Por aquel postigo viejo
que nunca fuera cerrado
vi venir pendón bermejo
con trescientos de caballo,
en medio de los trescientos
viene un monumento armado,
y dentro del monumento
viene un cuerpo de un finado
Fernán d'Arias ha por nombre,
fijo de Arias Gonzalo.

Llorábanle cien doncellas,
todas ciento hijasdalgo;
todas eran sus parientas
en tercero y cuarto grado,
las unas le dicen primo,
otras le llaman hermano,
las otras decían tío
otras lo llaman cuñado.

Sobre todas lo lloraba
aquesa Urraca Hernando,
¡y cuán bien que la consuela
ese viejo Arias Gonzalo!:

-Calledes, hija, calledes,
calledes, Urraca Hernando,
que si un hijo me han muerto,
ahí me quedaban cuatro.

No murió por las tabernas
ni a las tablas jugando,
mas murió sobre Zamora,
vuestra honra resguardando.

Por aquel postigo viejo
que nunca fuera cerrado
vi venir seña bermeja
con trescientos de caballo;
un pendón traen sangriento,
de ***** muy bien bordado,
y en medio de los trescientos
traen un cuerpo finado;
Fernand Arias ha por nombre,
hijo de Arias Gonzalo.

A la entrada de Zamora
un gran llanto es comenzado.
Llorábanle cien doncellas,
todas ciento hijasdalgo;
sobre todas lo lloraba
esa Infanta Urraca Hernando,
¡y cuán triste la consuela
el buen viejo Arias Gonzalo!:

-¡Callad, mi ahijada, callad,
no hagades tan grande llanto;
por un hijo que me han muerto,
vivos me quedaban cuatro;

que no murió entre las damas,
ni menos tablas jugando,
mas murió sobre Zamora,
vuestra honra resguardando!
¡Ay de mí, viejo mezquino!
¡Quién no te hubiera criado,
para verte, Fernand Arias,
agora muerto en mis brazos!

Ya tocaban las campanas,
ya llevaban a enterrarlo
allá en la iglesia mayor,
junto al altar de Santiago,
en una tumba muy rica,
como requiere su estado.

Por aquel postigo viejo   que nunca fuera cerrado,
vi venir pendón bermejo   con trescientos de caballo;
en medio de los trescientos   viene un monumento armado,
y dentro del monumento   viene un ataúd de palo,
y dentro del ataúd   venía un cuerpo finado.
Fernán d'Arias ha por nombre,   hijo de Arias Gonzalo.
Llorábanle cien doncellas,   todas ciento hijasdalgo;
todas eran sus parientas   en tercero y cuarto grado;
las unas le dicen primo,   otras lo llaman hermano,
las otras decían tío,   otras lo llaman cuñado.
Sobre todas lo lloraba    aquesa Urraca Hernando,
¡y cuán bien que la consuela   ese viejo Arias Gonzalo!
-¿Por qué lloráis, mis doncellas?   ¿por qué hacéis tan grande llanto?
No lloréis así, señoras,   que no es para llorarlo,
que si un hijo me han muerto,   ahí me quedaban cuatro.
No murió por las tabernas,   ni a las tablas jugando,
mas murió sobre Zamora,   vuestra honra resguardando;
murió como un caballero   con sus armas peleando.

We pantomime our sumptuous dirge

That has never known a chord without novas

Or a Nocturne of phrase

Charmed into glissandos

gilded as galaxies

of gossamer, awestruck Thought...

And now

These Arias are all of Us -

Phosphorus Dirth-worms

In dead white apples

In a Cave.

Our elusive orchestra

Polished by ambient clay

To gleam forsaken

and redeemed

Has often curved the flat space

Between The Mystery

And No Church -



Listen

And the melodies

Decipher

The delicate heresies of Love

That you make

With your bare hands

And our separate Hells'

Are but one Heaven

The Devil has to See

To Believe.

Tristes van los zamoranos   metidos en gran quebranto;
retados son de traidores,   de alevosos son llamados;
más quieren todos ser muertos   que no traidores nombrados.

  Día era de san Millán,   ese día señalado,
todos duermen en Zamora,   mas no duerme Arias Gonzalo;
aún no es bien amanecido   que el cielo estaba estrellado,
castigando está a sus hijos,   a todos cuatro está armando,
las palabras que les dice   son de mancilla y quebranto:
-Yo he de lidiar el primero   con don Diego el castellano:
si con mentira nos reta,   vencerle he y hágoos salvos;
pero si cualquier traidor   hay entre los zamoranos,
y él nos reta con verdad,   muerto quedaré en el campo.
Morir quiero y no ver muerte   de hijos que tanto amo.

  Las armas pide el buen viejo,   sus hijos le están armando,
las grebas le están poniendo;   doña Urraca que allí ha entrado,
llorando de los sus ojos   y el cabello destrenzado:
-¿Para qué tomas las armas?   ¿Dónde vas, mi viejo amo:
pues sabéis, si vos morís,   perdido es todo mi estado?
¡Acordaos que prometistes   a mi padre don Fernando
de nunca desampararme   ni dejar de vuestra mano!

  Caballeros de la infanta   a don Arias van rogando
que les deje la batalla,   que la tomarán de grado;
mas él sólo da sus armas   a su hijo don Fernando:
-¡Dios vaya contigo, hijo,   la mi bendición te mando;
ve a salvar los de Zamora;   como Cristo a los humanos!

  Sin poner pie en el estribo   don Fernando ha cabalgado.
Por aquel postigo viejo   galopando se ha alejado
adonde estaban los jueces,   que ya le están esperando;
partido les han el sol,   dejado les han el campo.

The Original Sin: Rhyming Haiku!

Haiku
should never rhyme:
it’s a crime!
―Michael R. Burch

The herons stand,
sentry-like, at attention ...
rigid observers of some unknown command.
―Michael R. Burch

Late
fall;
all
the golden leaves turn black underfoot:
soot
―Michael R. Burch

Dry leaf flung awry:
bright butterfly,
goodbye!
―Michael R. Burch

A snake in the grass
lies, hissing
"Trespass!"
―Michael R. Burch

Honeysuckle
blesses my knuckle
with affectionate dew
―Michael R. Burch

My nose nuzzles
honeysuckle’s
sweet nothings
―Michael R. Burch

The day’s eyes were blue
until you appeared
and they wept at your beauty.
―Michael R. Burch

The moon in decline
like my lover’s heart
lies far beyond mine
―Michael R. Burch

My mother’s eyes
acknowledging my imperfection:
dejection
―Michael R. Burch

The sun sets
the moon fails to rise
we avoid each other’s eyes
―Michael R. Burch

brief leaf flung awry ~
bright butterfly, goodbye!
―Michael R. Burch

leaf flutters in flight ~
bright, O and endeavoring butterfly,
goodbye!
―Michael R. Burch

The girl with the pallid lips
lipsticks
into something more comfortable
―Michael R. Burch

I am a traveler
going nowhere,
but my how the gawking bystanders stare!
―Michael R. Burch



Here's a poem that's composed of haiku-like stanzas:

Haiku Sequence: The Seasons
by Michael R. Burch

Lift up your head
dandelion,
hear spring roar!

How will you tidy your hair
this near
summer?

Leave to each still night
your lightest affliction,
dandruff.

Soon you will free yourself:
one shake
of your white mane.

Now there are worlds
into which you appear
and disappear

seemingly at will
but invariably blown
wildly, then still.

Gasp at the bright chill
glower
of winter.

Icicles splinter;
sleep still an hour,
till, resurrected in power,

you lift up your head,
dandelion.
Hear spring roar!



Unrhymed Original Haiku and Tanka
by Michael R. Burch

These are original haiku and tanka written by Michael R. Burch, along with haiku-like and tanka-like poems inspired by the forms but not necessarily abiding by all the rules.

Dark-bosomed clouds
pregnant with heavy thunder ...
the water breaks
―Michael R. Burch

one pillow ...
our dreams
merge
―Michael R. Burch



Iffy Coronavirus Haiku

yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #1
by Michael R. Burch

plagued by the Plague
i plague the goldfish
with my verse

yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #2
by Michael R. Burch

sunflowers
hang their heads
embarrassed by their coronas

I wrote this poem after having a sunflower arrangement delivered to my mother, who is in an assisted living center and can’t have visitors due to the coronavirus pandemic. I have been informed the poem breaks haiku rules about personification, etc.

Homework (yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #3)
by Michael R. Burch

Dim bulb overhead,
my silent companion:
still imitating the noonday sun?

New World Order (last in a series and perhaps a species)
by Michael R. Burch

The days of the dandelions dawn ...
soon man will be gone:
fertilizer.



Variations on Fall

Farewells like
falling
leaves,
so many sad goodbyes.
―Michael R. Burch

Falling leaves
brittle hearts
whisper farewells
―Michael R. Burch

Autumn leaves
soft farewells
falling ...
falling ...
falling ...
―Michael R. Burch

Autumn leaves
Fall’s farewells
Whispered goodbyes
―Michael R. Burch



Variations on the Seasons
by Michael R. Burch

Mother earth
prepares her nurseries:
spring greening

The trees become
modest,
coy behind fans



Wobbly fawns
have become the fleetest athletes:
summer



Dry leaves
scuttle like *****:
autumn

*

The sky
shivers:
snowfall

each
translucent flake
lighter than eiderdown

the entire town entombed
but not in gloom,
bedazzled.



Variations on Night

Night,
ice and darkness
conspire against human warmth
―Michael R. Burch

Night and the Stars
conspire against me:
Immensity
―Michael R. Burch

in the ice-cold cathedral
prayer candles ablaze
flicker warmthlessly
―Michael R. Burch



Variations on the Arts
by Michael R. Burch

Paint peeling:
the novel's
novelty wears off ...

The autumn marigold's
former glory:
allegory.

Human arias?
The nightingale frowns, perplexed.
Tone deaf!

Where do cynics
finally retire?
Satire.

All the world’s
a stage
unless it’s a cage.

To write an epigram,
cram.
If you lack wit, scram.

Haiku
should never rhyme:
it’s a crime!

Video
dumped the **** tube
for YouTube.

Anyone
can rap:
just write rhythmic crap!

Variations on Lingerie
by Michael R. Burch

Were you just a delusion?
The black negligee you left
now merest illusion.

The clothesline
quivers,
ripe with unmentionables.

The clothesline quivers:
wind,
or ghosts?



Variations on Love and Wisdom
by Michael R. Burch

Wise old owls
stare myopically at the moon,
hooting as the hart escapes.

Myopic moon-hooting owls
hoot as the hart escapes

The myopic owl,
moon-intent, scowls;
my rabbit heart thunders ...
Peace, wise fowl!



Original Tanka

All the wild energies
of electric youth
captured in the monochromes
of an ancient photobooth
like zigzagging lightning.
―Michael R. Burch

The plums were sweet,
icy and delicious.
To eat them all
was perhaps malicious.
But I vastly prefer your kisses!
―Michael R. Burch

A child waving ...
The train groans slowly away ...
Loneliness ...
Somewhere in the distance gusts
scatter the stray unharvested hay ...
―Michael R. Burch

How vaguely I knew you
however I held you close ...
your heart’s muffled thunder,
your breath the wind―
rising and dying.
―Michael R. Burch



Miscellanea

Childless
by Michael R. Burch

How can she bear her grief?
Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight
of one fallen star.

sheer green stockings
queer green beer
St. Patrick's Day!
―Michael R. Burch

cicadas chirping everywhere
singing to beat the band―
surround sound
―Michael R. Burch

Regal, upright,
clad in royal purple:
Zinnia
―Michael R. Burch

Love is a surreal sweetness
in a world where trampled grapes
become wine.
―Michael R. Burch

although meant for market
a pail full of strawberries
invites indulgence
―Michael R. Burch

late November;
skeptics scoff
but the geese no longer migrate
―Michael R. Burch

as the butterfly hunts nectar
the generous iris
continues to bloom
―Michael R. Burch



Haiku Translations of the Oriental Masters

Grasses wilt:
the braking locomotive
grinds to a halt
― Yamaguchi Seishi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, fallen camellias,
if I were you,
I'd leap into the torrent!
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The first soft snow:
leaves of the awed jonquil
bow low
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Come, investigate loneliness!
a solitary leaf
clings to the Kiri tree
― 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

One apple, alone
in the abandoned orchard
reddens for winter
― Patrick Blanche, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The poem above is by a French poet; it illustrates how the poetry of Oriental masters like Basho has influenced poets around the world.



I remove my beautiful kimono:
its varied braids
surround and entwine my body
― Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This day of chrysanthemums
I shake and comb my wet hair,
as their petals shed rain
― Hisajo Sugita, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This sheer kimono—
how the moon peers through
to my naked skin!
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

These festive flowery robes—
though quickly undressed,
how their colored cords still continue to cling!
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Chrysanthemum petals
reveal their pale curves
shyly to the moon.
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Loneliness —
reading the Bible
as the rain deflowers cherry blossoms.
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

How deep this valley,
how elevated the butterfly's flight!
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

How lowly this valley,
how lofty the butterfly's flight!
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Echoes from the hills—
the mountain cuckoo sings as it will,
trill upon trill
—Hisajo Sugita (1890-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch



This darkening autumn:
my neighbor,
how does he continue?
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Let us arrange
these lovely flowers in the bowl
since there's no rice
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

An ancient pond,
the frog leaps:
the silver plop and gurgle of water
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The butterfly
perfuming its wings
fans the orchid
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Pausing between clouds
the moon rests
in the eyes of its beholders
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The first chill rain:
poor monkey, you too could use
a woven cape of straw
― 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

Like a heavy fragrance
snow-flakes settle:
lilies on the rocks
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

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

Will we meet again?
Here at your flowering grave:
two white butterflies
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Fever-felled mid-path
my dreams resurrect, to trek
into a hollow land
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Too ill to travel,
now only my autumn dreams
survey these withering fields
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch; this has been called Basho's death poem

These brown summer grasses?
The only remains
of "invincible" warriors...
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Graven images of long-departed gods,
dry spiritless leaves:
companions of the temple porch
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

See: whose surviving sons
visit the ancestral graves
white-bearded, with trembling canes?
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

An empty road
lonelier than abandonment:
this autumn evening
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Spring has come:
the nameless hill
lies shrouded in mist
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

This world?
Moonlit dew
flicked from a crane's bill.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen (1200-1253) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seventy-one?
How long
can a dewdrop last?
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dewdrops beading grass-blades
die before dawn;
may an untimely wind not hasten their departure!
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dewdrops beading blades of grass
have so little time to shine before dawn;
let the autumn wind not rush too quickly through the field!
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Outside my window the plums, blossoming,
within their curled buds, contain the spring;
the moon is reflected in the cup-like whorls
of the lovely flowers I gather and twirl.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



The Oldest Haiku

These are my translations of some of the oldest Japanese waka, which evolved into poetic forms such as tanka, renga and haiku over time. My translations are excerpts from the Kojiki (the "Record of Ancient Matters"), a book composed around 711-712 A.D. by the historian and poet Ō no Yasumaro. The Kojiki relates Japan’s mythological beginnings and the history of its imperial line. Like Virgil's Aeneid, the Kojiki seeks to legitimize rulers by recounting their roots. These are lines from one of the oldest Japanese poems, found in the oldest Japanese book:

While you decline to cry,
high on the mountainside
a single stalk of plumegrass wilts.
― Ō no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Here's another excerpt, with a humorous twist, from the Kojiki:

Hush, cawing crows; what rackets you make!
Heaven's indignant messengers,
you remind me of wordsmiths!
― Ō no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Here's another, this one a poem of love and longing:

Onyx, this gem-black night.
Downcast, I await your return
like the rising sun, unrivaled in splendor.
― Ō no Yasumaro (circa 711), loose translation by Michael R. Burch



More Haiku by Various Poets

Right at my feet!
When did you arrive here,
snail?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Our world of dew
is a world of dew indeed;
and yet, and yet...
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, brilliant moon
can it be true that even you
must rush off, like us, tardy?
― Kobayashi Issa, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Standing unsteadily,
I am the scarecrow’s
skinny surrogate
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Autumn wind ...
She always wanted to pluck
the reddest roses
―Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Issa wrote the haiku above after the death of his daughter Sato with the note: “Sato, girl, 35th day, at the grave.”



The childless woman,
how tenderly she caresses
homeless dolls ...
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Clinging
to the plum tree:
one blossom's worth of warmth
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

One leaf falls, enlightenment!
Another leaf falls,
swept away by the wind ...
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This has been called Ransetsu’s “death poem.” In The Classic Tradition of Haiku, Faubion Bowers says in a footnote to this haiku: “Just as ‘blossom’, when not modified, means ‘cherry flower’ in haiku, ‘one leaf’ is code for ‘kiri’. Kiri ... is the Pawlonia ... The leaves drop throughout the year. They shrivel, turn yellow, and yield to gravity. Their falling symbolizes loneliness and connotes the past. The large purple flowers ... are deeply associated with haiku because the three prongs hold 5, 7 and 5 buds ... ‘Totsu’ is an exclamation supposedly uttered when a Zen student achieves enlightenment. The sound also imitates the dry crackle the pawlonia leaf makes as it scratches the ground upon falling.”



Disdaining grass,
the firefly nibbles nettles—
this is who I am.
—Takarai Kikaku (1661-1707), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A simple man,
content to breakfast with the morning glories—
this is who I am.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This is Basho’s response to the Takarai Kikaku haiku above

The morning glories, alas,
also turned out
not to embrace me
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The morning glories bloom,
mending chinks
in the old fence
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Morning glories,
however poorly painted,
still engage us
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I too
have been accused
of morning glory gazing ...
—original haiku by by Michael R. Burch

Taming the rage
of an unrelenting sun—
autumn breeze.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sun sets,
relentlessly red,
yet autumn’s in the wind.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn deepens,
a butterfly sips
chrysanthemum dew.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As autumn draws near,
so too our hearts
in this small tea room.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Nothing happened!
Yesterday simply vanished
like the blowfish soup.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The surging sea crests around Sado ...
and above her?
An ocean of stars.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Revered figure!
I bow low
to the rabbit-eared Iris.
—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

Nothing in the cry
of the cicadas
suggests they know they soon must die.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I wish I could wash
this perishing earth
in its shimmering dew.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dabbed with morning dew
and splashed with mud,
the melon looks wonderfully cool.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cold white azalea—
a lone nun
in her thatched straw hut.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Glimpsed on this high mountain trail,
delighting my heart—
wild violets
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The bee emerging
from deep within the peony’s hairy recesses
flies off heavily, sated
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A crow has settled
on a naked branch—
autumn nightfall
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Except for a woodpecker
tapping at a post,
the house is silent.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

That dying cricket,
how he goes on about his life!
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Like a glorious shrine—
on these green, budding leaves,
the sun’s intense radiance.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Yosa Buson haiku translations

A kite floats
at the same place in the sky
where yesterday it floated...
― Yosa Buson, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

On the temple’s great bronze gong
a butterfly
snoozes.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hard to describe:
this light sensation of being pinched
by a butterfly!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Not to worry spiders,
I clean house ... sparingly.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Among the fallen leaves,
an elderly frog.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In an ancient well
fish leap for mosquitoes,
a dark sound.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Flowers with thorns
remind me of my hometown ...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Reaching the white chrysanthemum
the scissors hesitate ...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Picking autumn plums
my wrinkled hands
once again grow fragrant
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A silk robe, casually discarded,
exudes fragrance
into the darkening evening
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Whose delicate clothes
still decorate the clothesline?
Late autumn wind.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

An evening breeze:
water lapping the heron’s legs.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

gills puffing,
a hooked fish:
the patient
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The stirred morning air
ruffles the hair
of a caterpillar.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Intruder!
This white plum tree
was once outside our fence!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tender grass
forgetful of its roots
the willow
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I believe the poem above can be taken as commentary on ungrateful children. It reminds me of Robert Hayden's "Those Winter Sundays."―MRB

Since I'm left here alone,
I'll make friends with the moon.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The hood-wearer
in his self-created darkness
misses the harvest moon
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

White blossoms of the pear tree―
a young woman reading his moonlit letter
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The pear tree flowers whitely:
a young woman reading his letter
by moonlight
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On adjacent branches
the plum tree blossoms
bloom petal by petal―love!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A misty spring moon ...
I entice a woman
to pay it our respects
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Courtesans
purchasing kimonos:
plum trees blossoming
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The spring sea
rocks all day long:
rising and falling, ebbing and flowing ...
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As the whale
  dives
its tail gets taller!
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

While tilling the field
the motionless cloud
vanished.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Even lonelier than last year:
this autumn evening.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My thoughts return to my Mother and Father:
late autumn
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Late autumn:
my thoughts return to my Mother and Father
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This roaring winter wind:
the cataract grates on its rocks.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

While snow lingers
in creases and recesses:
flowers of the plum
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Plowing,
not a single bird sings
in the mountain's shadow
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In the lingering heat
of an abandoned cowbarn
only the sound of the mosquitoes is dark.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The red plum's fallen petals
seem to ignite horse dung.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dawn!
The brilliant sun illuminates
sardine heads.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The abandoned willow shines
between bright rains
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dew-damp grass:
the setting sun’s tears
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dew-damp grass
weeps silently
in the setting sun
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

White plum blossoms―
though the hour grows late,
a glimpse of dawn
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The poem above is believed to be Buson's jisei (death poem) and he is said to have died before dawn.

Lately the nights
dawn
plum-blossom white.
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is a second interpretation of Buson's jisei (death poem).

In the deepening night
I saw by the light
of the white plum blossoms
―Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is a third interpretation of Buson's jisei (death poem).

Our life here on earth:
to what shall we compare it?
Perhaps to a rowboat
departing at daybreak,
leaving no trace of us in its wake?
—Takaha Shugyo or Yosa Buson, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



I thought I felt a dewdrop
plop
on me as I lay in bed!
― Masaoka Shiki, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

We cannot see the moon
and yet the waves still rise
― Shiki Masaoka, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The first morning of autumn:
the mirror I investigate
reflects my father’s face
― Shiki Masaoka, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Wild geese pass
leaving the emptiness of heaven
revealed
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Inside the cracked shell
of a walnut:
one empty room.
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Bring me an icicle
sparkling with the stars
of the deep north
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Seen from the skyscraper
the trees' fresh greenery:
parsley sprigs
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Are the geese flying south?
The candle continues to flicker ...
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Still clad in its clown's costume—
the dead ladybird.
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

A single tree,
a heart carved into its trunk,
blossoms prematurely
—Takaha Shugyo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Silently observing
the bottomless mountain lake:
water lilies
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Cranes
flapping ceaselessly
test the sky's upper limits
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Falling snowflakes'
glitter
tinsels the sea
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Blizzards here on earth,
blizzards of stars
in the sky
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Completely encircled
in emerald:
the glittering swamp!
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The new calendar!:
as if tomorrow
is assured...
― Inahata Teiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Ah butterfly,
what dreams do you ply
with your beautiful wings?
― Fukuda Chiyo-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Because morning glories
hold my well-bucket hostage
I go begging for water
― Fukuda Chiyo-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Spring
stirs the clouds
in the sky's teabowl
― Kikusha-ni, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Tonight I saw
how the peony crumples
in the fire's embers
― Katoh Shuhson, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

It fills me with anger,
this moon; it fills me
and makes me whole
― Takeshita Shizunojo, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

War
stood at the end of the hall
in the long shadows
― Watanabe Hakusen, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Because he is slow to wrath,
I tackle him, then wring his neck
in the long grass
― Shimazu Ryoh, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Pale mountain sky:
cherry petals play
as they tumble earthward
― Kusama Tokihiko, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The frozen moon,
the frozen lake:
two oval mirrors reflecting each other.
― Hashimoto Takako, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The bitter winter wind
ends here
with the frozen sea
― Ikenishi Gonsui, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, bitter winter wind,
why bellow so
when there's no leaves to fell?
― Natsume Sôseki, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Winter waves
roil
their own shadows
― Tominaga Fûsei, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

No sky,
no land:
just snow eternally falling...
― Kajiwara Hashin, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Along with spring leaves
my child's teeth
take root, blossom
― Nakamura Kusatao, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Stillness:
a single chestnut leaf glides
on brilliant water
― Ryuin, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

As thunder recedes
a lone tree stands illuminated in sunlight:
applauded by cicadas
― Masaoka Shiki, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The snake slipped away
but his eyes, having held mine,
still stare in the grass
― Kyoshi Takahama, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Girls gather sprouts of rice:
reflections of the water flicker
on the backs of their hats
― Kyoshi Takahama, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Murmurs follow the hay cart
this blossoming summer day
― Ippekiro Nakatsuka (1887-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The wet nurse
paused to consider a bucket of sea urchins
then walked away
― Ippekiro Nakatsuka (1887-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

May I be with my mother
wearing her summer kimono
by the morning window
― Ippekiro Nakatsuka (1887-1946), loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The hands of a woman exist
to remove the insides of the spring cuttlefish
― Sekitei Hara, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The moon
hovering above the snow-capped mountains
rained down hailstones
― Sekitei Hara, 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

Spring snow
cascades over fences
in white waves
― Suju Takano, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Tanka and Waka translations:

If fields of autumn flowers
can shed their blossoms, shameless,
why can’t I also frolic here —
as fearless, and as blameless?
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Submit to you —
is that what you advise?
The way the ripples do
whenever ill winds arise?
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Watching wan moonlight
illuminate trees,
my heart also brims,
overflowing with autumn.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I had thought to pluck
the flower of forgetfulness
only to find it
already blossoming in his heart.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

That which men call "love" —
is it not merely the chain
preventing our escape
from this world of pain?
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Once-colorful flowers faded,
while in my drab cell
life’s impulse also abated
as the long rains fell.
—Ono no Komachi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I set off at the shore
of the seaside of Tago,
where I saw the high, illuminated peak
of Fuji―white, aglow―
through flakes of drifting downy snow.
― Akahito Yamabe, loose translation by Michael R. Burch


Haiku Translations

As the monks sip their morning tea,
chrysanthemums quietly blossom.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fragrance of plum blossoms
on a foggy path:
the sun rising.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sea darkens ...
yet still faintly white
the wild duck protests.
—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Pear tree blossoms
whitened by moonlight:
a young woman reading a letter.
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Outlined in the moonlight ...
who is that standing
among the pear trees?
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your coolness:
the sound of the bell
departing the bell.
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As the moon flies west
the flowers' shadows
creep eastward.
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

By such pale moonlight
even the wisteria's fragrance
seems distant.
—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Leaves
like crows’ shadows
flirt with a lonely moon.
Kaga no Chiyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let me die
covered with flowers
and never again wake to this earthly dream!
—Ochi Etsujin, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

To reveal how your heart flowers,
sway like the summer grove.
—Tagami Kikusha-Ni, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In the thicket's shade
a solitary woman sings the rice-planting song.
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unaware of these degenerate times,
cherry blossoms abound!
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

These silent summer nights
even the stars
seem to whisper.
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The enormous firefly
weaves its way, this way and that,
as it passes by.
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Composed like the Thinker, he sits
contemplating the mountains:
the sagacious frog!
Kobayashi Issa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A fallen blossom
returning to its bough?
No, a butterfly!
Arakida Moritake, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Illuminated by the harvest moon
smoke is caught creeping
across the water ...
Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fanning its tail flamboyantly
with every excuse of a breeze,
the peacock!
Masaoki Shiki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Waves row through the mists
of the endless sea.
Masaoki Shiki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I hurl a firefly into the darkness
and sense the enormity of night.
—Kyoshi Takahama, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

As girls gather rice sprouts
reflections of the rain ripple
on the backs of their hats.
—Kyoshi Takahama, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Keywords/Tags: haiku, tanka, oriental, masters, translation, Japanese, nature, seasons, Basho, Buson, Issa, waka, tanka, mrbhaiku

My voice grows thin and wan
like flower buds surviving,
pale green, too pale to stay.
When will the sound beat upwards to the sun?
Not speaking/ merely words -
singing with the tulips,
Humming like the bees in spring,
Capella, Forte, I want to sound like the roses
who belt and  weave the most robust of songs.

When will I **** out this disastrous black thumb choking out my arias
every last one.

only because northern ireland was originally liverpool.*

yeah... i’m an anglo-slav,
he’s an afro-saxon and that guy is a fairy
with clover petals for wings -
watch him fluster and flatter cheeks turning green into pink!
well, nothing really educational in essex,
just a barge of the usual escapees from middle class opinions,
esp. escaping opinions as if onion tears
of the integrating migrants who flawed the first rule:
your father purposively forgot your mother’s tongue
(but your mother kept it for the earth
and her hope for you to till it),
you’re ******* with a body and no soul:
the irish fairy countered interrupting me -
i kept my gaelic in speaking english drunk, *******!
that’s a trinity that i see.
and i saw it, spoken across new england and washington state
(hey, price up the ***** liquor of thieving a sympathy,
i wasn’t going to be nice writing poetry,
still me, the remnant of the masculine root liking rugby
and the diminishing psychologies of the players
of the losing team - watch them applaud loss
rather than sing victory prior without listening to
a wwe fake warrior entry music they boggled up with dr. dre’s venture
into # therearenomotivationalspeakersinthenationalanthem).
i kept my masculinity watchings the sports
just so i could write poetry and not womanise -
now the escorts and arias i hear you claim?
no... finding nemo, frozen, brave,
no arias and escorts, just enough morals for enough of
horn inches and cartoon coloured shoes.

Snorers all
scattered world-wide
in offices and homes
in boardrooms
and bedrooms;
O Snorers all
loud and clear
low and shrill -
listen ye
to the loud wake-up call
as from Rip Van Winkle's Snore

stand up united
and drown the howl of protests
against snoring that is surely no less divine
than the Chorus of Angels in Heaven -
for the great God who made the Aurora
no doubt also conceived of the Divine Snore!


and so, stand up, ye sonorous Snorers!
unite! I call unto ye!
unite against the detractors
and the critics
and the complainants
and those of low culture
who cannot
lie still and listen to Snoring
as one rightly would at a concert hall
listening to the delightful play
of a quartet of violins


O how long will you take it lying down,
ye blessed Snorers of the World?
let the world know
the first divine music was indeed the Snore;
and the very height of human communication
is the unabashed snore
for all other modes of communication
lead to mis-communication
but the language of the snore is always exact and crisp!
the message of the Snore always precise!
the meaning always loud and clear!
and the very height of the snore
(let us declare to the world)
is the couple in bed
snoring away together
beside each other
making such divine music
making love with the rolling thunder of snores
so that one might say:
do we have a couple of wild boars
copulating in the next room?



stand up, O Snorers of the World -
and defy the mockers
and those who seek divorce
on grounds of insufferable Snoring;
stand up against those who sue
for loss of sleep from
friendly, neighborly Snorers;
stand up now
against these losers, these whingeing nags
uncouth and untutored
in the mysteries of the art of the Snore!
stand up and with one loud blast of
a universal Snore,
with one melodious Snore
let us
drown their dissenting voices,
their unprovoked cacophonous complaints!
stand up, Snorers young and old!
unite, Snorers black, white and gold!
defy the world! O ye Snorers
of quite nights and of lazy days:
let us overwhelm the world
with the pleasing symphony of Snores;
let us bless the ears of the world
with the dulcet streams of varied notes and arias!
stand up! unite! - O much-maligned Snorers of the World!
with one voice raised
in a triumphant Snore
let us declare:
*No longer will we be silent!
Our voices will be heard!

Candy-sweet ballads
****** heartache arias
Undying
soulmate
anthems

Everywhere I go
The soundtrack never changes
But no one else
seems
to notice

Red-rose shades of white noise
Heart-shaped confetti stuck in my ears
Jangling
omnipresent
sound waves

The song everyone is singing
Grates against my inner drum
It's not
the kind
I'm looking for

song shadows
soul and mirrors
will we ever see clearer
sweet life
oh the fragrance
the righteous mind
un-sees the danger
so many soldiers
so many women
are all of our fathers
really little children
move swiftly
into the windy recesses
the mind regresses
all the time
damp and wet
the owl cries
so long tomorrow
farewell goodbye
dunk your head
in liquid splendor
i am tender as the snow
pouring down from heaven’s fiefdom
morning's hunger is dissipated
by moonlight kisses and salty lovers
salves of calendula upon our skin
swim in juicy wonder
listen and dance with thunder
the fireflies swim through burning skies
making arcs and triumphant cries
what a silly blunder
all the noise and all the cover
hiding your heart in violet garments
streams of satin in your slumber
stroke the liberated arrow
weave the gardenia’s shadow
streams of consciousness and beauty
looking into eyes of human strategy
human shadows
start to suffocate us
instruct the timber
plundered
strumming humid arias
looms of butter start to melt
svelte and spelt
slews of wealth
heaven's belt is loosely tied
striated like the mind
grinding hind legs
selves neglect entry fees
sleeves of grass
embrace strands of ice
with a lover or two
on the side

got a lovely tatty on ya left leggy
got no motivation or inspiration
but that *** needs lotsa smackin'
or maybe mine does, red from your hands

bittercress amongst the flowers outdoors
warding dancing birdflit
of people friendly pudgy pigeons
man i hate the birds, the people

singing their arias, their liturgy
feeling like they know somebody
in the canon, me in the sheets listening
to their rumors, trying to break our secret

Cal-i-fornia (verb) the state of being golden.
                                                                                                                                                    
Can you see the way the sand sparkles on the shore?
Golden shards of glass, or broken dreams.
Who possesses the Midas touch now?
The crushed gates of Atlantis on our shores.
Aphroditic bronze goddess of the sea,
Hair blown by the breeze.
Sea air & salty &
more than anyone could need, or was used to.
                                                                                                                                         Giant sequoias stand
                                                                                                                     As mighty and proud protectors
                                                                                                                             Behemoths of lifetimes past.
                                                                                                                                 Explosion of seeds inside
                                                                                                                           Fireworks waiting to explode
                                                                                                                      Pinecones, little grenades of life.
Ghost towns reminiscent of the Wild West
Mining camps from the Gold rush days.
Tumbleweeds & reptiles & powder fine dust.
Some say the earth is red from the natives’ blood spilt, and sunk in,
Reality – Oxidation turns iron in the dirt to rust.
So that’s why Mars is red.
                                                                                                                          After a bad storm in San Diego
                                                                                                    Dollars lie broken & shattered on the shore
                                                                                                               A bankruptcy of marine proportions!
                                                                                                                                       Just go see for yourself,
                                                                                                                              The sand dollar apocalypse.
                                                                                                                              We were echinoderms too.
Life gone dormant, and violent beginnings.
As if Calliope’s harp needed to be retuned,
Sun god, Apollo & Helios with his chariot in the sky
When did we become so heliocentric?                                            
                                                                                                                         Solitary white cross on the hill.
                                                                           Never did anything to harm anyone, yet they fear you so
                                                                                          Enough to try to remove you from our presence.
                                                                                              Mount Soledad, or their SOLEs-are-DeAD.    
- You know San Onofre is a power plant right?
- Radiation, is that a problem?
- Only if you want to have kids or stay cancer free.                        
- 25 foot sea wall -- To keep the waves out, or the kraken in?
- 4,000 tons of nuclear waste, who’s gonna get rid of that?
Ghostly tendrils of death
Blown fifty miles down the coast.
They call it SONGS, how quaint.
A symphony of catastrophe.
The greatest arias of death and destruction.

At just the right
moment,
she would let loose
with sounds
that would
make Mozart
jealous,
and God knows
I love Mozart!

  ~mce

You still are my blue jay of yore,
the songbird on the low branch
of the evergreen tree under which
I pitched my tent till my thirst was quenched
by your arias in blissful altisima poured in to my soul.
Your songs steadfastly refuse
to go down with time like leaves that wither and fall
those immortal moments, you gifted
did flow in to the blue ocean of time
where i float, refusing to  be beaten down by waves.
Those notes by sheer power of infused spirit
of your heart, make me still buoyant, I am indebted,
your song book,  in gold is engraved,  in my heart.
One journey continues, unmindful of every change,
through planes of timeless nature where we are one
defying rules man made, and imposed by mind.
We are two pure notes of music that fly, up and above
merge with the sonorous primordial hum of divine.

The internal battle..eternal....(one from the vault)


Lucifer and Jehovah dancing some mad bossa nova

While angels on horse backs fought devils with black jacks

The white dove of peace had surrendered his lease

So God ripped off his wings.. he no longer sings

Then the Devil ripped out his heart so it could end at the start.

Wagner and Chopin got frightened..

..and off they ran.

But Beethoven and Bach were sat in the park

Composing arias to fight Hells hot fires.

While Chekhov and Handel burned coramandel

But the smoke from that pyre stank like a byre.

Socrates was sat dispensing the ethics

Hippocrates swore while dishing out medics

The Muses were musing one or two were enthusing

Oooh look.. the good against sinner

Let's go down the bookies and have a bet on the winner.

Cometh the day cometh the morn

Cometh the hour cometh the dawn.

Here is Joshua blowing his horn

And here comes Gabriel but all that he meets

Are the countless dead lining up on the streets

And the wounded and deathbound far far below

I feel sorry for Gabriel I wish he could go.

But Picasso arrives and cries

My God it's my Guernica I'll do a pastiche

Oh F*ck it he says and has a pastis (or two)

Then Pollack turns up totally ******

Picks up a paint and says what I have missed?

What a fantastic sight.. angels flashing demons crashing

The hounds of Hell with teeth a gnashing

Then Neptune arrives astride his watery chariot

Scything through Demons and sat beside Judas Iscariot

Mermen and mermaids mercilessly slayed

By Beelzebubs prototypes

Those that live in the black nights.

But as the dawn breaks God knows what it takes

So he sends for his legions calls out to all regions

Take arms and do battle

Till we hears Satans death rattle.

And the heavens rip asunder to the sound of the thunder.

Satan rings on Hells bell.. tells them all is not well

Then disappears from our sight as if he's turned off the light.

Then I awake with a start knowing that I've been a part

Of something vast something grand

A spiritual war being fought in this land

I am alive and I shall survive.

PRAISE BE.

Schoolhouse Rap: Boyfriend Killaz Edition

Jody Arias!
Jody Arias!

Let’s not forget
what you’ve done to us
When you find the ****
That is the most to ya
Don’t try to play
It’s just today for ya
Cuz she may have
Another way
in store for ya
whether she comes through
the front door
Or that doggie’s little door for ya
You’re gonna have to make some
extra room for Ma

Said she’s not your shorty no more
T.
No more P.
said our Miss Jody

You ****** the wrong chick.

Jody!
I said
Jody Arias!
Her love life was so precarious
Her lover so nefarious
Treating her like a *****
little piece of ***
The result of which was not so hilarious
Salacious? She?
Predacious? He?
Predacious? She?
Salacious? He?
Who’s to say?
Really.

Said she’s not your shorty no more
T.
No more, T.
said our Miss Jody

You ****** the wrong chick.

He thought he’d get his perfect first wife
And start that brand new life.
Jody?
Can you hear me?

O Travis
my dear dear Travis
They did try to ******’ warn your ***
Her hands more nimble than Thelonious
Your end more wretched than felonious
This hookup
for you
rather deleterious
Looks like she took your picture laying near the glass

Said she’s not your shorty no more
T.
No more P.
said our Miss Jody

YOU ****** THE WRONG CHICK

Confusion courses through the final pulses
of a once virile spirit.
The winds of change bawl their cosmic arias
that fall on the deafened flower.
Rooted in affection, oblivious to the obvious connection
between the lacking pollen and the bee.
The yin is keening softly for the feral, untamed yang
and abides in troubled limbo till that momentous age.
A seed, which once was nothing is now a ripened tree
whose beauty is so dazzling that none can ever see.

those hamstrings have seen enough arias
to spring at any moment -
that jumping for a reason.
could be made futile
with a lingering scent of
try again’...

that’s when you sleep.outside
without a torch on your tongue
to scorch the hubris of talking.
nothing to verify by fire
only the ashes in your
mouth.

with nothing to speak of you drone into virtual kismet,
pandering for Mandalas
on the east side of a red herring cannery, but docile -
like a red fern-wolf’s bane clawing at black holes
in broad daylight.
velocity unknown… but by all accounts, a frenzy.
with nothing to clarify by desire
only massless, heavy -
things.

chiaroscuro moment
molten chords
in golden glow
titian ringlets cascade
from linen shoulders
as your hands bring liquid color
to idle black and white
chorded words of three parts
Not easily broken
Ebb and flow as breath over water
a shift in timbre
resonant teak fettered in silver
heady scent of resin and balsam reeds
echoed drones the cantored dance begins
Taking flight the quiet arias rise
coursing low over open moors
Eyes veiled green
a fog shrouded shoreline
We leave transient prints
In damp sand...
Sonorous notes
From kilted pipers
A flash of tartan on thistled field
Drummers pulse the motion of life
You raise the standard
This ancient song is yours
and mine.

Open eyes to desert sky
Burning blue and empty
As fresh pages fall un-inked
on thorny ground
Only the ache of a melody remains
Lost refrains
broken notes in my DNA
Inspiration drifts away

I used to have a recurring dream of me, and two other friends - in a recording studio with the complete sheets of music in front of us - which we were singing...and when I wake up...I can never remember the song.
03/2008
© 2008 TL Boehm

Air fills with sharp shrills of jays,
the sounds
gratuitous warning
for feet adapted
to ground-
better directed
at a stray cat
that will dare limbs
in hope of his prize

dreamer's ears once heard
melodies of Verdi arias
through leaves,
their sweetness seeping
as from blue overhead
and imagination lured
to seek beauty in them

learning from too often falling,
wishes earning scars
that made skin numb and hard,
morning's music found muffled
by deaf cowardice,
its promise of safety
worn on gray,
dusty shoes

Oh, Billy!
rebujando el olor acre
de la tierra
encontraste el dolor esencial
de los amantes.
Matando al guerrero Sartoris
resucitaste la voluntad férrea
de Moisés y su vara,
de Absalón y su escala.
¡Acompáñanos!
porque la novela no ha terminado:
se ha detenido
(un poco)
en el agonizante collado
para labrar la tierra
contigo, con ellos
y los otros
que conocen el misterio
pero apenas lo revelan.

Jorge Gómez Arias

Wishing your hands might fuse with my *******,
and that your phallus,
flaccid,
-just the way I like to taste it more-
may set in my mouth its lightest traces,
may reborn,
helped by saliva, which is full of poems,
and then you ***,
and we both become some crude socialists, or communists, or wherever you like the most.
Then you take my red ***** as your communist flag, and recite your manifest before it.
And then my nails painted with desire, dovetail with your left arm,
-tattooed of what your soul unvoiced-
and become draw a turquoise butterfly,
emulating me,
and then, an ****** beyond re-surge,
that will go from sadism to communism,
and from metamorphosis to ******,
and if while I write you this,
my *** is getting wet,
little by little,
getting full of my sacred elixir
–according to your mouth-
perambulate my ******,
-self-possessed and palpitating-
and if my mind doesn’t do anything else but imagining  you,
raining white over my shoulders,
and my back,
and my hair,
and nothing matters then,
because it’s voluntary retention, and your ******* friend Marx is next to you,
and not me,
that I’m just listening arias,
and smoke,
slowly smoke,
towards your savage, flaccid, tasty ***, always present in my mind,
and my lonely ***….

Distant It's heard
The nomads
guitar hum its trembled
arias

Its whispered strum violates
ephemerally
ragged
plasticine walls
It penetrates
stale pine
Punctured by
rust-haggard
nails

It travels
through pebbled hearts and
Nestles
in hidden cracks
Coercing
suffocated crumbs
of life
into the night.

Jerry Singing at his Lathe

Slim and mustached
Jerry sang his heart out
in overalls at his lathe –
the Mario Lanza of Kent-Moore Tools.

Curled metal gathered at his feet
as he cut hard steel into usable parts.
He glanced at the prints,
reset the turret to take a second pass
and belted out another chorus.

Jerry retro-dreamed of New York,
of lessons, certificates, Juilliard
and arias finished with outstretched arms –
visions derailed but unforgotten.

Global madness sent him to France.
With a pack and an M1 in place of scores.
Jerry helped set Paris free
yet never left a song on its stages.

Kent-Moore paid him well
and masked by din of colliding metal
Jerry sang and sang and sang all day
for rivet guns and turret lathes.
His voice would melt your heart.

*July, 2006

Ya cabalga Diego Ordóñez,   ya del real había salido,
armado de piezas dobles,   sobre un caballo morcillo;
va a retar a los zamoranos,   por muerte del rey su primo.
Vido estar a Arias Gonzalo   en el muro del castillo;
allí detuvo el caballo,   levantóse en los estribos:
-¡Yo os reto, los zamoranos,   por traidores fementidos!
¡Reto a mancebos y viejos,   reto a mujeres y niños,
reto también a los muertos   y a los que aún no son nacidos;
reto la tierra que moran,   reto yerbas, panes, vinos,
desde las hojas del monte   hasta las piedras del río,
pues fuisteis en la traición   del alevoso Vellido!

Respondióle Arias Gonzalo,   como viejo comedido:
-Si yo fuera cual tú dices,   no debiera ser nacido.
Bien hablas como valiente,   pero no como entendido.
¿Qué culpa tienen los muertos   en lo que hacen los vivos?
Y en lo que los hombres hacen,   ¿qué culpa tienen los niños?
Dejéis en paz a los muertos,   sacad del reto a los niños,
y por todo lo demás   yo habré de lidiar contigo.
Más bien sabes que en España   antigua costumbre ha sido
que hombre que reta a concejo   haya de lidiar con cinco,
y si uno de ellos le vence,   el concejo queda quito.
 Don Diego cuando esto oyera   algo fuera arrepentido;
mas sin mostrar cobardía,   dijo: -Afírmome a lo dicho.

Waves long for shores
Foaming for touch
Lusting for howl of wind
For night falling to knee’s
Of silence

Only in these thinnest moments
Do I find myself missing you

Lover of guilt and thorn
Girl dressed in abandonment
Singer of arias in the key of
Death
A broken cord
Hanging in dissidence

I was not listening soft enough
To make out the resonance of tears  
Beneath the vibrations of moans

This is not another memory I will let bloom
As a black rose wishing it was white or read



       This is just to say
That we loved like the bottom
Of the ocean
Reaching upward with
The tremble fingers of the sea

you learn it the hard way, you actually can drink warm shots of *****,  provided,  you have a brisk, Icelandic chaser, notably white European Bison *****, and apple juice infused with mint...

pije, pali, konia wali...

it has been agreed, a drunk man is half
the miserable sight of a woman...
no wonder a woman *******
is more appealing than a man,
who shines.., like Louis XIV,
******* in a lightbulb...
            ha ha... ******* want *******...
and there I was, thinking that
bottle of alcohol also ought to have
warnings about any *******,
other than oral with a pregnant woman...
wonder... does alcohol really harm
foetuses, or does the constant banging
of a cockrel do more harm than
awaiting sunrise good?

hence the question, i don't know.

pije, pali, konia wali...

as a drinker, in company?
i can have a social drink,
my grandmother had a nostalgic
hallucination of a taste that
provoke memory, so I bought her
a porter beer...
and we drank it together...
książęce: aromas of honey,
coffee, rührkuchen und
bitterschokolade...

grandfather simply replied:

koniec świata;

now the IVF part quest for ****** chills...
citation granny, is no citation
worthy of the urban lawyer,
frozen egg + spe4m donor factory...
the part where I'm cited as "******"...
urban mongrels contra
                  rural pedigrees.

pije, pali, konia wali...

there are but three ways to clear the head
before the excavation of a blank
page... rarely it involves addressing a delayed
slightly constipated dump...
but sometimes it does...

pije, pali, konia wali...

           then it also takes doing no.
1, no. 2 (as mentioned above)...
and no. 3...
                 i have no idea where ****
additiction comes from...
i'm more of a claccisist in this field...
moving pictures do not really
stimulate the mind to work off
a stattic picture...
    if you never did no. 3 i. e.
****** off on the toilet...
                 because you never bought
a ***** mag with your casual take
on the metaphor of smithfield market...
or you've never been,
driving to it at 1am in the morning...
coming back with half a porky corpse...

pije, pali, konia wali...

I think people are confusing objectivity
with ***** subjectivity...
like any clean cut of a scalpel...
or like eating a soft boiled egg...
you crack the shell, leaving the papist
yolk, intact...

pije, pali, konia wali...  

at leat objectifying a woman
does not subject her to the cring worthy
labyrinths of emotional men,
or whatever the hell cheating is...
   or juggling...
        ****** off at fine art,
only once did I bother to explore
the ****** extension of latex...
a kinda of bedroom niqab fetish...
but most of the time...
static images, blood down below,
paths of imagination in the head...
not to mention that ***-mad mongrel
that **** my leg...
luckily I didn't kick him,
but politely asked... are you finished,
and ready, to hunt a mare?

pije, pali, konia wali...

******* what?!
   classical *******...
whatever happened to the tabloid
page 3?
   apparently men with recoding hairlines
have more testosterone...
apparently watching a woman's breast
releases, whether dopamine
serotonin, or... as the cigarette quote
goes... Oscar Wilde?
    the most pristine five minutes,
that leaves one (mm  hmm...
a royal pronoun,  both singular,
and plural, for a pleb that's minus
the entourage of leeches...
mind you... why not the common
slang of sycophancy in syco...
that Y... not tree not serpent splits...
hollowed out... to differentiate
from the other,  crude grafitti of
******pathy, shortening)
    most disatisfied...

pije, pali, konia wali...

perhaps j. c. is the king of kings,
but i sit on the, throne of thrones...
no. 1, 2 and 3...
    no scented candles,
no... god... cursed the theistic joke...
a woman has to *** squatting...
a man just stands...
than again: bigger bladders?
*******, easing analysis muscles,
jerking off to static nudes...
how is it on the other side?
moods, scented candles, lying back...
literature that ought to be
read with one hand?
        d'uh and the *****...
sure... g. i. Joe of a boy aged 8
when Barbie burned in th stash...
out comes Ken 2.0...

pije, pali, konia wali...

easier for a man to stomach a hand
as if it were done ****...
than explore beyond the floral pouch...
than... getting a manicure...
and... not using the Vizzz...
the Vizier... hardly a comparison to
encapsulating... snoring...

i always ask the intrigued relic of
dating... so... you want to hold
my hand, or is male maturation
so grotesque that it has no...
voyeuristic appeal?
   well... thank **** for that!
with my little finger I served
poached, a former hydra behemoth...

the knowledge of, good and evil...
                                                X
which isn't exactly a mistery of +...
   the conjunction translates as X,
cross-eyed... not +...

pije, pali, konia wali...

                      it's easier calling it
the no. 3, considering how...
sitting on the throne, apparently
masages the prostate...
hence the stigma it would seem...
no scented candles...
no grand whizz of faking headache
and snoring of excavating dodos...

pije, pali, konia wali...
    
ah... back into the syco contra
****** and the hollowed out
Y question...
                         σý-co...

         'sigh-co...

hence not so much the hollowed-out
Y... but rather, akin to gnome gnostics...
the particular instance of
surd letters,
not being clothed in surd attire...
     elsewhere diagnostic...
otherwise in the already given example:
   'nome...         'nostics...

yes, i know, the borderline 'sigh-co...
psst... as happens, when letters
ignoring greco-semite
        stubbornness,
remain syllable amputees looking
for torsos of words....
magnetised limbs mechanic...
letters primitive, bound to syllables...
not the greco-semitic
construct of names...
       shortcuts with the NATO
alphabet is the curse of 15...
   a ******* worth of a telephone
conversation will not craft
an originality of either Aleph,
Omicron, Ayin, or Omega...

       may i remin you the greco-semitic
stubborn ram... ploughing
constants in science?
aha! ****** music thought...
no one really heard of
rotting christ or
         mícháel greilsammer...
last of the Roman sons...
sang arias of castratos!

pije, pali, konia wali...

     finally! ad the title implies...
what's the diffrence between
a man buying shoes,
and a woman buying shoes?
probably the packaging,
or more to the point...
a man walks into a shoe shop
wearing old shoes...
he buys a new pair,
buys them, puts them on,
packs his old pair into
the newly bought pair's shoebox...
and walks out with
his new: economic sketch
and the concept of recycling...
primarily because i've never seen
a woman buy a pair of shoes,
and walk out of a shop
wearing them...
   not once....
      and thank **** it rained hail
and razor rain today,
after post-noon greenhouse
suffocating toffee sun...
and the sky was painted a continental
grey & plum as the earth gave
its first, authentic breath of spring...
not once, have i seen a woman
buy shoes... and walk out
in them, putting the ones she
wore walking into the shop,
among the moosehead trophies,
skinned furrs,
and her, other,
      hunting expedition catches...
into the insomnia and iron
forest, of foraging for sales.

thank **** i had an existential
****** looking at me,
as I put the newly purchased shoes
onto my feet, and the old shoes
into a carrier bag...
    in those rare instances,
as true as: mould the iron while
it's lukewarm...
          come to think of it...
this is french existentialism
in the open... unable to encompass
a voyeurism with a guilt
of a peepingtom or Cambridge Analitica...
pure existential voyeurism...
guised Edenic...
     out in the open...
       bound to the habits of
man shopping, for shoes...
                 rather than a woman...

hell, hades and the high-water mark
of a tide...
      
     (he) drinks, (he) smokes,
   (he) smacks the monkey...

     if you didn't know, already.