup is not quite empty, The silken girdle’s sheen safely hidden; TRANSLATIONS OF TAMIL POEMS AND EPIGRAMS Among all earth’s languages we find none, anywhere, as sweet as Tamil. ― Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I keep thinking of you, like the child who sticks his hand in the flame knowing he’ll get burned. ― Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
―Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Let's sing and dance with glee! Let’s sing a song to Independence, for we
Unlike those who think only about food, who sit on their verandahs gossiping about meaningless things, India’s Treasures
The gently nourishing Ganges ebbs and flows... The Upanishads? Literature’s first and fairest Rose “Sowkkiyama Kanne” (“How Are You, Dear?”) I can’t catch my breath! I can’t catch my breath! "Vande Mataram" by Subramanya Bharathi, a Tamil poet You are rich with swiftly-flowing streams Your skies are moonlit through the nightwatch’s hours Countless voices reply when you play your harp. Your enemies tremble as seventy million voices roar Who says you are timid? They lie! Venerably, we bow before you. You are our wisdom, you are our law. Yours is the courage that nerves the arm. Every image we hold sacred and true Venerably, we bow before you: Venerably, we bow before you. “Vazhi Maraittu” (“My View is Obstructed”) from the opera "Nandanar Charitram" A Dalit ("untouchable") approaches a temple he is not allowed to enter...
am i cursed? even arriving at this Holy Temple it suffices that i am able to glimpse You in Your Chariot! TRANSLATIONS OF TAMIL POEMS AND EPIGRAMS
I am the footprint erased by the rain. ― Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch I keep thinking of you, like the child who sticks his hand in the flame knowing he’ll get burned. ― Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch What can a dewdrop do when the forest is aflame? ―Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Can you sense when a heart is burning to ashes?―Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Let's sing and dance with glee! Let’s sing a song to Independence, for we
Unlike those who think only about food, who sit on their verandahs gossiping about meaningless things, India’s Treasures The eternal Himalayas tower above us, The gently nourishing Ganges ebbs and flows... The Upanishads? Literature’s first and fairest Rose “Sowkkiyama Kanne” (“How Are You, Dear?”) I can’t catch my breath! I can’t catch my breath! "Vande Mataram" You are rich with swiftly-flowing streams Your skies are moonlit through the nightwatch’s hours Countless voices reply when you play your harp. Your enemies tremble as seventy million voices roar Who says you are timid? They lie! Venerably, we bow before you. You are our wisdom, you are our law. Yours is the courage that nerves the arm. Every image we hold sacred and true Venerably, we bow before you: Venerably, we bow before you. “Vazhi Maraittu” (“My View is Obstructed”) from the opera "Nandanar Charitram" A Dalit ("untouchable") approaches a temple he is not allowed to enter... my view is obstructed, as if by a Mountain: am i cursed? even arriving at this Holy Temple it suffices that i am able to glimpse You in Your Chariot! TRANSLATIONS OF UKRAINIAN POEMS AND EPIGRAMS Taras Hryhorovych Shevchenko (1814-1861) was also known as Kobzar Taras, or simply Kobzar ("The Bard"). The foremost Ukrainian poet of the 19th century, Shevchenko was also a playwright, writer, artist, illustrator, folklorist, ethnographer and political figure. He is considered to be the father of modern Ukrainian literature and, to some degree, of the modern Ukrainian language. Shevchenko was also an outspoken champion of Ukrainian independence and a major figure in Ukraine's national revival. In 1847 he was convicted for explicitly promoting the independence of Ukraine, for writing poems in the Ukrainian language, and for ridiculing members of the Russian Imperial House. He would spend 12 years under some form of imprisonment or military conscription. Dear God! Dear God, disaster again! Zapovit ("Testament") When I die, let them bury me sundering your chains! Love in Kyiv Love is more terrible in Kyiv Here spring has lit the chestnuts, like candles, And yet images, memories and portents still move us... Here you’ll fall victim to the assassin’s stiletto, Here you’ll plummet from a balcony Here you can no longer discern the weddings from the funerals, Phantoms emerge these inebriated nights Here you’ll die by the assassin’s stiletto: "Words terrify when they remain unspoken." ― Lina Kostenko, translation by Michael R. Burch Unsaid You told me “I love you” with your eyes Life rushed past the platform Nights become dawn; days become dusk; Let It Be Let there be light! The touch of a feather. Today the snow began to fall. Don't let the phone arouse your sorrow, The Beggars Where, please tell me, should I hide my eyes If the Last Rom Dies If the last Rom dies, If the last Rom dies… The Romani soul is in their songs―look there! In lands near and far, everywhere, Although their own road to happiness is hard, Mixa Kozimirenko (1938-2005) was a Ukrainian Romani Gypsy poet, philosopher, educator, music teacher, composer and Holocaust survivor. He was a prominent figure and highly regarded in Ukrainian literary circles. We Are Here “We are here.” ― Volodymyr Zelensky We are here. Were are here. We are here. Have no fear, And yet we need help. Our nation stands strong. Now let me be clear, TRANSLATIONS OF RUSSIAN POEMS AND EPIGRAMS The Guest Everything’s the same: a driving snow I asked him, “What do you want?” But he lifted his elegant hand His eyes, observing me blankly, We both know his delight THE MUSE My being hangs by a thread tonight now depend on the Maid with the flute in her hand. Look! Now she arrives; she flings back her veil;
She answers, “Yes.” I have also translated this tribute poem written by Marina Tsvetaeva for Anna Akhmatova: Excerpt from “Poems for Akhmatova” You outshine everything, even the sun I Know The Truth I know the truth―abandon lesser truths! There's no need for anyone living to struggle! The wind is calming now; the earth is bathed in dew; I Know The Truth (Alternate Ending) I know the truth―abandon lesser truths! There's no need for anyone living to struggle! The wind caresses the grasses; the earth gleams, damp with dew; Poems about Moscow 5 As the thundering high tide eventually reverses, To you, O Great Peter, and you, O Great Tsar, I kneel! And while they keep ringing out of the pure blue sky, though sixteen hundred churches, nearby and afar, I Loved You I loved you ... perhaps I love you still ... I loved you ... thus the hopelessness I knew ... TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK POEMS AND EPIGRAMS I am an image, a tombstone. Seikilos placed me here as a long-lasting sign of deathless remembrance.―loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Athens, celestial city, crowned with violets, beloved of poets, bulwark of Greece!―Pindar, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Do not, O my soul, aspire to immortality, but rather exhaust life. Fairest of all preludes is mine to incomparable Athens Toil and expense confront excellence in endeavors fraught with danger, I rejoice at this accomplishment and yet I also grieve, Olympian Ode I Water is best of all, Therefore we raise our voices! Hence come these glorious hymns! Thus our minds bend to those skillful in song, Hieron, who wields the scepter of justice in Sicily of the many flocks! Hieron, who culls the choicest fruits of all sorts of excellence! Hieron, whose halls flower with the splendid music he makes, as one sings blithely at a friend’s table! Take down from its peg the Dorian lute! Let the wise sing of the stallion Pherenikos, the steed who carried Hieron to glory, ... Now the majesty we remember today will be ever sovereign to men. All men. shall I ever glorify in the sounding labyrinths of song A god has set a guard over your hopes, O Hieron, and regards them with peculiar care. There are many kinds of greatness in men, The Ex-Prez Sez The prez should be above the law, he sez, Jim Crow Pie There onst wus a prez who et crow, PAC Man I The Donald’s uniquely refined, PAC Man II The Donald’s uniquely refined, Scattershot by Michael R. Burch for Anaïs Vionet Sometimes it’s not so hot to be hot, like when you’re a bullfrog boiling in a pot or when you’re a hottie who’s been a bit naughty and now has a stalker who needs to be shot! a poem in which i a-coos Coo & Co. of being unfairly lovable by Michael R. Burch Coo & Co. are unfairly lovable! their poems are entirely too huggable! for what hope have we po'-its, we intellectual know-its, or no-wits, when ours are so drubabble? Thanksgiving Poem #1 by Michael R. Burch Thanks to Felicity Teague, we’ve a prophet who doesn’t deceive. Put down religion, all furor and schism: just read her epistles and breathe! Thanksgiving Poem #2 by Michael R. Burch Thanks to Coo & Co. we learn what’s important to know: Fliss gives us the skinny about lovely Ginny, George Swan and the others. Bravo! Courtly, Courteous Coo by Michael R. Burch Coo, the mysterious Columbine, I’m glad to say, is a friend of mine. Coo publishes poems composed by Fliss, and a few of mine, whether hit or miss. For Coo's much too courteous to say, as graceless humans do, “No way!” Plover One to Ground Control by Michael R. Burch for Coo & Co. "Plover, please confirm you’re not hungover by the worm!" "I admit it made me squirm with its stinky, slimy derm but my beak left no real doubt, then the tussle became a rout. I’ve returned to my rocky redoubt. Plover, over and out." Mnemosyne was stunned into astonishment when she heard honey-tongued Sappho, wondering how mortal men merited a tenth Muse.�"Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Fireflies thinking to illuminate the darkness? Poets! �"Michael R. Burch I’ll forgive Aaron Poochigian his “dumb damn PhD” if he’ll focus all his intellectual powers on me! �"Michael R. Burch Gwynn and Bear It by Michael R. Burch He once was a scholar, but now he's just hot under the collar: civility repealed, his redneck at last revealed. Parasites to the venue: cooked Gwynn's on the menu! I wrote the poem above after Sam Gwynn reported that both his A/C units had gone out at the same time and it was 89 degrees in his office. Kinda Crazy by Michael R. Burch It’s kinda crazy, what I did... Translated everybody. How? Batman. Robin. Alfred? Jeeves? Holy Cow! How It Happened by Michael R. Burch I came, a little out of luck, to be a poet. Much by pluck. After destroying all my annoying childhood poems “because they suck!” I gathered all my might, and then continued to write (a little by day, but mostly by night) at odds with the moon and a “silver shoon,” seeking a song that someone might croon, following Blake and a fellow from Doon. Did it come late, or did it come soon? Did it come at all? Fifty years later, “Stay tuned.” The Arrival of the Sea Lions The sound Hounds Impounded The sound Prince Kiwi the Great Kiwi’s Prince Kiwi Kiwi Kiwi’s Kiwi is our family’s green-cheeked parakeet. Parakeets need to sleep around 12 hours per day, hence the pun on “bright” and “half the day.” John Masella ’s an engaging fella; if he writes a book, it’ll be a bestsella; and he’s got lotsa things he’ll be happy to tell ya. �"Michael R. Burch Jousting for her maidenhood, the Princes Charmin come. COVID won’t deter them, emboldened by cheap rum. They’ll meekly beg a favor: garter, thong or blazer, then take on, say, King Kong. �"Michael R. Burch When I visited Byron's residence at Newstead Abbey, there were peacocks running around the grounds, which I thought quite appropriate. Byron was not a shy one, as peacocks run. �"Michael R. Burch HUMDRUM CONUNDRUM or FURTHER STALLINGS by Michael R. Burch It's a crisis in truth, I'm not lying! Is it "eyeing" or "eying"? I, for one, am not ayeing "eying"! Furthermore, is it "dyeing" or "dying"? I am eyeing "eying" ire-ily! Is it "lyeing" or "lying"? Inform me! Lines written after A. E. Stallings raised this critical question in a tweet. Further Stallings by Michael R. Burch I am eyeing "eying" ire-ily! Is it "dyeing" or "dying"? Inform me! I wrote “Further Stallings” after A. E. Stallings tweeted that “eyeing” has become “eying” according to some publisher’s house rules. Is the publisher in question Elon Musk or Donald Trump, perhaps? NOVELTIES by Thomas Campion, an English poet who composed poems in Latin loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Booksellers laud authors for novel editions as pimps praise their w****s for exotic positions. IN LIBRARIOS by Thomas Campion Impressionum plurium librum laudat Librarius; scortum nec non minus leno. THE PLAGIARTIST by Thomas Campion, an English poet who composed poems in Latin loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Dogs raise a ruckus at the stench of a thief, so what would they say about you, given speech? �"Thomas Campion, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Suspecto quid fure canes cum, Pontice, latrent Dixissent melius, si potuere loqui? Pindar Epigrams and Odes Athens, celestial city, crowned with violets, beloved of poets, bulwark of Greece! �"Pindar, fragment 64, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Do not, O my soul, aspire to immortality, but exhaust life. �"Pindar, Pythian Ode III, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Fairest of all preludes is mine to incomparable Athens as I lay the foundation of songs for the mighty race of Alcmaeonidae and their majestic steeds. Among all the nations, which heroic house compares with glorious Hellas? �"Pindar, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Toil and expense confront excellence in endeavors fraught with danger, but those who succeed are considered wise by their companions. �"Pindar, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I rejoice at this accomplishment and yet I also grieve, seeing how Envy slanders noble endeavors. �"Pindar, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Olympian Ode I by Pindar loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Water is best of all, and after that Gold flaming like a fire in the night with the luster of imperial wealth; but if you are reluctant, O my soul, to sing of prizes in mere games ... please consider this: for just as the brightest star can never outshine the sun no matter how often we scan the heavens by day, even so we shall never find any games greater than our Olympics! Therefore we raise our voices! Hence come these glorious hymns! Thus our minds bend to those skillful in song, who celebrate Zeus, the son of Kronos, as they come to the rich and happy hearth of Hieron ... Hieron, who wields the scepter of justice in Sicily of the many flocks! Hieron, who culls the choicest fruits of all sorts of excellence! Hieron, whose halls flower with the splendid music he makes, as one sings blithely at a friend’s table! Take down from its peg the Dorian lute! Let the wise sing of the stallion Pherenikos, the steed who carried Hieron to glory, who now at Pisa has turned out souls toward glad thoughts and rejoicing, because by the banks of Alpheos he ran, giving his ungoaded body to the course, and thus delivered victory to his master, the Syracusans' king, who delights in horses! ... Now the majesty we remember today will be ever sovereign to men. All men. My role is to crown Hieron with an equestrian strain in an elegant Aeolian mood, and I am sure that no host among men �" now, or ever �" shall I ever glorify in the sounding labyrinths of song who is more learned in the learning of honor or with more might to achieve it! A god has set a guard over your hopes, O Hieron, and regards them with peculiar care. And if this god does not fail you, I shall again proclaim in song a greater glory yet, and find the appropriate words when the time comes, when to the bright-shining mountain of Kronos I return: my Muse has yet to release her strongest-wingéd dart! There are many kinds of greatness in men, but the highest can only be achieved by kings. Think not to look further into this, but let it be your lot to walk loftily all your life, and mine to be friend to the game-winners, winning honor for my art among Hellenes everywhere. This is my tribute poem for Bob Dylan, based on my first "meeting" with him at age 11 on a London rooftop... My boyhood introduction to the Prophet Laureate and how I became his Mini-Me at age eleven by Michael R. Burch for Martin Mc Carthy, author of “The Perfect Voice” Atop a London rooftop on a rare cloudless day, between the potted geraniums, I hear the strange music play ... Not quite a vintage Victrola, but maybe a half step up: late ’69 technology. I sat up, abrupt. What the hell was I hearing, a prophet from days of yore? Whatever it was, I felt it �" and felt it to the core. For the times, they are a-changin’ ... The unspoken answer meandered on the wings of a light summer breeze, unfiltered by the geraniums and the dove in me felt ill at ease. For the times, they are a-changin’ ... I was only eleven and far from heaven, intent on rock music (and lust), far from God and his holy rod (seduced by each small budding bust). For the times, they are a-changin’ ... Who was this unknown prophet calling me back to the path of brotherhood through peace? I felt like I needed a bath! For the times, they are a-changin’ ... Needless to say, I was altered. Perhaps I was altared too. I became a poet, peace activist, and now I Am preaching to you! For the times, they are a-changin’ ... Get off your duffs, do what you can, follow the Prophet’s declaiming: no need to kneel, just even the keel, For the times, they are a-changin’! We Come Together, Holding Hands (I) Copyright © 2023 by Michael R. Burch
Copyright © 2023 by Michael R. Burch
Scowl by Michael R. Burch apologies to Allen Ginsberg I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by social media, overdressed obsessive savers dragging themselves scowling through albino streets at dawn looking for a Facebook fix while cautiously protecting their Personal Data, addleheaded quipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the latest Podcast, who in poverty for lack of a Smartphone upgrade sat hollow-eyed smoking medicinal weed in the unnatural illumination of their rebooting routers while contemplating the wonders of AI, who bared their brains to ChatGPT and saw Marvel-ous angels in YouTube ads while waxing nostalgic about things they never actually experienced, who passed through minor universities with solid B’s hallucinating careers as computer programmers advancing quickly to systems analysts, ready to compete confidently with robots, who were never expelled for publishing obscene odes on bathroom stalls or Subway walls, but were always well-behaved and polite to their supervisors, who always wore appropriate underwear to job interviews and never burned their bras in defiance of Big Brother, who never grew their hair too long or sprouted scraggly beards while returning on redeyes from Big Apple job interviews, who never ate fire in paint hotels, or drank turpentine in paradise alley, or purgatoried their toned torsos night after night with dreams, or with drugs, but only with reruns of Games of Thrones, who never wandered blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of canada & paterson, but rather sought the mystical illumination of AI, who scorned peyote for the tantalizing Tweets of Technocrats sharing their opinions like oracles, who never once chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from battery to the bronx on benzedrine, but only arrived at the next job interview drained of brilliance in the drear light of the latest breakup between Ross and Rachel, who were always ready to please their oppressive employers with robotic diligence while advancing in their careers like automatons, who never sank all night in the submarine light of bickford’s but floated high on the stirring strains of the Spice Girls and Justin Bieber, who talked continuously seventy hours about the advantages of homoeopathic medicines, a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists more progressive than Wonder Bread and Wireless Bras, all crying “me too,” yakety-yakking facts, anecdotes and memories all plastered incessantly on Instagram, whose intellects were disgorged for seven sleepless days and nights with eyes dulled by monitor radiance, as if they’d been marooned on the moon with Maroon 5, who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of unambiguous selfies shot with the ubiquitous holy iPhone, suffering Whatsapp withdrawal sweats and Internet downtime migraines worse than any heroin addict’s, who wandered restless at midnight wondering when Paradise Lost would be restored, i.e. the Internet coming back up, while making prophets of Green Day, who never lit cigarettes in boxcars or even knew what boxcars were, but rode Virtual “Reality” snowmobiles to the north pole, then bragged about their conquests on Quora, who never read plotinus poe st. john of the cross but knew by heart every word uttered in the Marvel Universe and every word of Klingon ever spoken on Star Trek, who never loned it through the streets of idaho seeking visionary indian angels but only revered Warren Kenneth Worthington III, who experienced bliss when the Big Bang aired in supernatural ecstasy and a nerd nailed the cute girl (Aye, there is hope for us all!). who rode in rented limousines on prom night dreaming of similar hookups while listening to Justin Timberlake prophetically sing “Cry Me a River,” who lounged wellfed through houston seeking sex or Smartphone games only to relate their lack of success on SnapChat, who disappeared into the bowels of Bluetooth wired to their earbuds never to be seen again, not even on Reddit, only to reappear on TikTok investigating 9-11 conspiracy theories and posting incomprehensible memes, who burned vape holes in their arms protesting the cancellation of Friends, then posted the pictures on Pinterest, who distributed languid Tweets mildly protesting the term “slacktivism,” who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the bullying of jocks, who bit their abusers with sharp braces and attacked them with protractors stored unconcealed in their plaid shirt pockets’ plastic holsters, who howled on their knees for faster Internet access, like monks for transcendence, who watched Internet porn until their libidos shriveled, who were blown, then blown away by sexy Avatars, who balled so infrequently they had only 2.02 children, who preferred Marvel’s Angel to those of religion, who lost their loverboys and/or lovergirls to the lures of the latest Video Game and LinkedIn, who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with Alexa until they came eluding the last gyzym of consciousness, who preferred the snatches of virtual girlfriends to those of their real ones (And safer as well!) trembling with joy after sunset but redeyed rising from lack of sleep perusing Paradisal Porn, who went out VR-whoring safe from venereal diseases, fabled Cocksmen and Adonises of their sheeplike Android Dreams, the Marvel-ous Masters of innumerable lays of girls with artificial breasts bigger than Bot-swana, who starred in sordid movies as their Avatars, grabbed snatches of sleep, then woke with sudden Smartwatch alarms in order to arrive dutifully at work on time, if slightly worse for wear, who never walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for an east river door to swing open to a room full of steam-heat and opium, but instead employed E-Readers to study Ulysses in preparation for MFA exams, who never ate the lamb stew of the imagination but only digested slimy eels dredged from the muddy river bottoms of Babel-on, who wept at the music of Britney Spears pouring endlessly from their Smart Speakers, whose best friends and heroes were Sheldon, Leonard, Howard and Raj (And how earnestly we prayed for them to finally get laid!), who never sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, nor rose to build harpsichords in their lofts, but instead worshiped the gods of American Idol and bowed prostrate before a heavenly Voice, who confused rock-‘n’-roll with fizzled pop, whose anthem became “I Want It That Way” sung by the Backstreet Boys, whose archetype was Eminem’s Stan, the Holy Grail of Fandom, who screamed “Save the whales!” while shucking oysters and watching Predator reruns, who never plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg, but instead preferred vegan Egg Replacers, who never threw their watches from roofs to cast their ballot for Eternity outside Time, but dutifully set their Smartwatches to remind them when to exercise, and stop, and when to record Sex and the City, who never opened actual antique stores but sold their families’ heirlooms on eBay, who were never burned alive in their well-tailored suits on Madison Avenue but were run down after hours by the drunken taxicab of Leisure Suit Larry, who never jumped from the Brooklyn Bridge but once bungeed from the Bridge to Nowhere on a dare, who never sang from their windows in despair, but posted many aggrieved missives on their sacred Facebook walls, who barreled down many Virtual Highways in their Virtual Hotrods despite never mastering a real-world stick shift, whose only Mario was a plumber, who never drove crosscountry seventytwo hours pursuing a vision of eternity, but once played Gran Turismo seventytwo hours nonstop, who never made it to Denver, but managed the Broncos thanks to Madden, who never fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation, but blessed each other in the names of Marvel-ous Odin, Thor and heavenly Asgaard, who retired to California to cultivate legal weed and thus never ended up in jail pleading to pay their bail with BitCoin, who never demanded sanity trials but questioned the nature of reality having grokked The Matrix, who never threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers but were always attentive to their mentors, who like the Cambridge ladies were invariably interested in various things like insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia, who in humorless protests revolted mildly against the trumping of the paris accords, who would have been bald by now except for hair plugs imprecisely implanted, who never bickered with the echoes of the soul in foetid halls as their bodies turned to stone heavy as the moon, but always thanked their mothers on Facebook after watching It’s a Wonderful Life (obligatory at Christmastime) for the umpteenth time. Keywords/Tags: Federico Garcia Lorca, Spanish, translations, English, Spain, romantic, dark, darkness, apples, cemeteries, cemetery, grave, graves, sleep, dream, child, childhood, seas, heart, wind, shadow, tears, corpse, mouth, serpeng, grass, Gracela, flower, aroma, fragrance, perfume, love, nightingale, orange, oranges
© 2024 Michael R. BurchFeatured Review
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2 Reviews Added on January 6, 2022 Last Updated on August 26, 2024 Tags: Almost, love, relationship, relationships, hesitation, procrastination, hesitancy, vacillation, near, near miss, nearly, close call, miss you, missing you, missing Author
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