Prayer Poems by Michael R. Burch

These are prayer poems by Michael R. Burch, along with a few hymns and poems on the subject of God and religion.

These are prayer poems by Michael R. Burch, along with a few hymns. There are also poems on the subject of God and religion―the Christian religion in particular. 

I Pray Tonight

by Michael R. Burch

I pray tonight

the starry light

might

surround you.

I pray

each day

that, come what may,

no dark thing confound you.

I pray ere tomorrow

an end to your sorrow.

May angels’ white chorales

sing, and astound you.

Elegy for a little girl, lost

by Michael R. Burch

for my mother, Christine Ena Burch, who was always a little giggly girl at heart

. . . 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.

Originally published by Setu (India)

I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager, and decided to incorporate 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 Latin Vulgate Bible (circa 385 AD). I believe I wrote the poem around age 17 or thereabouts. This was my first translation.

Mother, I’ve made a terrible mess of things ...

Is there grace in the world, as the nightingale sings?

―Michael R. Burch

Sandy Hook Call to Love

by Michael R. Burch

Our hearts are broken today

for our children's small bodies lie broken;

let us gather them up, as we may,

that the truth of our Love may be spoken;

then, when we have put them away

to nevermore dream or be woken,

let us think of the living, and pray

for true Love, not some miserable token,

to command us, for strength to obey.

The first line came from President Obama’s speech in which he wiped away tears as he discussed the Sandy Hook killings.

Cædmon's Hymn (circa 658-680 AD and the oldest extant English poem)

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Humbly we honor      heaven-kingdom's Guardian,

the Measurer’s might      and his mind-plans:

the goals of the Glory-Father.      First he, the Everlasting Lord,

established      earth’s fearful foundations.

Then he, the First Scop,      hoisted heaven as a roof

for the sons of men:      Holy Creator,

Maker of mankind.      Then he, the Ever-Living Lord,

afterwards made men middle-earth:      Master Almighty!

Published by A Long Story Short, Better Than Starbucks, academia.edu (in “Famous Sonnets of English Poets” by Mohsin Mirza), and Vox Populi, and set to music by the composer Dawn Waters

Intimations

by Michael R. Burch

Let mercy surround us

with a sweet persistence.

Let love propound to us

that life is infinitely more than existence.

Published by Katrina Anthology

Native American Prayer

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Help us learn the lessons you have left us

in every leaf and rock.

Cherokee Prayer

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As I walk life's trails

imperiled by the raging wind and rain,

grant, O Great Spirit,

that yet I may always 

walk like a man.

This prayer-poem makes me think of Native Americans walking the Trail of Tears with far more courage and dignity than their “civilized” abusers.

Peace Prayer

by Michael R. Burch

Be calm. 

Be still.

Be silent, content.

Be one with the buffalo cropping the grass to a safer height. 

Seek the composure of the great depths, barely moved by exterior storms. 

Lift your face to the dawning light; feel how it warms.

And be calm. 

Be still.

Be silent, content.

Published by Hibiscus (India), Ethos Literary Journal, The Peacemaker, Lullabies Behind My Eyelids, The Episcopal Church of St. Matthew (San Mateo, CA) and Mad Hatter

Hymn for Fallen Soldiers

by Michael R. Burch

Sound the awesome cannons.

Pin medals to each breast. 

Attention, honor guard!

Give them a hero’s rest.

Recite their names to the heavens

Till the stars acknowledge their kin.

Then let the land they defended

Gather them in again. 

When I learned there’s an American military organization, the DPAA (Defense POW/MIA Accounting Agency), that is still finding and bringing home the bodies of soldiers who died serving their country in World War II, after blubbering like a baby, I managed to eke out this poem.

Love is her Belief and her Commandment

by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

Love is her belief and her commandment;

in restless dreams at night, she dreams of Love;

and Love is her desire and her purpose;

and everywhere she goes, she sings of Love.

There is a tomb in Palestine: for others 

the chance to stake their claims (the Chosen Ones),

but in her eyes, it’s Love’s most hallowed chancel

where Love was resurrected, where one comes

in wondering awe to dream of resurrection

to blissful realms, where Love reigns over all

with tenderness, with infinite affection.

While some may mock her faith, still others wonder

because they see the rare state of her soul,

and there are rumors: when she prays the heavens

illume more brightly, as if saints concur

who keep a constant vigil over her. 

And once she prayed beside a dying woman:

the heavens opened and the angels came

in the form of long-departed friends and loved ones,

to comfort and encourage. I believe

not in her God, but always in her Love.

Neglect

by Michael R. Burch

What good are tears?

Will they spare the dying their anguish?

What use, our concern

to a child sick of living, waiting to perish?

What good, the warm benevolence of tears

without action?

What help, the eloquence of prayers,

or a pleasant benediction?

Before this day is over,

how many more will die

with bellies swollen, emaciate limbs,

and eyes too parched to cry?

I fear for our souls

as I hear the faint lament

of theirs departing ...

mournful, and distant.

How pitiful our “effort,”

yet how fatal its effect.

If they died, then surely we killed them,

if only with neglect.

Righteous

by Michael R. Burch

Come to me tonight

in the twilight, O, and the full moon rising,

spectral and ancient, will mutter a prayer.

Gather your hair

and pin it up, knowing

I will release it a moment anon.

We are not one,

nor is there a scripture

to sanctify nights you might spend in my arms,

but the swarms

of bright stars revolving above us

revel tonight, the most ardent of lovers.

Published by Writer’s Gazette, Tucumcari Literary Review and The Chained Muse

Springtime Prayer

by Michael R. Burch

They’ll have to grow like crazy,

the springtime baby geese,

if they’re to fly to balmier climes

when autumn dismembers the leaves ...

And so I toss them loaves of bread,

then whisper an urgent prayer:

“Watch over these, my Angels,

if there’s anyone kind, up there.”

Originally published by Borderless Journal (Singapore)

Ave Maria

by Michael R. Burch

Ave Maria,

Maiden mild,

Listen to my earnest prayer.

Listen, O, and be beguiled.

Ave Maria.

Ave Maria,

Maiden mild,

Be Mother now to every child

Beset by earth’s thorned briars wild.

Ave Maria.

Ave Maria,

Maiden mild,

Embrace us with your Love and Grace.

Let us look upon your Face.

Ave Maria.

Ave Maria,

Maiden mild,

Attend now to our earnest call―

When will Love be All in All?

Ave Maria.

Bede's Death Song or Bede's Death Hymn

ancient Old English/Anglo-Saxon lyric poem, circa 735 AD

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Facing Death, that inescapable journey,

who can be wiser than he

who reflects, while breath yet remains,

on whether his life brought others happiness, or pains,

since his soul may yet win delight's or night's way

after his death-day.

hymn to Apollo

by michael r. burch

something of sunshine attracted my i

as it lazed on the afternoon sky,

                                     golden,

splashed on the easel of god;

                                    what,

                           i thought,

could this elfin stuff be,

         to, phantomlike,                   flit

                 tall

   through      trees

on       days, such as these?

     fall

and the breeze

whispered a dirge

to the vanishing light;

enchoired with the evening, it sang;

its voice 

              enchantedly  

                                  rang

chanting “Night!” . . .

till all the bright light

retired,

expired.

I wrote this poem around age 15 or 16 and it was published in the Lantern, my high school literary journal, as “Something of Sunshine.”

Lay Down Your Arms

by Michael R. Burch

Lay down your arms; come, sleep in the sand.

The battle is over and night is at hand.

Our voyage has ended; there's nowhere to go ...

the earth is a cinder still faintly aglow.

Lay down your pamphlets; let's bicker no more.

Instead, let us sleep here on this ravaged shore.

The sea is still boiling; the air is wan, thin ...

Lay down your pamphlets; now no one will “win.”

Lay down your hymnals; abandon all song.

If God was to save us, He waited too long.

A new world emerges, but this world is through . . .

so lay down your hymnals, or write something new.

Be very careful what you pray for!

by Michael R. Burch

Now that his T’s been depleted

the Saint is upset, feeling cheated.

His once-fiery lust?

Just a chemical bust:

no “devil” cast out or defeated.

Mouldy Oldie, or, Septuagenarian Ode to Cheese Mould

by Michael R. Burch

I’m getting old

and battling mould―

it’s growing on my cheese!

My phone’s on hold

to report the mould―

my life is not a breeze!

I pray and pray,

"Send help my way―

good Lord, I’m on my knees!"

But truth be told,

it’s oversold―

that’s it, I’m done with cheese!

Note: I prefer the English spelling “mould” for this poem. And I think I'm entitled, since my mother was English and I lived in England for five years and four summers as a boy. 

Note to a Chick on a Religious Kick

Daisy,

when you smile, my life gets sunny;

you make me want to spend my damned money;

but honey,

you can be a bit ... um ... hazy,

perhaps mentally lazy?,

okay, downright crazy,

praying to the Easter Bunny!

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

Of Seabound Saints and Promised Lands

by Michael R. Burch

Judas sat on a wretched rock,

his head still sore from Satan’s gnawing.

Then Saint Brendan’s curragh caught his eye,

wildly geeing and hawing.

"I’m on parole from Hell today!"

Pale Judas cried from his lonely perch.

"You’ve fasted forty days, good Saint!

Let this rock by my church,

my baptismal, these icy waves.

O, plead for me now with the One who saves!"

Saint Brendan, full of mercy, stood

at the lurching prow of his flimsy bark,

and mightily prayed for the mangy man

whose flesh flashed pale and stark

in that golden moment, beneath a sun

that seemed to halo his tonsured dome.

Then Saint Brendan sailed for the Promised Land

and Saint Judas headed Home.

O, behoove yourself, if ever you can,

of the fervent prayer of a righteous man!

In Dante’s Inferno, Satan gnaws on Judas Iscariot’s head. A curragh is a boat fashioned from wood and ox hides. Saint Brendan of Ireland is the patron saint of sailors and whales. According to legend, he sailed in search of the Promised Land and discovered America centuries before Columbus.

Ince St. Child

by Michael R. Burch

When she was a child

  in a dark forest of fear,

    imagination cast its strange light

      into secret places,

      scattering traces

    of illumination so bright,

  years later, they might suddenly reappear,

their light undefiled.

When she was young,

  the shafted light of her dreams

    shone on her uplifted face

      as she prayed;

      though she strayed

    into a night fallen like mildewed lace

  shrouding the forest of screams,

her faith led her home.

Now she is old

  and the light that was flame

    is a slow-dying ember . . .

      What she felt then

      she would explain;

    she would if she could only remember

  that forest of shame,

faith beaten like gold.

Published by Piedmont Literary Review, Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly and Poetry Life & Times. This is an unusual poem that I wrote in my late teens, and it took me some time to figure out who the elderly woman was. She was a victim of childhood incest, hence the title I eventually chose.

I Loved You

by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.

I loved you ... perhaps I love you still ...

perhaps for a while such emotions may remain.

But please don’t let my feelings trouble you;

I do not wish to cause you further pain.

I loved you ... thus the hopelessness I knew ...

The jealousy, the diffidence, the pain

resulted in two hearts so wholly true

the gods might grant us leave to love again.

2.

I loved you once, and love might still be living,

its fading flame concealed within my core,

But please don't let this fill you with misgiving:

I do not want to hurt you anymore.

In hopeless, silent love I nearly perished:

It made me jealous, and it scared me too.

But now I pray that someday you’ll be cherished

By someone who will love you as I do.

Laughter from Another Room

by Michael R. Burch

Laughter from another room

mocks the anguish that I feel;

as I sit alone and brood,

only you and I are real.

Only you and I are real.

Only you and I exist.

Only burns that blister heal.

Only dreams denied persist.

Only dreams denied persist.

Only hope that lingers dies.

Only love that lessens lives.

Only lovers ever cry.

Only lovers ever cry.

Only sinners ever pray.

Only saints are crucified.

The crucified are always saints.

The crucified are always saints.

The maddest men control the world.

The dumb man knows what he would say;

the poet never finds the words.

The poet never finds the words.

The minstrel never hits the notes.

The minister would love to curse.

The warrior longs to spare his foe.

The warrior longs to spare his foe.

The scholar never learns the truth.

The actors never see the show.

The hangman longs to feel the noose.

The hangman longs to feel the noose.

The artist longs to feel the flame.

The proudest men are not aloof;

the guiltiest are not to blame.

The guiltiest are not to blame.

The merriest are prone to brood.

If we go outside, it rains.

If we stay inside, it floods.

If we stay inside, it floods.

If we dare to love, we fear.

Blind men never see the sun;

other men observe through tears.

Other men observe through tears

the passage of these days of doom;

now I listen and I hear

laughter from another room.

Laughter from another room

mocks the anguish that I feel.

As I sit alone and brood,

only you and I are real.

I believe I wrote the first version of this poem as a college freshman or sophomore, around age 18 or 19. It remains largely the same as the original poem.

Evangelical Fever

by Michael R. Burch

Welcome to global warming:

     temperature 109.

You believe in God, not science,

     but isn’t the weather Divine?

Soon low-lying islands will vanish,

     then Holland and Bangladesh,

while you delight in your faith,

     eternally fresh. 

The fabled Northwest Passage

     just opened, for lack of ice.

So pray real hard to the Lord.

     Maybe he’ll blink twice. 

Published by Borderless Journal (Singapore)

A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint

by Michael R. Burch

Santa Claus,

for Christmas, please,

don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .

just . . . Santa, please,

I’m on my knees! . . .

please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!

Willy Nilly

by Michael R. Burch

for the Demiurge aka Yahweh/Jehovah 

Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?

You made the stallion,

you made the filly,

and now they sleep

in the dark earth, stilly.

Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?

You forced them to run

all their days uphilly.

They ran till they dropped―

life’s a pickle, dilly.

Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?

They say I should worship you!

Oh, really!

They say I should pray

so you’ll not act illy.

Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?

thanksgiving prayer of the parasites

by michael r. burch

GODD is great;

GODD is good;

let us thank HIM

for our food.

by HIS hand

we all are fed;

give us now

our daily dead:

ah-men!

(p.s.,

most gracious

& salacious

HEAVENLY LORD,

we thank YOU in advance for

meals galore

of loverly gore:

of precious

delicious

sumptuous

scrumptious 

human flesh!)

Rhetorical Prayer

by Michael R. Burch

don’t tell me man’s lot’s poor:

i always wanted more. 

don’t tell me Nature’s cruel

and red with visceral gore.

i always wanted more. 

please, speak to ur Gaud and tell Him

i don’t like the crap He’s selling.

if He’s good, He’ll listen, i’m sure,

this Gaud u so adore.

ur-Gent prayer request

by michael r. burch

where did ur Gaud originate?

in the minds of men so full of hate

they commanded moms to stone their kids,

which u believe (brains on the skids)

was “the word of Gaud”! 

                                         debate?

it’s useless:

please pray to be less clueless.

The title involves a pun, since the “ur-Gent” would be the biblical “god.”

U.S. Travel Advisory

by Michael R. Burch

It’s okay

to be gay,

unless, let’s say,

you find your fey

way

outside the Bay.

They

will want you to pray

to their LORD, or else pay

in some hellish way

for the “wrong decision.” Stay

in San Fran, or maybe LA.

The Less-Than-Divine Results of My Prayers to be Saved from Televangelists

by Michael R. Burch

I’m old,

no longer bold,

just cold,

and (truth be told),

been bought and sold,

rolled

by the wolves and the lambs in the fold.

Who’s to be told

by this worn-out scold?

The complaint department is always on hold. 

Prayer for a Merciful, Compassionate, etc., God to Murder His Creations Quickly & Painlessly, Rather than Slowly & Painfully

by Michael R. Burch

Lord, kill me fast and please do it quickly!

Please don’t leave me gassed, archaic and sickly!

Why render me mean, rude, wrinkly and prickly?

Lord, why procrastinate?

Lord, we all know you’re an expert killer!

Please, don’t leave me aging like Phyllis Diller!

Why torture me like some poor sap in a thriller?

God, grant me a gentler fate!

Lord, we all know you’re an expert at murder

like Abram―the wild-eyed demonic goat-herder

who’d slit his son’s throat without thought at your order.

Lord, why procrastinate?

Lord, we all know you’re a terrible sinner!

What did dull Japheth eat for his 300th dinner

after a year on the ark, growing thinner and thinner?

God, grant me a gentler fate!

Dear Lord, did the lion and tiger compete

for the last of the lambkin’s sweet, tender meat?

How did Noah preserve his fast-rotting wheat?

God, grant me a gentler fate!

Lord, why not be a merciful Prelate?

Do you really want me to detest, loathe and hate

the Father, the Son and their Ghostly Mate?

Lord, why procrastinate?

Subversive Verse

by Michael R. Burch

Subversive versifying’s best,

especially when the poet’s blessed!

God grants the increase in good time;

let’s pray our métier has His rhyme,

His reason, that His wherewithal

is with us and upon us all!

Why, then, does hell hold us in thrall?

Ah, men!

Altared Spots

by Michael R. Burch

The mother leopard buries her cub,

then cries three nights for his bones to rise

clad in new flesh, to celebrate the sunrise.

Good mother leopard, pensive thought

and fiercest love’s wild insurrection

yield no certainty of a resurrection.

Man’s tried them both, has added tears,

chants, dances, drugs, séances, tombs’

white alabaster prayer-rooms, wombs

where dead men’s frozen genes convene ...

there is no answer―death is death.

So bury your son, and save your breath.

Or emulate earth’s “highest species”―

write a few strange poems and odd treatises.

Update of "A Litany in Time of Plague"

by Michael R. Burch

THE PLAGUE has come again

To darken lives of men

and women, girls and boys;

Death proves their bodies toys

Too frail to even cry.

I am sick, I must die.

    Lord, have mercy on us!

Tycoons, what use is wealth?

You cannot buy good health!

Physicians cannot heal

Themselves, to Death must kneel.

Nuns’ prayers mount to the sky.

I am sick, I must die.

    Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty’s brightest flower?

Devoured in an hour.

Kings, Queens and Presidents

Are fearful residents

Of manors boarded high.

I am sick, I must die.

    Lord, have mercy on us!

We have no means to save

Our children from the grave.

Though cure-alls line our shelves,

We cannot save ourselves. 

"Come, come!" the sad bells cry.

I am sick, I must die.

    Lord, have mercy on us!

I AM!

by Michael R. Burch

I am not one of ten billion―I―

sunblackened Icarus, chary fly,

staring at God with a quizzical eye.

I am not one of ten billion, I.

I am not one life has left unsquashed―

scarred as Ulysses, goddess-debauched,

pale glowworm agleam with a tale of panache.

I am not one life has left unsquashed.

I am not one without spots of disease,

laugh lines and tan lines and thick-callused knees

from begging and praying and girls sighing “Please!”

I am not one without spots of disease.

I am not one of ten billion―I―

scion of Daedalus, blackwinged fly

staring at God with a sedulous eye.

I am not one of ten billion, I

AM!

Beloved

by Michael R. Burch

a prayer-poem for Kevin Nicholas Roberts

O, let me be the Beloved

and let the Longing be Yours;

but if You should “love” without Force,

how then shall I love―stone, unmoved?

But let me be the Beloved,

and let the Longing be Yours.

And as for the Saint, my dear friend,

tonight let his suffering end!

You must let him be your Beloved . . .

no longer be stone: Love unmoved!

But light on him now―Love, descend!

Tonight, let his suffering end.

For how can true Love be unmoved?

If he suffers for love, Love reproved,

I will never be your Beloved,

so love him instead, so behooved!

Yes, let him be your Beloved,

or let You be nothing, so proved.

Must this be our one and sole pact―

keep you hymen forever intact?

I wrote this poem a few months before Kevin’s death. 

Cleansings

by Michael R. Burch

Walk here among the walking specters. Learn

inhuman patience. Flesh can only cleave

to bone this tightly if their hearts believe

that G-d is good, and never mind the Urn.

A lentil and a bean might plump their skin

with mothers’ bounteous, soft-dimpled fat

(and call it “health”), might quickly build again

the muscles of dead menfolk. Dream, like that,

and call it courage. Cry, and be deceived,

and so endure. Or burn, made wholly pure.

If one prayer is answered,

                                              “G-d” must be believed.

No holy pyre this�"death’s hissing chamber.

Two thousand years ago�"a starlit manger,

weird Herod’s cries for vengeance on the meek,

the children slaughtered. Fear, when angels speak,

the prophesies of man.

                                          Do what you can,

not what you must, or should.

                                                     They call you “good,”

dead eyes devoid of tears; how shall they speak

except in blankness? Fear, then, how they weep.

Escape the gentle clutching stickfolk. Creep

away in shame to retch and flush away

your vomit from their ashes. Learn to pray.

Hymn to an Art-o-matic Laundromat

by Michael R. Burch

after Richard Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer”

O, terrible-immaculate

ALL-cleansing godly Laundromat,

where cleanliness is next to Art

�"a bright Kinkade (bought at K-Mart),

a Persian rug (made in Taiwan),

a Royal Bonn Clock (time zone Guam)�"

embrace my a*s in cushioned vinyl,

erase all marks: an-l, v-ginal,

p-nile, inkspot, red wine, dirt.

O, sterilize her skirt, my shirt,

my skidmarked briefs, her padded bra;

suds-away in your white maw

all filth, the day’s accumulation.

Make us pure by INUNDATION.

Published by The Oldie, where it was the winner of a poetry contest

Life Sentence

by Michael R. Burch

. . . I swim, my Daddy’s princess, newly crowned,

toward a gurgly Maelstrom . . . if I drown

will Mommy stick the Toilet Plunger down

to suck me up? . . . She sits upon Her Throne,

Imperious (denying we were one),

and gazes down and whispers “precious son” . . .

. . . the Plunger worked; i’m two, and, if not blessed,

still Mommy got the Worst Stuff off Her Chest;

a Vacuum Pump, They say, will do the rest . . .

. . . i’m three; yay! whee! oh good! it’s time to play!

(oh no, I think there’s Others on the way;

i’d better pray) . . .

. . . i’m four; at night I hear the Banging Door;

She screams; sometimes there’s Puddles on the Floor;

She wants to kill us, or, She wants some More . . .

. . . it’s great to be alive if you are five (unless you’re me);

my Mommy says: “you’re WRONG! don’t disagree!

don’t make this HURT ME!” . . .

. . . i’m six; They say i’m tall, yet Time grows Short;

we have a thriving Family; Abort!;

a tadpole’s ripping Mommy’s Room apart . . .

. . . i’m seven; i’m in heaven; it feels strange;

I saw my life go gurgling down the Drain;

another Noah built a Mighty Ark;

God smiled, appeased, a Rainbow split the Dark;

. . . I saw Bright Colors also, when She slammed

my head against the Tub, and then I swam

toward the magic tunnel . . . last, I heard . . .

is that She feels Weird.

An excerpt from the Latin hymn "Dies Irae":

The day of wrath, that day

which will leave the world ash-gray,

was foretold by David and the Sybil fey.

�" attributed to Thomas of Celano, St. Gregory the Great, St. Bernard of Clairvaux, and St. Bonaventure; loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Pagans Protest the Intolerance of Christianity

by Michael R. Burch

“We have a common sky.” �" Quintus Aurelius Symmachus (c. 345-402)

We had a common sky

before the Christians came.

We thought there might be gods

but did not know their names.

The common stars above us?

They winked, and would not tell.

Yet now our fellow mortals claim

our questions merit hell!

The cause of our damnation?

They claim they’ve seen the LIGHT ...

but still the stars wink down at us,

as wiser beings might.

we did not Dye in vain!

by michael r. burch

from “songs of the sea snails”

though i’m just a slimy crawler,

     my lineage is proud:

my forebears gave their lives

     (oh, let the trumps blare loud!)

so purple-mantled Royals

     might stand out in a crowd.

i salute you, fellow loyals,

     who labor without scruple

as your incomes fall

     while deficits quadruple

to swaddle unjust Lords

     in bright imperial purple!

Originally published by The American Dissident

In ancient times the purple dye produced from the secretions of purpura mollusks (sea snails) was known as “Tyrian purple,” “royal purple” and “imperial purple.” It was greatly prized in antiquity, and was very expensive according to the historian Theopompus: “Purple for dyes fetched its weight in silver at Colophon.” Thus, purple-dyed fabrics became status symbols, and laws often prevented commoners from possessing them. The production of Tyrian purple was tightly controlled in Byzantium, where the imperial court restricted its use to the coloring of imperial silks. A child born to the reigning emperor was literally porphyrogenitos ("born to the purple") because the imperial birthing apartment was walled in porphyry, a purple-hued rock, and draped with purple silks. Royal babies were swaddled in purple; we know this because the iconodules, who disagreed with the emperor Constantine about the veneration of images, accused him of defecating on his imperial purple swaddling clothes!

Temple Hymn 15

by Enheduanna, daughter of Sargon I of Akkad, high priestess of the Goddess Inanna, and the first poet whose name we know today

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

to the Gishbanda Temple of Ningishzida

by Enheduanna, the daughter of Sargon I of Akkad and the high priestess of the Goddess Inanna

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Most ancient and terrible shrine,

set deep in the mountain

like a mother's womb ...

Dark shrine, 

like a mother's wounded breast,

blood-red and terrifying ...

Though approaching through a safe-seeming field,

our hair raises as we near you!

Gishbanda,

like a neck-stock,

like a fish net,

like a foot-shackled prisoner's manacles ...

your ramparts are massive,

like a trap!

But once we’re inside,

as the sun rises,

you yield widespread abundance!

Your prince 

is the pure-handed priest of Inanna, heaven's holy one,

Lord Ningishzida!

Oh, see how his thick, lustrous hair

cascades down his back!

Oh Gishbanda,

he has built this beautiful temple to house your radiance!

He has placed his throne upon your dais!

Published by: Sindhu News (India) and cited by Vedveer Arya in “The Chronological Outline of the Scythians, Arattas, Ancient Persians, Cimmerians, Hittites, Hurrians (Mitanni), Romas (Gypsies), and Tokharins”

Temple Hymn 7: an Excerpt

to the Kesh Temple of Ninhursag

by Enheduanna

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O, high-situated Kesh,

form-shifting summit,

inspiring fear like a venomous viper!

O, Lady of the Mountains,

Ninhursag’s house was constructed on a terrifying site!

O, Kesh, like holy Aratta: your womb dark and deep,

your walls high-towering and imposing!

O, great lion of the wildlands stalking the high plains! ...

Ninhursag was the goddess of nature and animals, wild and tame. She was also the goddess of the womb and form-shaping. And she was the patron deity of Kesh.

Temple Hymn 17: an Excerpt

to the Badtibira Temple of Dumuzi

by Enheduanna

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O, house of jeweled lapis illuminating the radiant bed

in the peace-inducing palace of our Lady of the Steppe!

Temple Hymn 22: an Excerpt

to the Sirara Temple of Nanshe

by Enheduanna

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O, house, you wild cow!

Made to conjure signs of the Divine!

You arise, beautiful to behold,

bedecked for your Mistress!

Temple Hymn 26: an Excerpt

to the Zabalam Temple of Inanna

by Enheduanna

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O house illuminated by beams of bright light,

dressed in shimmering stone jewels,

awakening the world to awe!

Temple Hymn 42: an Excerpt

to the Eresh Temple of Nisaba

by Enheduanna

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O, house of brilliant stars

bright with lapis stones,

you illuminate all lands!

...

The person who put this tablet together

is Enheduanna.

My king: something never created before,

did she not give birth to it?

The Exaltation of Inanna: Opening Lines and Excerpts 

by Enheduanna

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lady of all divine powers!

Lady of the resplendent light!

Righteous Lady adorned in heavenly radiance!

Beloved Lady of An and Uraš!

Hierodule of An, sun-adorned and bejeweled!

Heaven’s Mistress with the holy diadem,

Who loves the beautiful headdress befitting the office of her high priestess!

Powerful Mistress, seizer of the seven divine powers!

My Heavenly Lady, guardian of the seven divine powers!

You have seized the seven divine powers!

You hold the divine powers in your hand!

You have gathered together the seven divine powers!

You have clasped the divine powers to your breast!

You have flooded the valleys with venom, like a viper;

all vegetation vanishes when you thunder like Iškur!

You have caused the mountains to flood the valleys! 

When you roar like that, nothing on earth can withstand you!

Like a flood descending on floodplains, O Powerful One, you will teach foreigners to fear Inanna!

You have given wings to the storm, O Beloved of Enlil!

The storms do your bidding, blasting the unbelievers!

Foreign cities cower at the chaos You cause! 

Entire countries cower in dread of Your deadly South Wind!

Men cower before you in their anguished implications,

raising their pitiful outcries,

weeping and wailing, beseeching Your benevolence with many wild lamentations!

But in the van of battle, everything falls before You, O Mighty Queen!

My Queen,

You are all-conquering, all-devouring!

You continue Your attacks like relentless storms!

You howl louder than the howling storms!

You thunder louder than Iškur!

You moan louder than the mournful winds! 

Your feet never tire from trampling Your enemies!

You produce much wailing on the lyres of lamentations!

My Queen,

all the Anunna, the mightiest Gods,

fled before Your approach like fluttering bats!

They could not stand in Your awesome Presence

nor behold Your awesome Visage! 

Who can soothe Your infuriated heart?

Your baleful heart is beyond being soothed!

Uncontrollable Wild Cow, elder daughter of Sin,

O Majestic Queen, greater than An,

who has ever paid You enough homage?

O Life-Giving Goddess, possessor of all powers,

Inanna the Exalted!

Merciful, Live-Giving Mother!

Inanna, the Radiant of Heart!

I have exalted You in accordance with Your power!

I have bowed before You in my holy garb,

I the En, I Enheduanna!

Carrying my masab-basket, I once entered and uttered my joyous chants ...

But now I no longer dwell in Your sanctuary.

The sun rose and scorched me.

Night fell and the South Wind overwhelmed me.

My laughter was stilled and my honey-sweet voice grew strident.

My joy became dust.

O Sin, King of Heaven, how bitter my fate!

To An, I declared: An will deliver me!

I declared it to An: He will deliver me!

But now the kingship of heaven has been seized by Inanna,

at Whose feet the floodplains lie.

Inanna the Exalted,

who has made me tremble together with all Ur!

Stay Her anger, or let Her heart be soothed by my supplications!

I, Enheduanna will offer my supplications to Inanna,

my tears flowing like sweet intoxicants!

Yes, I will proffer my tears and my prayers to the Holy Inanna, 

I will greet Her in peace ...

O My Queen, I have exalted You,

Who alone are worthy to be exalted!

O My Queen, Beloved of An, 

I have laid out Your daises,

set fire to the coals, 

conducted the rites,

prepared Your nuptial chamber.

Now may Your heart embrace me!

These are my innovations,

O Mighty Queen, that I made for You!

What I composed for You by the dark of night,

The cantor will chant by day.

Now Inanna’s heart has been restored,

and the day became favorable to Her.

Clothed in beauty, radiant with joy,

she carried herself like the elegant moonlight.

Now to the Noble Hierodule,

to the Wrecker of foreign lands

presented by An with the seven divine powers,

and to my Queen garbed in the radiance of heaven ...

O Inanna, praise!

Lament to the Spirit of War

by Enheduanna

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You hack down everything you see, War God! 

Rising on fearsome wings

you rush to destroy the land,

descending like a raging storm,

howling like a hurricane,

screaming like a tempest,

thundering, raging, ranting, drumming,

whiplashing whirlwinds!

Men falter at your approaching footsteps.

Tortured dirges scream

on your lyre of despair. 

Like a fiery Salamander you poison the land:

growling over the earth like thunder,

vegetation collapsing before you,

blood gushing down mountainsides.

Spirit of hatred, greed and vengeance!

Dominatrix of heaven and earth!

Your ferocious fire consumes our land.

Whipping your stallion

with furious commands,

you decide our fates.

You triumph over all human rites and prayers. 

Who can explain your tirade,

why you carry on so? 

Hurrian Hymn No. 6

ancient Akkadian hymn

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

"Hurrian Hymn No. 6" was discovered in the ruins of Ugarit, near the modern town of Ras Shamra in Syria. It is the oldest surviving substantially complete work of notated music, dating to around 1400 BCE. The hymn is addressed to the goddess Nikkal (aka Ningal), the wife of the moon god Sin in ancient Mesopotamian mythology. "Hurrian Hymn No. 6" is one of 36 ancient Akkadian hymns called the "Hurrian Hymns" that were preserved in cuneiform, although the rest of the hymns are not as well-preserved. 

1.

Having endeared myself to the Deity, she will embrace me.

May this offering of bread I bring wholly cover my sins.

May the sesame oil purify me as I bow low before your divine throne in awe.

Nikkal will make the sterile fertile, cause the barren to be fruitful:

They will bring forth children like grain. 

The wife will bear her husband’s children.

May she who has not yet borne children now conceive them!

2.

For those who receive my offerings,

I place two loaves in their bowls as I perform the rites.

The couple have raised sacrifices to the heavens for their health and good fortune!

I have placed the loaves before your Divine Throne.

I will purify their sins, without denying them.

I will bring the lovers to you, that you may find them agreeable, for you love those who come forward to be reconciled.

I have brought their sins before you, to be removed through the reconciliation ritual.

I will honor you at your footstool.

Nikkal will strengthen them.

She allows married couples have children.

She allows children to be conceived by their fathers.

But the unreconciled will weep: "Why have I not yet born my husband children?"

Yasna 28, Verse 6

by Zarathustra (Zoroaster)

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lead us to pure thought and truth

by your sacred word and long-enduring assistance, 

O, eternal Giver of the gifts of righteousness.

O, wise Lord, grant us spiritual strength and joy; 

help us overcome our enemies’ enmity!

Translator’s Note: The Gathas consist of 17 hymns believed to have been composed by Zoroaster, also known as Zarathustra, Zarathushtra Spitama or Ashu Zarathushtra. Zoroaster was an ancient Iranian prophet who founded what is now known as Zoroastrianism. Zoroaster’s compositions may date as far back as 1700 BC, although there is no scholarly consensus as to when he lived. These hymns form the core of the Zoroastrian liturgy called the Yasna. The language employed, Gathic or Old Avestan, is related to the proto-Indo-Iranian and proto-Iranian languages and to Vedic Sanskrit. The Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy deems Zoroaster to have been the first philosopher. Zoroaster has also been called the father of ethics, the first rationalist and the first monotheist. In the original texts, Ahura Mazda means “wise Lord” or “Lord of Wisdom” while Vohuman/Vohu Manah represents pure thought and righteousness and Asha represents truth. Angra Mainyu was the chief evil entity, a precursor of Satan.

Hymn to Aphrodite (I)

by Sappho

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rainbow-appareled, immortal-throned Aphrodite,

daughter of Zeus, wile-weaver, I beseech you: Hail!

Spare me your reproaches and chastisements. 

Do not punish, dire Lady, my penitent soul!

But come now, descend, favor me with your presence.

Please hear my voice now beseeching, however unclear or afar,

your own dear voice, which is Olympus’s essence �" 

golden, wherever you are ...

Begging you to harness your sun-chariot’s chargers �" 

those swift doves now winging you above the black earth,

till their white pinions whirring bring you down to me from heaven

through earth’s middle air ...

Suddenly they arrived, and you, O my Blessed One,

smiling with your immortal countenance,

asked what hurt me, and for what reason

I cried out ...

And what did I want to happen most

in my crazed heart? "Whom then shall Persuasion

bring to you, my dearest? Who,

Sappho, hurts you?”

“For if she flees, soon will she follow;

and if she does not accept gifts, soon she will give them;

and if she does not love, soon she will love

despite herself!"

Come to me now, relieve my harsh worries,

free me heart from its anguish,

and once again be

my battle-ally!

Hymn to Aphrodite (II)

by Sappho

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Immortal Aphrodite, throned in splendor!

Wile-weaving daughter of Zeus, enchantress and beguiler!

I implore you, dread mistress, discipline me no longer

with such vigor!

But come to me once again in kindness,

heeding my prayers, as you did so graciously before;

O, come Divine One, descend once more 

from heaven’s golden dominions!

Then with your chariot yoked to love's 

white consecrated doves,

their multitudinous pinions aflutter,

you came gliding from heaven's shining heights 

to this dark gutter.

Swiftly they came and vanished, leaving you,

O my Goddess, smiling, your face eternally beautiful,

asking me what unfathomable longing compelled me 

to cry out.

Asking me what I sought in my bewildered desire.

Asking, "Who has harmed you, why are you so alarmed, 

my poor Sappho? Whom should Persuasion 

summon here?"

"Although today she flees love, soon she will pursue you;

spurning love's gifts, soon she shall give them;

tomorrow she will woo you, 

however unwillingly!"

Come to me now, O most Holy Aphrodite!

Free me now from my heavy heartache and anguish!

Graciously grant me all I request!

Be once again my ally and protector!

"Hymn to Aphrodite" is the only poem by Sappho of Lesbos to survive in its entirety. The poem survived intact because it was quoted in full by Dionysus, a Roman orator, in his "On Literary Composition," published around 30 B.C. A number of Sappho's poems mention or are addressed to Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love. It is believed that Sappho may have belonged to a cult that worshiped Aphrodite with songs and poetry. If so, "Hymn to Aphrodite" may have been composed for performance within the cult. However, we have few verifiable details about the "real" Sappho, and much conjecture based on fragments of her poetry and what other people said about her, in many cases centuries after her death. We do know, however, that she was held in very high regard. For instance, when Sappho visited Syracuse the residents were so honored they erected a statue to commemorate the occasion! During Sappho's lifetime, coins of Lesbos were minted with her image. Furthermore, Sappho was called "the Tenth Muse" and the other nine were goddesses.

Published via readings by Radio Station KMUN (Astoria, Oregon) and Dave Gosselin

Amending Walls

by Michael R. Burch

“Do as dad did, from hating queers to praying.”

Robert Frost, one fears, was undoubtedly right:

They can’t go beyond their father’s saying. 

They’re building walls, the intolerant and the straying.

They’re building walls again, to shut in night. 

“Do as dad did, from hating queers to praying.”

“Stabbed in the back!” Thus cry the ones betraying,

who turn their sullen backs on the Lord of Light. 

They can’t go beyond their father’s saying. 

Screaming curses, froth-mouthed, vile and baying,

having no care for their frailest victim’s plight.

“Do as dad did, from hating queers to praying.”

The oddest of heroes, fraying while constantly braying,

embracing hatred, it seems, with great delight,

they can’t go beyond their father’s saying. 

Raging at children, brutes intent on slaying. 

Robert Frost, one fears, was undoubtedly right. 

“Do as dad did, from hating queers to praying.”

They can’t go beyond their father’s saying. 

what the “Chosen Few” really pray for

by michael r. burch

We are ready to be robed in light,

angel-bright

despite

Our intolerance;

ready to enter Heaven and never return

(dark, this sojourn);

ready to worse-ship any GAUD

able to deliver Us from this flawed 

existence;

We pray with the persistence 

of actual saints

to be delivered from all earthly constraints:

just kiss each uplifted Face

with lips of gentlest grace,

cooing the sweetest harmonies

while brutally crushing Our enemies!

ah-Men!

twin nuggets of ancient whiz-dumb

by michael r. burch

oh, let it never once be said

that love for Gaud is dead!

wee love the way he murdered eve!

such awesome love! wee must believe!

wee love the way he sent a FLOOD

to teach wee babies to be good!

wee love the zillion births he aborted!

such awesome love cant clearly reported! 

(so never mind the embryos 

who died in their mommies’ drowning throes!

the unborn babes, the unborn lambs

all drowned for Gaud’s divinest plans!)

“do as I say, not as I do!”

cruel Hippo-Crit! does Jesus rue?

(if Christ were good he’d rue Gaud too.)

no! wee must love our abusive Father

and follow hymn meekly, mild lambs to the slaughter,

or he’ll burn us forever in Hiss terrible hell.

it’s so much safer to tell hymn he’s swell!

thus wee love our Gaud so loverly

hovering over us so smotherly! 

wee love the TITHES his cons abscond.

wee love the Big Fish in Hiss pond. 

And so wee say “whee!” to all this and that!

PS, also the earth is flat! 

Lockheed, Take Heed

by Nakba, a pseudonym of Michael R. Burch

Terror fell upon my children. Wailing,

they ran toward my arms�"small, pale with fright.

They seemed eternities from me�"so distant!

Their day exploded. Now I live in night.

“Made in America.” I find that tragic.

Though far less tragic than my sweet doves, blown

to atoms by your profits’ ill-bought magic.

Land of the “brave,” the “free”? Brave freedom’s flown

to heights unknown�"too high to see my people

crushed in the dust by those you love too well.

Sing hymns. Praise God. Erect a higher steeple.

Condemn my kind to poverty, and hell.

“Shock and awe?” Yes, I feel awe�"and shock.

You jackals killed my doves, my lambs, my flock!

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 scoffs at these churchyards

littered with 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, Yahweh, or Thor.

Think of Me as the 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.

Keywords/Tags: prayer, prayers, prayer-poems, hymn, hymns, hymnals, God, Jesus Christ, religion, Christian, Christianity