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What Works by Michael R. Burch for David Gosselin What works— hewn stone; the blush the iris shows the sun; the lilac’s pale-remembered bloom. The frenzied fly: mad-lively, gay, as seconds tick his time away, his sentence—one brief day in May, a period. And then decay. A frenzied rhyme’s mad tip-toed time, a ballad’s languid as the sea, seek, striving—immortality. When gloss peels off, what works will shine. When polish fades, what works will gleam. When intellectual prattle pales, the dying buzzing in the hive of tedious incessant bees, what works will soar and wheel and dive and milk all honey, leap and thrive, and teach the pallid poem to seethe. Smoke by Michael R. Burch The hazy, smoke-filled skies of summer I remember well; farewell was on my mind, and the thoughts that I can't tell rang bells within (the din was in) my mind, and I can't say if what we had was good or bad, or where it is today ... The endless days of summer's haze I still recall today; she spoke and smoky skies stood still as summer slipped away ... We loved and life we left alone and deftly was it done; we sang our song all summer long beneath the sultry sun. I wrote this poem as a boy, after seeing an ad for the movie "Summer of ’42," which starred the lovely Jennifer O’Neill and a young male actor who might have been my nebbish twin. I didn’t see the R-rated movie at the time: too young, according to my parents! But something about the ad touched me; even thinking about it today makes me feel sad and a bit out of sorts. The movie came out in 1971, so the poem was probably written around 1971-1972. In any case, the poem was published in my high school literary journal, The Lantern, in 1976. The poem is “rhyme rich” with eleven rhymes in the first four lines: well, farewell, tell, bells, within, din, in, say, today, had, bad. The last two lines appear in brackets because they were part of the original poem but I later chose to publish just the first six lines. I didn’t see the full movie until 2001, around age 43, after which I addressed two poems to my twin, Hermie … Listen, Hermie by Michael R. Burch Listen, Hermie . . . you can hear the strangled roar of water inundating that lost shore . . . and you can see how white she shone that distant night, before you blinked and she was gone . . . But is she ever really gone from you . . . or are her lips the sweeter since you kissed them once: her waist wasp-thin beneath your hands always, her stockinged shoeless feet for that one dance still whispering their rustling nylon trope of―“Love me. Love me. Love me. Give me hope that love exists beyond these dunes, these stars.” How white her prim brassiere, her waist-high briefs; how lustrous her white slip. And as you danced― how white her eyes, her skin, her eager teeth. She reached, but not for *** . . . for more . . . for you . . . You cannot quite explain, but what is true is true despite our fumblings in the dark. Hold tight. Hold tight. The years that fall away still make us what we are. If love exists, we find it in ourselves, grown wan and gray, within a weathered hand, a wrinkled cheek. She cannot touch you now, but I would reach across the years to touch that chord in you which still reverberates, and play it true. Tell me, Hermie by  Michael R. Burch Tell me, Hermie ― when you saw her white brassiere crash to the floor as she stepped from her waist-high briefs into your arms, and mutual griefs ― did you feel such fathomless awe as mystics do, in artists’ reliefs? How is it that dark night remains forever with us ― present still ― despite her absence and the pains of dreams relived without the thrill of any ecstasy but this ― one brief, eternal, transient kiss? She was an angel; you helped us see the beauty of love’s iniquity. Fountainhead by Michael R. Burch I did not delight in love so much as in a kiss like linnets' wings, the flutterings of a pulse so soft the heart remembers, as it sings: to bathe there was its transport, brushed by marble lips, or porcelain,— one liquid kiss, one cool outburst from pale rosettes. What did it mean ... to float awhirl on minute tides within the compass of your eyes, to feel your alabaster bust grow cold within? Ecstatic sighs seem hisses now; your eyes, serene, reflect the sun's pale tourmaline. Published by Romantics Quarterly, Poetica Victorian, Nutty Stories (South Africa) 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. A Possible Argument for Mercy by Michael R. Burch Did heaven ever seem so far? Remember-we are as You were, but all our lives, from birth to death― Gethsemane in every breath. Gethsemane in Every Breath by Michael R. Burch LORD, we have lost our way, and now we have mislaid love―earth's fairest rose. We forgot hope's song―the way it goes. Help us reclaim their gifts, somehow. LORD, we have wondered long and far in search of Bethlehem's retrograde star. Now in night's dead cold grasp, we gasp: our lives one long-drawn rattling rasp of misspent breath... before we drown. LORD, help us through this spiral down because we faint, and do not see above or beyond despair's trajectory. Remember that You, too, once held imperiled life within your hands as hope withdrew... that where You knelt ―a stranger in a stranger land― the chalice glinted cold afar and red with blood as hellfire. Did heaven ever seem so far? Remember―we are as You were, but all our lives, from birth to death― Gethsemane in every breath. Just Smile by Michael R. Burch We’d like to think some angel smiling down will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard, ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps, his doddering progress through the scarlet house to tell his mommy "boo-boo!," only two. We’d like to think his reconstructed face will be as good as new, will often smile, that baseball’s just as fun with just one arm, that God is always Just, that girls will smile, not frown down at his thousand livid scars, that Life is always Just, that Love is Just. We do not want to hear that he will shave at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks, that lips aren’t easily fashioned, that his smile’s lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each new operation costs a billion tears, when tears are out of fashion. O, beseech some poet with more skill with words than tears to find some happy ending, to believe that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these are Parables we live, Life’s Mysteries ... Or look inside his courage, as he ties his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived and smiling says, "It’s me I see. Just me." He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures. Your pity is the worst cut he endures. Originally published by Lucid Rhythms Aflutter by Michael R. Burch This rainbow is the token of the covenant, which I have established between me and all flesh.—Yahweh You are gentle now, and in your failing hour how like the child you were, you seem again, and smile as sadly as the girl (age ten?) who held the sparrow with the mangled wing close to her heart. It marveled at your power but would not mend. And so the world renews old vows it seemed to make: false promises spring whispers, as if nothing perishes that does not resurrect to wilder hues like rainbows’ eerie pacts we apprehend but cannot fail to keep. Now in your eyes I see the end of life that only dies and does not care for bright, translucent lies. Are tears so precious? These few, let us spend together, as before, then lay to rest these sparrows’ hearts aflutter at each breast. Gallant Knight by Michael R. Burch for Alfred Dorn and Anita Dorn Till you rest with your beautiful Anita, rouse yourself, Poet; rouse and write. The world is not ready for your departure, Gallant Knight. Teach us to sing in the ringing cathedrals of your Verse, as you outduel the Night. Give us new eyes to see Love's bright Vision robed in Light. Teach us to pray, that the true Word may conquer, that the slaves may be freed, the blind have Sight. Write the word LOVE with a burning finger. I shall recite. O, bless us again with your chivalrous pen, Gallant Knight! It was my honor to have been able to publish the poetry of Dr. Alfred Dorn and his wife Anita Dorn. To Have Loved by Michael R. Burch "The face that launched a thousand ships ..." Helen, bright accompaniment, accouterment of war as sure as all the polished swords of princes groomed to lie in mausoleums all eternity ... The price of love is not so high as never to have loved once in the dark beyond foreseeing. Now, as dawn gleams pale upon small wind-fanned waves, amid white sails, ... now all that war entails becomes as small, as though receding. Paris in your arms was never yours, nor were you his at all. And should gods call in numberless strange voices, should you hear, still what would be the difference? Men must die to be remembered. Fame, the shrillest cry, leaves all the world dismembered. Hold him, lie, tell many pleasant tales of lips and thighs; enthrall him with your sweetness, till the pall and ash lie cold upon him. Is this all? You saw fear in his eyes, and now they dim with fear’s remembrance. Love, the fiercest cry, becomes gasped sighs in his once-gallant hymn of dreamed “salvation.” Still, you do not care because you have this moment, and no man can touch you as he can ... and when he’s gone there will be other men to look upon your beauty, and have done. Smile―woebegone, pale, haggard. Will the tales paint this―your final portrait? Can the stars find any strange alignments, Zodiacs, to spell, or unspell, what held beauty lacks? Published by The Raintown Review, Triplopia, The Electic Muse, The Chained Muse, and The Pennsylvania Review Fahr an' Ice (Apologies to Robert Frost and Ogden Nash) by Michael R. Burch From what I know of death, I'll side with those who'd like to have a say in how it goes: just make mine cool, cool rocks (twice drowned in likker), and real fahr off, instead of quicker. Originally published by Light Quarterly Ordinary Love by Michael R. Burch Indescribable—our love—and still we say with eyes averted, turning out the light, "I love you," in the ordinary way and tug the coverlet where once we lay, all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white ... indescribably in love. Or so we say. Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray; you turn your back; you murmur to the night, "I love you," in the ordinary way. Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite a love so indescribable. We say we're older now, that "love" has had its day. But that which Love once countenanced, delight, still makes you indescribable. I say, "I love you," in the ordinary way. Winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest; published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly, Mandrake Poetry Review, Carnelian, and Famous Poets and Poems The Locker by Michael R. Burch All the dull hollow clamor has died and what was contained, removed, reproved adulation or sentiment, left with the pungent darkness as remembered as the sudden light. Originally published by The Raintown Review Tremble by Michael R. Burch Her predatory eye, the single feral iris, scans. Her raptor beak, all jagged sharp-edged ****** juts. Her hard talon, clenched in pinched expectation, waits. Her clipped wings, preened against reality, tremble. Published by The Lyric, Verses Magazine, Romantics Quarterly, Journeys, The Raintown Review, MahMag (Iran), The Eclectic Muse (Canada) Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor by Michael R. Burch After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs, Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs: “Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!” (His name, let’s assume, was, er... Percival Queemly.) “Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes. “Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise, for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name... Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!” “Continue to live here—carouse as you please!” the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees. Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose: “I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose... but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.” (Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.) Shrill Gulls and Other Skeptics by Michael R. Burch for Richard Moore 1. Shrill gulls, how like my thoughts you, struggling, rise to distant bliss― the weightless blue of skies that are not blue in any atmosphere, but closest here... 2. You seek an air so clear, so rarified the effort leaves you famished; earthly tides soon call you back― one long, descending glide... 3. Disgruntledly you ***** dirt shores for orts you pull like mucous ropes from shells’ bright forts... You eye the teeming world with nervous darts― this way and that... Contentious, shrewd, you scan― the sky, in hope, the earth, distrusting man. Originally published by Able Muse Caveat Spender by Michael R. Burch It’s better not to speculate "continually" on who is great. Though relentless awe’s a Célèbre Cause, please reserve some time for the contemplation of the perils of EXAGGERATION. At Wilfred Owen’s Grave by Michael R. Burch A week before the Armistice, you died. They did not keep your heart like Livingstone’s, then plant your bones near Shakespeare’s. So you lie between two privates, sacrificed like Christ to politics, your poetry unknown except for that brief flurry’s: thirteen months with Gaukroger beside you in the trench, dismembered, as you babbled, as the stench of gangrene filled your nostrils, till you clenched your broken heart together and the fist began to pulse with life, so close to death. Or was it at Craiglockhart, in the care of “ergotherapists” that you sensed life is only in the work, and made despair a thing that Yeats despised, but also breath, a mouthful’s merest air, inspired less than wrested from you, and which we confess we only vaguely breathe: the troubled air that even Sassoon failed to share, because a man in pieces is not healed by gauze, and breath’s transparent, unless we believe the words are true despite their lack of weight and float to us like chlorine—scalding eyes, and lungs, and hearts. Your words revealed the fate of boys who retched up life here, gagged on lies. Safe Harbor by Michael R. Burch for Kevin N. Roberts The sea at night seems an alembic of dreams— the moans of the gulls, the foghorns’ bawlings. A century late to be melancholy, I watch the last shrimp boat as it steams to safe harbor again. In the twilight she gleams with a festive light, done with her trawlings, ready to sleep... Deep, deep, in delight glide the creatures of night, elusive and bright as the poet’s dreams. Published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly and Angle The Harvest of Roses by Michael R. Burch for Harvey Stanbrough I have not come for the harvest of roses— the poets' mad visions, their railing at rhyme... for I have discerned what their writing discloses: weak words wanting meaning, beat torsioning time. Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer— images weak, too forced not to fail; gathered by poets who worship their luster, they shimmer, impendent, resplendently pale. Originally published by The Raintown Review when Harvey Stanbrough was the editor The Pain of Love by Michael R. Burch for T.M. The pain of love is this: the parting after the kiss; the train steaming from the station whistling abnegation; each interstate’s bleak white bar that vanishes under your car; every hour and flower and friend that cannot be saved in the end; dear things of immeasurable cost... now all irretrievably lost. Note: The title “The Pain of Love” was suggested by an interview with Little Richard, then eighty years old, in Rolling Stone. He said that someone should create a song called “The Pain of Love.” I have always found the departure platforms of railway stations and the vanishing broken white bars of highway dividing lines depressing. Lean Harvests by Michael R. Burch for T.M. the trees are shedding their leaves again: another summer is over. the Christians are praising their Maker again, but not the disconsolate plover: i hear him berate the fate of his mate; he claims God is no body’s lover. Published by The Rotary Dial and Angle The Heimlich Limerick by Michael R. Burch for T. M. The sanest of poets once wrote: "Friend, why be a sheep or a goat? Why follow the leader or be a blind ******* But almost no one took note. Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor by Michael R. Burch After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs, Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs: “Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!” (His name, let’s assume, was, er... Percival Queemly.) “Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes. “Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise, for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name... Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!” “Continue to live here—carouse as you please!” the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees. Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose: “I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose... but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.” (Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.) Abide by Michael R. Burch after Philip Larkin's "Aubade" It is hard to understand or accept mortality— such an alien concept: not to be. Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion, or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea boiling like goopy green tea in a kettle. Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle. And so we abide... even in life, staring out across that dark brink. And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink, it is best not to drink (or, drinking, certainly not to think). Snapshots by Michael R. Burch Here I scrawl extravagant rainbows. And there you go, skipping your way to school. And here we are, drifting apart like untethered balloons. Here I am, creating "art," chanting in shadows, pale as the crinoline moon, ignoring your face. There you go, in diaphanous lace, making another man’s heart swoon. Suddenly, unthinkably, here he is, taking my place. Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Centrifugal Eye, and The Eclectic Muse Distances by Michael R. Burch Moonbeams on water — the reflected light of a halcyon star now drowning in night ... So your memories are. Footprints on beaches now flooding with water; the small, broken ribcage of some primitive slaughter ... So near, yet so far. Originally published by The HyperTexts Step Into Starlight by Michael R. Burch Step into starlight, lovely and wild, lonely and longing, a woman, a child . . . Throw back drawn curtains, enter the night, dream of his kiss as a comet ignites . . . Then fall to your knees in a wind-fumbled cloud and shudder to hear oak hocks groaning aloud. Flee down the dark path to where the snaking vine bends and withers and writhes as winter descends . . . And learn that each season ends one vanished day, that each pregnant moon holds no spent tides in its sway . . . For, as suns seek horizons― boys fall, men decline. As the grape sags with its burden, remember―the wine! Originally published by The Lyric 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 airy stuff be, to, phantomlike, flit through tall trees on fall days, such as these? 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. This poem appeared in my high school literary journal; I believe I was around 16 when I wrote it. ****** Analysis by Michael R. Burch This is not what I need . . . analysis, paralysis, as though I were a seed to be planted, supported with a stick and some string until I emerge. Your words are not water. I need something more nourishing, like cherishing, something essential, like love so that when I climb out of the lime and the mulch. When I shove myself up from the muck . . . we can **** The One and Only by Michael R. Burch for Beth If anyone ever loved me, It was you. If anyone ever cared beyond mere things declared; if anyone ever knew ... My darling, it was you. If anyone ever touched my beating heart as it flew, it was you, and only you. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller #2 - Love Poetry She says an epigram’s too terse to reveal her tender heart in verse ... but really, darling, ain’t the thrill of a kiss much shorter still? ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #5 - Criticism Why don’t I openly criticize the man? Because he’s a friend; thus I reproach him in silence, as I do my own heart. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #11 - Holiness What is holiest? This heart-felt love binding spirits together, now and forever. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #12 - Love versus Desire You love what you have, and desire what you lack because a rich nature expands, while a poor one retracts. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #19 - Nymph and Satyr As shy as the trembling doe your horn frightens from the woods, she flees the huntsman, fainting, uncertain of love. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #20 - Desire What stirs the virgin’s heaving ******* to sighs? What causes your bold gaze to brim with tears? ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #23 - The Apex I Everywhere women yield to men, but only at the apex do the manliest men surrender to femininity. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #24 - The Apex II What do we mean by the highest? The crystalline clarity of triumph as it shines from the brow of a woman, from the brow of a goddess. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #25 -Human Life Young sailors brave the sea beneath ten thousand sails while old men drift ashore on any bark that avails. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #35 - Dead Ahead What’s the hardest thing of all to do? To see clearly with your own eyes what’s ahead of you. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #36 - Unexpected Consequence Friends, before you utter the deepest, starkest truth, please pause, because straight away people will blame you for its cause. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #41 - Earth vs. Heaven By doing good, you nurture humanity; but by creating beauty, you scatter the seeds of divinity. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The Poet by Michael R. Burch He walks to the sink, takes out his teeth, rubs his gums. He tries not to think. In the mirror, on the mantle, Time—the silver measure— does not stare or blink, but in a wrinkle flutters, in a hand upon the brink of a second, hovers. Through a mousehole, something scuttles on restless incessant feet. There is no link between life and death or from a fading past to a more tenuous present that a word uncovers in the great wink. The white foam lathers at his thin pink stretched neck like a tightening noose. He tries not to think. These are poems I wrote in my early teens on the themes of play, playing, playmates, vacations, etc. Playmates by Michael R. Burch WHEN you were my playmate and I was yours, we spent endless hours with simple toys, and the sorrows and cares of our indentured days were uncomprehended... far, far away... for the temptations and trials we had yet to face were lost in the shadows of an unventured maze. Then simple pleasures were easy to find and if they cost us a little, we didn't mind; for even a penny in a pocket back then was one penny too many, a penny to spend. Then feelings were feelings and love was just love, not a strange, complex mystery to be understood; while "sin" and "damnation" meant little to us, since forbidden cookies were our only lusts! Then we never worried about what we had, and we were both sure—what was good, what was bad. And we sometimes quarreled, but we didn't hate; we seldom gave thought to the uncertainties of fate. Hell, we seldom thought about the next day, when tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away. Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past, and wondered, at times, why things couldn't last. Still, we never worried about getting by, and we didn't know that we were to die... when we spent endless hours with simple toys, and I was your playmate, and we were boys. This is probably the poem that "made" me, because my high school English teacher called it "beautiful" and I took that to mean I was surely the Second Coming of Percy Bysshe Shelley! "Playmates" is the second longish poem I remember writing; I believe I was around 13 or 14 at the time. Playthings by Michael R. Burch a sequel to “Playmates” There was a time, as though a long-forgotten dream remembered, when you and I were playmates and the days were long; then we were pirates stealing plaits of daisies from trembling maidens fearing men so strong . . . Our world was like an unplucked Rose unfolding, and you and I were busy, then, as bees; the nectar that we drank, it made us giddy; each petal within reach seemed ours to seize . . . But you were more the doer, I the dreamer, so I wrote poems and dreamed a noble cause; while you were linking logs, I met old Merlin and took a dizzy ride to faery Oz . . . But then you put aside all "silly" playthings; with sunburned hands you built, from bricks and stone, tall buildings, then a life, and then you married. Now my fantasies, again, are all my own. I believe “Playthings” was written in my late teens, around 1977. According to my notes, I revised the poem in 1991, then again in 2020 and 2021. hey pete by Michael R. Burch for Pete Rose hey pete, it's baseball season and the sun ascends the sky, encouraging a schoolboy's dreams of winter whizzing by; go out, go out and catch it, put it in a jar, set it on a shelf and then you'll be a Superstar. This is another of my boyhood poems about play and playing. When I was a boy, Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather an ironic jab at the term "superstar." Have I been too long at the fair? by Michael R. Burch Have I been too long at the fair? The summer has faded, the leaves have turned brown; the Ferris wheel teeters ... not up, yet not down. Have I been too long at the fair? This is one of my earliest poems, written around age 15. Ironic Vacation by Michael R. Burch Salzburg. Seeing Mozart’s baby grand piano. Standing in the presence of sheer incalculable genius. Grabbing my childish pen to write a poem & challenge the Immortals. Next stop, the catacombs! This is a poem I wrote about a vacation my family took to Salzburg when I was a boy, age 11 or perhaps a bit older. But I wrote the poem much later in life: around 50 years later, in 2020. Of course the ultimate form of play is love ... An Illusion by Michael R. Burch The sky was as hushed as the breath of a bee and the world was bathed in shades of palest gold when I awoke. She came to me with the sound of falling leaves and the scent of new-mown grass; I held out my arms to her and she passed into oblivion ... This little dream-poem appeared in my high school literary journal, the Lantern, so I was no older than 18 when I wrote it, probably younger. I will guess around age 16. Smoke by Michael R. Burch The hazy, smoke-filled skies of summer I remember well; farewell was on my mind, and the thoughts that I can't tell rang bells within (the din was in) my mind, and I can't say if what we had was good or bad, or where it is today. The endless days of summer's haze I still recall today; she spoke and smoky skies stood still as summer slipped away ... This poem appeared in my high school journal, the Lantern, in 1976. It also appeared in my college literary journal, Homespun, in 1977. I was probably around 14 when I wrote the poem. Myth by Michael R. Burch Here the recalcitrant wind sighs with grievance and remorse over fields of wayward gorse and thistle-throttled lanes. And she is the myth of the scythed wheat hewn and sighing, complete, waiting, lain in a low sheaf— full of faith, full of grief. Here the immaculate dawn requires belief of the leafed earth and she is the myth of the mown grain— golden and humble in all its weary worth. I believe I wrote the first version of this poem toward the end of my senior year of high school, around age 18. The Communion of Sighs by Michael R. Burch There was a moment   without the sound of trumpets or a shining light,     but with only silence and darkness and a cool mist       felt more than seen.       I was eighteen,     my heart pounding wildly within me like a fist.   Expectation hung like a cry in the night, and your eyes shone like the corona of a comet. There was an instant ...   without words, but with a deeper communion,     as clothing first, then inhibitions fell;       liquidly our lips met       —feverish, wet—     forgotten, the tales of heaven and hell,   in the immediacy of our fumbling union ... when the rest of the world became distant. Then the only light was the moon on the rise, and the only sound, the communion of sighs. I believe this poem was written around age 18 as the poem itself says. Infinity by Michael R. Burch Have you tasted the bitterness of tears of despair? Have you watched the sun sink through such pale, balmless air that your heart sought its shell like a crab on a beach, then scuttled inside to be safe, out of reach? Might I lift you tonight from earth’s wreckage and damage on these waves gently rising to pay the moon homage? Or better, perhaps, let me say that I, too, have dreamed of infinity ... windswept and blue. This is one of the first poems that made me feel like a "real" poet. I remember reading the poem and asking myself, "Did I really write that?" I believe I wrote it around age 17 or 18. Will There Be Starlight by Michael R. Burch for Beth Will there be starlight tonight while she gathers damask and lilac and sweet-scented heathers? And will she find flowers, or will she find thorns guarding the petals of roses unborn? Will there be starlight tonight while she gathers seashells and mussels and albatross feathers? And will she find treasure or will she find pain at the end of this rainbow of moonlight on rain? If I remember correctly, I wrote the first version of this poem toward the end of my senior year in high school, around age 18, then forgot about it for fifteen years until I met my future wife Beth and she reminded me of the poem’s mysterious enchantress. Childhood's End by Michael R. Burch How well I remember those fiery Septembers: dry leaves, dying embers of summers aflame lay trampled before me and fluttered, imploring the bright, dancing rain to descend once again. Now often I’ve thought on the meaning of autumn, how the moons those pale mornings enchanted dark clouds while robins repeated gay songs they had heeded so wisely when winters before they’d flown south. And still, in remembrance, I’ve conjured a semblance of childhood and how the world seemed to me then; but early this morning, when, rising and yawning, my lips brushed your ******* . . . I celebrated its end. I believe I wrote this poem in my early twenties, no later than 1982, but probably around 1980. The Tender Weight of Her Sighs by Michael R. Burch The tender weight of her sighs lies heavily upon my heart; apart from her, full of doubt, without her presence to revolve around, found wanting direction or course, cursed with the thought of her grief, believing true love is a myth, with hope as elusive as tears, hers and mine, unable to lie, I sigh ... This poem has an unusual rhyme scheme, with the last word of each line rhyming with the first word of the next line. The final line is a “closing couplet” in which both words rhyme with the last word of the preceding line. I believe I invented this ***** form and will dub it the "End-First Curtal Sonnet." Starting from Scratch with Ol’ Scratch by Michael R. Burch for the Religious Right Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh went to the ovens. Please don’t bother to cry. You could have saved her, but you were all tied up complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp. Scratch that. You were born after World War II. You had something more important to do: while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a religious tract against homosexual marriage and various things gods and evangelists disparage.) Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I’m quite sure that your intentions were good and ineluctably pure. After all, what the hell does he care about Palestinians? Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians. Scratch that. You’re one of the Devil’s minions. Orpheus by Michael R. Burch for and after William Blake I. Many a sun and many a moon I walked the earth and whistled a tune. I did not whistle as I worked: the whistle was my work. I shirked nothing I saw and made a rhyme to children at play and hard time. II. Among the prisoners I saw the leaden manacles of Law, the heavy ball and chain, the quirt. And yet I whistled at my work. III. Among the children’s daisy faces and in the women’s frowsy laces, I saw redemption, and I smiled. Satanic millers, unbeguiled, were swayed by neither girl, nor child, nor any God of Love. Yet mild I whistled at my work, and Song broke out, ere long. how many Nights by michael r. burch how many Nights we laughed to see the sun go down because the Night was made for reckless fun. ...Your golden crown, Your skin so soft, so smooth, and lightly downed... how many nights i wept glad tears to hold You tight against the years. ...Your eyes so bold, Your hair spun gold, and all the pleasures Your soft flesh foretold... how many Nights i did not dare to dream You were so real... now all that i have left here is to feel in dreams surreal Time is the Nightmare God before whom men kneel. and how few Nights, i reckoned, in the end, we were allowed to gather, less to spend. Duet (II) by Michael R. Burch If love is just an impulse meant to bring two tiny hearts together, skittering like hamsters from their Quonsets late at night in search of lust’s productive exercise . . . If love is the mutation of some gene made radiant—an accident of bliss played out by two small actors on a screen of silver mesh, who never even kiss . . . If love is evolution, nature’s way of sorting out its DNA in pairs, of matching, mating, sculpting flesh’s clay . . . why does my wrinkled hamster climb his stairs to set his wheel revolving, then descend and stagger off . . . to make hers fly again? Originally published by Bewildering Stories Rant: The Elite by Michael R. Burch When I heard Harold Bloom unsurprisingly say: Poetry is necessarily difficult. It is our elitist art ... I felt a small suspicious thrill. After all, sweetheart, isn’t this who we are? Aren’t we obviously better, and certainly fairer and taller, than they are? Though once I found Ezra Pound perhaps a smidgen too profound, perhaps a bit over-fond of Benito and the advantages of fascism to be taken ad finem, like high tea with a pure white spot of intellectualism and an artificial sweetener, calorie-free. I know! I know! Politics has nothing to do with art And it tempts us so to be elite, to stand apart ... but somehow the word just doesn’t ring true, echoing effetely away—the distance from me to you. Of course, politics has nothing to do with art, but sometimes art has everything to do with becoming elite, with climbing the cultural ladder, with being able to meet someone more Exalted than you, who can demonstrate how to **** so that everyone below claims one’s odor is sweet. *You had to be there! We were falling apart with gratitude! We saw him! We wept at his feet!* Though someone will always be far, far above you, clouding your air, gazing down at you with a look of wondering despair. Chinese Poets: English Translations These are modern English translations of poems by some of the greatest Chinese poets of all time, including Du Fu, Huang O, Li Bai/Li Po, Li Ching-jau, Li Qingzhao, Po Chu-I, Tzu Yeh, Yau Ywe-Hwa and Xu Zhimo. Quiet Night Thoughts by Li Bai aka Li Po loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Moonlight illuminates my bed as frost brightens the ground. Lifting my eyes, the moon allures. Lowering my eyes, I long for home. The Solitude of Night by Li Bai aka Li Po loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch At the wine party I lay comatose, knowing nothing. Windblown flowers fell, perfuming my lap. When I arose, still drunk, The birds had all flown to their nests. All that remained were my fellow inebriates. I left to walk along the river—alone with the moonlight. Lines from Laolao Ting Pavilion by Li Bai aka Li Po loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The spring breeze knows partings are bitter; The willow twig knows it will never be green again. A Toast to Uncle Yun by Li Bai aka Li Po loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Water reforms, though we slice it with our swords; Sorrow returns, though we drown it with our wine. Chinese translations Li Bai These are my modern English translations of Chinese poems by Li Bai, who was also known as Li Po. Zazen on Ching-t’ing Mountain by Li Bai loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Now the birds have deserted the sky and the last cloud slips down the drains. We sit together, the mountain and I, until only the mountain remains. Farewell to a Friend by Li Bai loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Rolling hills rim the northern border; white waves lap the eastern riverbank... Here you set out like a windblown wisp of grass, floating across fields, growing smaller and smaller. You’ve longed to travel like the rootless clouds, yet our friendship declines to wane with the sun. Thus let it remain, our insoluble bond, even as we wave goodbye till you vanish. My horse neighs, as if unconvinced. Li Bai (701-762) was a romantic figure called the Lord Byron of Chinese poetry. He and his friend Du Fu (712-770) were the leading poets of the Tang Dynasty era, the Golden Age of Chinese poetry. Li Bai is also known as Li Po, Li Pai, Li T’ai-po, and Li T’ai-pai. Keywords/Tags: China, Chinese, bird, birds, clouds, mountains, spring, partings, farewell, goodbye, green, twig, bitter, water, sorrow, wine, moon, love, bed, frost, eyes, introspection Moonlit Night by Du Fu (712-770) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Alone in your bedchamber you gaze out at the Fu-Chou moon. Here, so distant, I think of our children, too young to understand what keeps me away or to remember Ch'ang-an ... A perfumed mist, your hair's damp ringlets! In the moonlight, your arms' exquisite jade! Oh, when can we meet again within your bed's drawn curtains, and let the heat dry our tears? Moonlit Night by Du Fu (712-770) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Tonight the Fu-Chou moon watches your lonely bedroom. Here, so distant, I think of our children, too young to understand what keeps me away or to remember Ch'ang-an ... By now your hair will be damp from your bath and fall in perfumed ringlets; your jade-white arms so exquisite in the moonlight! Oh, when can we meet again within those drawn curtains, and let the heat dry our tears? Lone Wild Goose by Du Fu (712-770) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The abandoned goose refuses food and drink; he cries querulously for his companions. Who feels kinship for that strange wraith as he vanishes eerily into the heavens? You watch it as it disappears; its plaintive calls cut through you. The indignant crows ignore you both: the bickering, bantering multitudes. Du Fu (712-770) is also known as Tu Fu. The first poem is addressed to the poet's wife, who had fled war with their children. Ch'ang-an is an ironic pun because it means "Long-peace." The Red Cockatoo by Po Chu-I (772-846) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A marvelous gift from Annam— a red cockatoo, bright as peach blossom, fluent in men's language. So they did what they always do to the erudite and eloquent: they created a thick-barred cage and shut it up. Po Chu-I (772-846) is best known today for his ballads and satirical poems. Po Chu-I believed poetry should be accessible to commoners and is noted for his simple diction and natural style. His name has been rendered various ways in English: Po Chu-I, Po Chü-i, Bo Juyi and Bai Juyi. The Migrant Songbird Li Qingzhao aka Li Ching-chao (c. 1084-1155) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The migrant songbird on the nearby yew brings tears to my eyes with her melodious trills; this fresh downpour reminds me of similar spills: another spring gone, and still no word from you ... The Plum Blossoms Li Qingzhao aka Li Ching-chao (c. 1084-1155) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This year with the end of autumn I find my reflection graying at the edges. Now evening gales hammer these ledges ... what shall become of the plum blossoms? Li Qingzhao was a poet and essayist during the Song dynasty. She is generally considered to be one of the greatest Chinese poets. In English she is known as Li Qingzhao, Li Ching-chao and The Householder of Yi’an. Star Gauge Sui Hui (c. 351-394 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch So much lost so far away on that distant rutted road. That distant rutted road wounds me to the heart. Grief coupled with longing, so much lost so far away. Grief coupled with longing wounds me to the heart. This house without its master; the bed curtains shimmer, gossamer veils. The bed curtains shimmer, gossamer veils, and you are not here. Such loneliness! My adorned face lacks the mirror's clarity. I see by the mirror's clarity my Lord is not here. Such loneliness! Sui Hui, also known as Su Hui and Lady Su, appears to be the first female Chinese poet of note. And her "Star Gauge" or "Sphere Map" may be the most impressive poem written in any language to this day, in terms of complexity. "Star Gauge" has been described as a palindrome or "reversible" poem, but it goes far beyond that. According to contemporary sources, the original poem was shuttle-woven on brocade, in a circle, so that it could be read in multiple directions. Due to its shape the poem is also called Xuanji Tu ("Picture of the Turning Sphere"). The poem is now generally placed in a grid or matrix so that the Chinese characters can be read horizontally, vertically and diagonally. The story behind the poem is that Sui Hui's husband, Dou Tao, the governor of Qinzhou, was exiled to the desert. When leaving his wife, Dou swore to remain faithful. However, after arriving at his new post, he took a concubine. Lady Su then composed a circular poem, wove it into a piece of silk embroidery, and sent it to him. Upon receiving the masterwork, he repented. It has been claimed that there are up to 7,940 ways to read the poem. My translation above is just one of many possible readings of a portion of the poem. Reflection Xu Hui (627–650) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Confronting the morning she faces her mirror; Her makeup done at last, she paces back and forth awhile. It would take vast mountains of gold to earn one contemptuous smile, So why would she answer a man's summons? Due to the similarities in names, it seems possible that Sui Hui and Xu Hui were the same poet, with some of her poems being discovered later, or that poems written later by other poets were attributed to her. Waves Zhai Yongming (1955-) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The waves manhandle me like a midwife pounding my back relentlessly, and so the world abuses my body— accosting me, bewildering me, according me a certain ecstasy ... Monologue Zhai Yongming (1955-) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I am a wild thought, born of the abyss and—only incidentally—of you. The earth and sky combine in me—their concubine—they consolidate in my body. I am an ordinary embryo, encased in pale, watery flesh, and yet in the sunlight I dazzle and amaze you. I am the gentlest, the most understanding of women. Yet I long for winter, the interminable black night, drawn out to my heart's bleakest limit. When you leave, my pain makes me want to ***** my heart up through my mouth— to destroy you through love—where's the taboo in that? The sun rises for the rest of the world, but only for you do I focus the hostile tenderness of my body. I have my ways. A chorus of cries rises. The sea screams in my blood but who remembers me? What is life? Zhai Yongming is a contemporary Chinese poet, born in Chengdu in 1955. She was one of the instigators and prime movers of the “Black Tornado” of women’s poetry that swept China in 1986-1989. Since then Zhai has been regarded as one of China’s most prominent poets. Pyre Guan Daosheng (1262-1319) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You and I share so much desire: this love―like a fire— that ends in a pyre's charred coffin. "Married Love" or "You and I" or "The Song of You and Me" Guan Daosheng (1262-1319) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You and I shared a love that burned like fire: two lumps of clay in the shape of Desire molded into twin figures. We two. Me and you. In life we slept beneath a single quilt, so in death, why any guilt? Let the skeptics keep scoffing: it's best to share a single coffin. Guan Daosheng (1262-1319) is also known as Kuan Tao-Sheng, Guan Zhongji and Lady Zhongji. A famous poet of the early Yuan dynasty, she has also been called "the most famous female painter and calligrapher in the Chinese history ... remembered not only as a talented woman, but also as a prominent figure in the history of bamboo painting." She is best known today for her images of nature and her tendency to inscribe short poems on her paintings. Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I heard my love was going to Yang-chou So I accompanied him as far as Ch'u-shan. For just a moment as he held me in his arms I thought the swirling river ceased flowing and time stood still. Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Will I ever hike up my dress for you again? Will my pillow ever caress your arresting face? Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Night descends ... I let my silken hair spill down my shoulders as I part my thighs over my lover. Tell me, is there any part of me not worthy of being loved? Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I will wear my robe loose, not bothering with a belt; I will stand with my unpainted face at the reckless window; If my petticoat insists on fluttering about, shamelessly, I'll blame it on the unruly wind! Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When he returns to my embrace, I’ll make him feel what no one has ever felt before: Me absorbing him like water Poured into a wet clay jar. Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Bare branches tremble in a sudden breeze. Night deepens. My lover loves me, And I am pleased that my body's beauty pleases him. Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Do you not see that we have become like branches of a single tree? Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I could not sleep with the full moon haunting my bed! I thought I heard―here, there, everywhere― disembodied voices calling my name! Helplessly I cried "Yes!" to the phantom air! Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I have brought my pillow to the windowsill so come play with me, tease me, as in the past ... Or, with so much resentment and so few kisses, how much longer can love last? Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When she approached you on the bustling street, how could you say no? But your disdain for me is nothing new. Squeaking hinges grow silent on an unused door where no one enters anymore. Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I remain constant as the Northern Star while you rush about like the fickle sun: rising in the East, drooping in the West. Tzŭ-Yeh (or Tzu Yeh) was a courtesan of the Jin dynasty era (c. 400 BC) also known as Lady Night or Lady Midnight. Her poems were pinyin ("midnight songs"). Tzŭ-Yeh was apparently a "sing-song" girl, perhaps similar to a geisha trained to entertain men with music and poetry. She has also been called a "wine shop girl" and even a professional concubine! Whoever she was, it seems likely that Rihaku (Li-Po) was influenced by the lovely, touching (and often very **** poems of the "sing-song" girl. Centuries later, Arthur Waley was one of her translators and admirers. Waley and Ezra Pound knew each other, and it seems likely that they got together to compare notes at Pound's soirees, since Pound was also an admirer and translator of Chinese poetry. Pound's most famous translation is his take on Li-Po's "The River Merchant's Wife: A Letter." If the ancient "sing-song" girl influenced Li-Po and Pound, she was thus an influence―perhaps an important influence―on English Modernism. The first Tzŭ-Yeh poem makes me think that she was, indeed, a direct influence on Li-Po and Ezra Pound.―Michael R. Burch The Day after the Rain Lin Huiyin (1904-1955) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I love the day after the rain and the meadow's green expanses! My heart endlessly rises with wind, gusts with wind ... away the new-mown grasses and the fallen leaves ... away the clouds like smoke ... vanishing like smoke ... Music Heard Late at Night Lin Huiyin (1904-1955) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch for Xu Zhimo I blushed, hearing the lovely nocturnal tune. The music touched my heart; I embraced its sadness, but how to respond? The pattern of life was established eons ago: so pale are the people's imaginations! Perhaps one day You and I can play the chords of hope together. It must be your fingers gently playing late at night, matching my sorrow. Lin Huiyin (1904-1955), also known as Phyllis Lin and Lin Whei-yin, was a Chinese architect, historian, novelist and poet. Xu Zhimo died in a plane crash in 1931, allegedly flying to meet Lin Huiyin. Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again Xu Zhimo (1897-1931) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Quietly I take my leave, as quietly as I came; quietly I wave good-bye to the sky's dying flame. The riverside's willows like lithe, sunlit brides reflected in the waves move my heart's tides. Weeds moored in dark sludge sway here, free of need, in the Cam's gentle wake ... O, to be a waterweed! Beneath shady elms a nebulous rainbow crumples and reforms in the soft ebb and flow. Seek a dream? Pole upstream to where grass is greener; rig the boat with starlight; sing aloud of love's splendor! But how can I sing when my song is farewell? Even the crickets are silent. And who should I tell? So quietly I take my leave, as quietly as I came; gently I flick my sleeves ... not a wisp will remain. (6 November 1928) Xu Zhimo's most famous poem is this one about leaving Cambridge. English titles for the poem include "On Leaving Cambridge," "Second Farewell to Cambridge," "Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again,"  and "Taking Leave of Cambridge Again." The Leveler by Michael R. Burch The nature of Nature is bitter survival from Winter’s bleak fury till Spring’s brief revival. The weak implore Fate; bold men ravish, dishevel her . . . till both are cut down by mere ticks of the Leveler. I believe I wrote this poem around age 20, in 1978 or thereabouts. It has since been published in The Lyric, Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly and The Aurorean. The Insurrection of Sighs by Michael R. Burch She was my Shiloh, my Gethsemane; she nestled my head to her breast and breathed upon my insensate lips the fierce benedictions of her ubiquitous sighs, the veiled allegations of her disconsolate tears . . . Many years I abided the agile assaults of her flesh . . . She loved me the most when I was most sorely pressed; she undressed with delight for her ministrations when all I needed was a good night’s rest . . . She anointed my lips with her soft lips’ dews; the insurrection of sighs left me fallen, distressed, at her elegant heel. I felt the hard iron, the cold steel, in her words and I knew: the terrible arrow showed through my conscripted flesh. The sun in retreat left her victor and all was Night. The last peal of surrender went sinking and dying—unheard. Star Crossed by Michael R. Burch Remember— night is not like day; the stars are closer than they seem ... now, bending near, they seem to say the morning sun was merely a dream ember. The State of the Art (?) by Michael R. Burch Has rhyme lost all its reason and rhythm, renascence? Are sonnets out of season and poems but poor pretense? Are poets lacking fire, their words too trite and forced? What happened to desire? Has passion been coerced? Shall poetry fade slowly, like Latin, to past tense? Are the bards too high and holy, or their readers merely dense? Options Underwater: The Song of the First Amphibian by Michael R. Burch “Evolution’s a Fishy Business!” 1. Breathing underwater through antiquated gills, I’m running out of options. I need to find fresh Air, to seek some higher Purpose. No porpoise, I despair to swim among anemones’ pink frills. 2. My fins will make fine flippers, if only I can walk, a little out of kilter, safe to the nearest rock’s sweet, unmolested shelter. Each eye must grow a stalk, to take in this green land on which it gawks. 3. No predators have made it here, so I need not adapt. Sun-sluggish, full, lethargic―I’ll take such nice long naps! The highest form of life, that’s me! (Quite apt to lie here chortling, calling fishes saps.) 4. I woke to find life teeming all around― mammals, insects, reptiles, loathsome birds. And now I cringe at every sight and sound. The water’s looking good! I look Absurd. 5. The moral of my story’s this: don’t leap wherever grass is greener. Backwards creep. And never burn your bridges, till you’re sure leapfrogging friends secures your Sinecure. Originally published by Lighten Up Online 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. “Whoso List to Hunt” is a famous early English sonnet written by Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542) in the mid-16th century. Whoever Longs to Hunt by Sir Thomas Wyatt loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer; but as for me, alas!, I may no more. This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore I'm one of those who falters, at the rear. Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind away from the doe?                                Thus, as she flees before me, fainting I follow.                                 I must leave off, therefore, since in a net I seek to hold the wind. Whoever seeks her out,                                      I relieve of any doubt, that he, like me, must spend his time in vain. For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain, these words appear, her fair neck ringed about: Touch me not, for Caesar's I am, And wild to hold, though I seem tame. The First Complete Musical Composition Shine, while you live; blaze beyond grief, for life is brief and Time, a thief. —Michael R. Burch, after Seikilos of Euterpes The so-called Seikilos Epitaph is the oldest known surviving complete musical composition which includes musical notation. It is believed to date to the first or second century AD. The epitaph appears to be signed “Seikilos of Euterpes” or dedicated “Seikilos to Euterpe.” Euterpe was the ancient Greek Muse of music. Sinking by Michael R. Burch for Virginia Woolf Weigh me down with stones ... fill all the pockets of my gown ... I’m going down, mad as the world that can’t recover, to where even mermaids drown. VILLANELLES These are villanelles and villanelle-like poems, including a new new poetic form I invented, the “trinelle” or “triplenelle.” What happened to the songs of yesterdays? by Michael R. Burch Is poetry mere turning of a phrase? Has prose become its height and depth and sum? What happened to the songs of yesterdays? Does prose leave all nine Muses vexed and glum, with fingers stuck in ears, till hearing’s numbed? Is poetry mere turning of a phrase? Should we cut loose, drink, guzzle jugs of *** write prose nonstop, till Hell or Kingdom Come? What happened to the songs of yesterdays? Are there no beats to which tense thumbs might thrum? Did we outsmart ourselves and end up dumb? Is poetry mere turning of a phrase? How did a feast become this measly crumb, such noble princess end up in a slum? What happened to the songs of yesterdays? I’m running out of rhymes! Please be a chum and tell me if some Muse might spank my *** for choosing rhyme above the painted phrase? What happened to the songs of yesterdays? Trump’s Retribution Resolution by Michael R. Burch My New Year’s resolution? I require your money and votes, for you are my retribution. May I offer you dark-skinned scapegoats and bigger and deeper moats as part of my sweet resolution? Please consider a YUGE contribution, a mountain of lovely C-notes, for you are my retribution. Revenge is our only solution, since my critics are weasels and stoats. Come, second my sweet resolution! The New Year’s no time for dilution of the anger of victimized GOATs, when you are my retribution. Forget the ****** Constitution! To dictators “ideals” are footnotes. My New Year’s resolution? You are my retribution. Why I Left the Right by Michael R. Burch I was a Reagan Republican in my youth but quickly “left” the GOP when I grokked its inherent racism, intolerance and retreat into the Dark Ages. I fell in with the troops, but it didn’t last long: I’m not one to march to a klanging gong. “Right is wrong” became my song. I’m not one to march to a klanging gong with parrots all singing the same strange song. I fell in with the bloops, but it didn’t last long. These parrots all singing the same strange song, with no discernment between right and wrong? “Right is wrong” became my song. With no discernment between right and wrong, the **** marched on in a white-robed throng. I fell in with the rubes, but it didn’t last long. The **** marched on in a white-robed throng, enraged by the sight of boys in sarongs. “Right is wrong” became my song. Enraged by the sight of boys in sarongs and girls with butch hairdos, the clan klanged its gongs. I fell in with the dupes, but it didn’t last long. “Right is wrong” became my song. The vanilla-nelle by Michael R. Burch The vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write In a chocolate world where purity is slight, When every rhyming word must rhyme with white! As sure as night is day and day is night, And walruses write songs, such is my plight: The vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write. I’m running out of rhymes and it’s a fright because the end’s not nearly (yet) in sight, When every rhyming word must rhyme with white! It’s tougher when the poet’s not too bright And strains his brain, which only turns up “blight.” Yes, the vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write. I strive to seem aloof and recondite while avoiding ancient words like “knyghte” and “flyte” But every rhyming word must rhyme with white! I think I’ve failed: I’m down to “zinnwaldite.” I fear my Muse is torturing me, for spite! For the vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write When every rhyming word must rhyme with white! I may have invented a new poetic form, the “trinelle” or “triplenelle.” Ars Brevis by Michael R. Burch Better not to live, than live too long: this is my theme, my purpose and desire. The world prefers a brief three-minute song. My will to live was never all that strong. Eternal life? Find some poor fool to hire! Better not to live, than live too long. Granny ******* or a flosslike thong? The latter rock, the former feed the fire. The world prefers a brief three-minute song. Let briefs be brief: the short can do no wrong, since David slew Goliath, who stood higher. Better not to live, than live too long. A long recital gets a sudden gong. Quick death’s preferred to drowning in the mire. The world prefers a brief three-minute song. A wee bikini or a long sarong? French Riviera or some dull old Shire? Better not to live, than live too long: The world prefers a brief three-minute song. This is a "trinelle" or "triplenelle" about one of my favorite basketball players: The Ballad of Dalton "Connect" Knecht by Michael R. Burch The basket's bent, the nets are charred. It's hard to **** his will, as well. Dalton Knecht is hard to guard. To all defenders, it's "en garde!" It's hard to **** his will, as well. The basket's bent, the nets are charred. There's no defense, all exits 're barred. It's hard to **** his will, as well. Dalton Knecht is hard to guard. All hope is lost, not even a shard. It's hard to **** his will, as well. The basket's bent, the nets are charred. The opposing coach's faith is jarred. It's hard to **** his will, as well. Dalton Knecht is hard to guard. The defense's pride is maimed and scarred. It's hard to **** his will, as well. The basket's bent, the nets are charred. Dalton Knecht is hard to guard. Door Mouse by Michael R. Burch I’m sure it’s not good for my heart— the way it will jump-start when the mouse scoots the floor (I try to **** it with the door, never fast enough, or fling a haphazard shoe ... always too slow too) in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion absurdly inconvenient for mashin’, till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’, make us both early candidates for heaven. Prose Poem: The Trouble with Poets by Michael R. Burch This morning the neighborhood girls were helping their mothers with chores, but one odd little girl was out picking roses by herself, looking very small and lonely. Suddenly the odd one refused to pick roses anymore because she decided it might “hurt” them. Now she just sits beside the bushes, rocking gently back and forth, weeping and consoling the vegetation! Now she’s lost all interest in nature, which she finds “appalling.” She dresses in black “like Rilke” and says she prefers the “roses of the imagination”! She mumbles constantly about being “pricked in conscience” and being “pricked to death.” What on earth can she mean? Does she plan to have *** until she dies? For chrissake, now she’s locked herself in her room and refuses to come out until she has “conjured” the “perfect rose of the imagination”! We haven’t seen her for days. Her only communications are texts punctuated liberally with dashes. They appear to be badly-rhymed poems. She signs them “starving artist” in lower-case. What on earth can she mean? Is she anorexic, or bulimic, or is this just a phase she’ll outgrow? Mercedes Benz by Michael R. Burch I'd like to do a song of great social and political import. It goes like this: Oh Donnie, won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz? My friends ***** in Porsches, I must make amends! Like you, I ****** my partners and now have no friends. So, Donnie won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz? Oh Donnie, won't you sell me a **** import? You need to pay your lawyers: a **** for a tort! I’ll await her delivery, each day until three. And Donnie, please throw in Ivanka for free! Oh, Donnie won't you buy me a night on the town? I'm counting on you, Don, so please don't let me down! Oh, prove you're a ******* and bring them around. Oh, Donnie won't you buy me a night on the town? Oh Donnie, won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz? My friends ***** in Porsches, I must make amends! Like you, I ****** my partners and now have no friends. So, Donnie won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz? Syndrome by Michael R. Burch When the heart of a child, fragile, like a flower, unfolds; when his soul emerges from its last concealment, nestled in the womb’s muscular whorls, its secret chambers; when he kicks and screams, flung from the watery darkness into the harsh light’s glare, feeling its restive anger, its accusatory stare; when he feels the heart his emergent heart remembers fluttering against his cheek, then falls into the lilac arms of heavy-lidded sleep; when he reopens his eyes to the bellows’ thunder (which he has never heard before, save as a drowned echo) and feels its wild surmise, and sees—with wonder the tenderness in another’s eyes reflecting his startled wonder back at him, as his heart picks up the beat of his mother’s grieving hymn for the world’s intolerable slander; when he understands, with a babe’s discernment— the ******* the hands, that now, throughout the years, will bless him with their comforts, console him with caresses, the gentle eyes, which, with their knowing tears, will weep him away from the world’s slick, writhing dangers through all his restlessly-flowering years; as his helplessly-frail fingers curl around the nose now leaning to catch his powdery talcum scent ... Remember—it is the world’s syndrome, its handicap, not his, that will insulate assumers from the gentle pollinations of his loveliness, from his gifts of enchantment, from his all-encompassing acceptance, from these tender angelic charms now lifting awed earthlings who gladly embrace him. Published by the National Association for Down Syndrome Homer translations Surrender to sleep at last! What a misery, keeping watch all night, wide awake. Soon you’ll succumb to sleep and escape all your troubles. Sleep. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Passage home? Impossible! Surely you have something else in mind, Goddess, urging me to cross the ocean’s endless expanse in a raft. So vast, so full of danger! Hell, sometimes not even the sea-worthiest ships can prevail, aided as they are by Zeus’s mighty breath! I’ll never set foot on a raft, Goddess, until you swear by all that’s holy you’re not plotting some new intrigue! — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Let’s hope the gods are willing. They rule the vaulting skies. They’re stronger than men to plan, execute and realize their ambitions. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Few sons surpass their fathers; most fall short, all too few overachieve. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Death is the Great Leveler, not even the immortal gods can defend the man they love most when the dread day dawns for him to take his place in the dust. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Any moment might be our last. Earth’s magnificence? Magnified because we’re doomed. You will never be lovelier than at this moment. We will never pass this way again. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Beauty! Ah, Terrible Beauty! A deathless Goddess, she startles our eyes! — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Many dread seas and many dark mountain ranges lie between us. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The lives of mortal men? Like the leaves’ generations. Now the old leaves fall, blown and scattered by the wind. Soon the living timber bursts forth green buds as spring returns. Even so with men: as one generation is born, another expires. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Since I’m attempting to temper my anger, it does not behoove me to rage unrelentingly on. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Overpowering memories subsided to grief. Priam wept freely for Hector, who had died crouching at Achilles’ feet, while Achilles wept himself, first for his father, then for Patroclus, as their mutual sobbing filled the house. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch “Genius is discovered in adversity, not prosperity.” — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Ruin, the eldest daughter of Zeus, blinds us all with her fatal madness. With those delicate feet of hers, never touching the earth, she glides over our heads, trapping us all. First she entangles you, then me, in her lethal net. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Death and Fate await us all. Soon comes a dawn or noon or sunset when someone takes my life in battle, with a well-flung spear or by whipping a deadly arrow from his bow. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Death is the Great Leveler, not even the immortal gods can defend the man they love most when the dread day dawns for him to take his place in the dust.—Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Giacomo da Lentini Giacomo da Lentini, also known as Jacopo da Lentini or by the appellative Il Notaro (“The Notary”), was an Italian poet of the 13th century who has been credited with creating the sonnet. Sonnet 26 by Giacomo da Lentini loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I've seen it rain on sunny days; I’ve seen the darkness split by light; I’ve seen white lightning fade to haze; Seen frozen snow turn water-bright. Some sweets have bitter aftertastes While bitter things can taste quite sweet: So enemies become best mates While former friends no longer meet. Yet the strangest thing I've seen is Love, Who healed my wounds by wounding me. Love quenched the fire he lit before; The life he gave was death, therefore. How to warm my heart? It eluded me. Yet extinguished, Love sears all the more. Haiku Am I really this old, so many ghosts beckoning? —Michael R. Burch Sleepyheads! I recite my haiku to the inattentive lilies. —Michael R. Burch The sky tries to assume your eyes’ azure but can’t quite pull it off. —Michael R. Burch The sky tries to assume your eyes’ arresting blue but can’t quite pull it off. —Michael R. Burch Early robins get the worms, cats waiting to pounce. —Michael R. Burch Two bullheaded frogs croaking belligerently: election season. —Michael R. Burch An enterprising cricket serenades the sunrise: soloist. —Michael R. Burch A single cricket serenades the sunrise: solo violinist. —Michael R. Burch My life: how little remains of a night so brief? —Masaoka Shiki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Masaoka Shiki struggled with tuberculosis and died at age 35. Yesterday’s snows that fell like cherry blossoms are mudpuddles again. —Koshigaya Gozan, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I write, erase, revise, erase again, and then... suddenly a poppy blooms! —Katsushika Hokusai, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Vanishing spring: songbirds lament, fish weep with watery eyes. —Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Wearily, I enter the inn to be welcomed by wisteria! —Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Pale moonlight: the wisteria’s fragrance seems equally distant. —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 Pale moonlight: the wisteria’s fragrance drifts in from afar. —Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Pale moonlight: the wisteria’s fragrance drifts in from nowhere. —Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Plum flower temple: voices ascend from the valleys. —Natsume Soseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch limping to the grave under the sentence of death, should i praise ur LORD? think i’ll save my breath! –michael r. burch Because you made a world where nothing matters, our hearts lie in tatters. —Michael R. Burch 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?" Ammiditāna's Hymn to Ištar Ancient Akkadian poem, author unknown loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 1 iltam zumrā rašubti ilātim 2 litta''id bēlet iššī rabīt igigī 3 ištar zumrā rašubti ilātim 4 litta''id bēlet ilī nišī rabīt igigī 1 Sing the praises of the Goddess, our awe-inspiring Goddess! 2 Sing the praises of our Lady, the greatest of the gods! 3 Sing the praises of Ishtar, our awe-inspiring Goddess! 4 Sing the praises of our Lady, the greatest of the gods! 5 šāt mēleṣim ruāmam labšat 6 za'nat inbī mīkiam u kuzbam 7 šāt mēleṣim ruāmam labšat 8 za'nat inbī mīkiam u kuzbam 5 Ishtar who becomes aroused, exuding lust, 6 dripping desire—voluptuous and amorous! 7 Ishtar who becomes aroused, exuding lust, 8 dripping desire—voluptuous and amorous! 9 šaptīn duššupat balāṭum pīša 10 simtišša ihannīma ṣīhātum 11 šarhat irīmū ramû rēšušša 12 banâ šimtāša bitrāmā īnāša šitārā 9 Her lips drip honey-sweetness, her mouth is life itself, 10 Her cheeks are flushed with delight! 11 She is lovely, with beads braided in her hair! 12 Her cheeks are comely, her eyes are iridescent! 13 eltum ištāša ibašši milkum 14 šīmat mimmami qatišša tamhat 15 naplasušša bani bu'āru 16 baštum mašrahu lamassum šēdum 13 Our Goddess is pure, her counsel uncontested; 14 She holds the fates of all worlds in her hands! 15 Seeing her brings prosperity and happiness 16 for her pride, splendor, and protective spirit! 17 tartāmī tešmê ritūmī ṭūbī 18 u mitguram tebēl šīma 19 ardat tattadu umma tarašši 20 izakkarši innišī innabbi šumša 17 She is the Goddess of ********** and seduction, 18 of pleasure and harmony! 19 She teaches the naked girl to become a mother; 20 She will advance her name among the people! 21 ayyum narbiaš išannan mannum 22 gašrū ṣīrū šūpû parṣūša 23 ištar narbiaš išannan mannum 24 gašrū ṣīrū šūpû parṣūša 21 Who can rival her glory? 22 Her powers are unlimited, exalted and manifest! 23 Who can rival Ishtar's glory? 24 Her powers are unlimited, exalted and manifest! 25 gaṣṣat inilī atar nazzazzuš 26 kabtat awassa elšunu haptatma 27 ištar inilī atar nazzazzuš 28 kabtat awassa elšunu haptatma 25 Highest of the gods, her standing immense, 26 Her word is law, she towers above them! 27 Ishtar among the gods, her standing immense, 28 Her word is law, she towers above them! 29 šarrassun uštanaddanū siqrīša 30 kullassunu šâš kamsūšim 31 nannarīša illakūši 32 iššû u awīlum palhūšīma 29 They beg their queen to issue them orders; 30 they bow down obsequiously before her! 31 Acolytes orbit around her; 32 Men and women approach her in fear! 33 puhriššun etel qabûša šūtur 34 ana anim šarrīšunu malâm ašbassunu 35 uznam nēmeqim hasīsam eršet 36 imtallikū šī u hammuš 33 Foremost in the assembly, her speech altogether exalted, 34 she sits throned among them, an equal to Anu, the king! 35 She is wise beyond comprehension 36 when she and her chieftan confer! 37 ramûma ištēniš parakkam 38 iggegunnim šubat rīšātim 39 muttiššun ilū nazzuizzū 40 epšiš pîšunu bašiā uznāšun 37 They sit at the dais together, 38 in their delightful dwelling, 39 as the gods stand respectfully 40 awaiting her bidding. 41 šarrum migrašun narām libbīšun 42 šarhiš itnaqqišunūt niqi'ašu ellam 43 ammiditāna ellam niqī qātīšu 44 mahrīšun ušebbi li'ī u yâlī namrā'i 41 The king, their favourite, their hearts' beloved, 42 offers his sacrifice before them in splendour. 43 In their presence, Ammiditana, with his own hands 44 makes fattened offerings of bulls and stags. 45 išti anim hāmerīša tēteršaššum 46 dāriam balāṭam arkam 47 madātim šanāt balāṭim ana ammiditāna 48 tušatlim ištar tattadin 45 From Anum, her bridegroom, she has demanded 46 for the king a long fruitful life. 47 Many long years of life for Ammiditana 48 Ishtar has granted! 49 siqrušša tušaknišaššu 50 kibrat erbe'im ana šēpīšu 51 u naphar kalīšunu dadmī 52 taṣammissunūti ana nīrīšu 49 At her command the four corners of the earth 50 bow down to him! 51 She has bound the entire orb of the earth 52 to his yoke! 53 bibil libbīša zamar lalêša 54 naṭumma ana pîšu siqri ea īpuš 55 ešmēma tanittaša irissu 56 libluṭmi šarrašu lirāmšu addāriš 53 Her heart's desire, the praise-filled song, 54 is suited to his mouth, the commandment of Ea. 55 "I have heard her eulogy," said Ea, "and I was delighted with it!" 56 "May her king live long and may she love him forever!" 57 ištar ana ammiditāna šarri rā'imīki 58 arkam dāriam balāṭam šurqī 57 O Ishtar, may he live long and prosper, 58 Ammiditana, the king who loves you! Keywords/Tags: amphibian, amphibians, evolution, gills, water, air, lungs, fins, flippers, fish, fishy business, poets, poetry, writing, art, work, works, rhyme, ballad, immortality, passion, emotion, desire, mrbwork, mrbworks Published as the collection "What Works"
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Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 1:51 AM UTC
What Works
What Works by Michael R. Burch for David Gosselin What works— hewn stone; the blush the iris shows the sun; the lilac’s pale-remembered bloom. The frenzied fly: mad-lively, gay, as seconds tick his time away, his sentence—one brief day in May, a period. And then decay. A frenzied rhyme’s mad tip-toed time, a ballad’s languid as the sea, seek, striving—immortality. When gloss peels off, what works will shine. When polish fades, what works will gleam. When intellectual prattle pales, the dying buzzing in the hive of tedious incessant bees, what works will soar and wheel and dive and milk all honey, leap and thrive, and teach the pallid poem to seethe. Smoke by Michael R. Burch The hazy, smoke-filled skies of summer I remember well; farewell was on my mind, and the thoughts that I can't tell rang bells within (the din was in) my mind, and I can't say if what we had was good or bad, or where it is today ... The endless days of summer's haze I still recall today; she spoke and smoky skies stood still as summer slipped away ... We loved and life we left alone and deftly was it done; we sang our song all summer long beneath the sultry sun. I wrote this poem as a boy, after seeing an ad for the movie "Summer of ’42," which starred the lovely Jennifer O’Neill and a young male actor who might have been my nebbish twin. I didn’t see the R-rated movie at the time: too young, according to my parents! But something about the ad touched me; even thinking about it today makes me feel sad and a bit out of sorts. The movie came out in 1971, so the poem was probably written around 1971-1972. In any case, the poem was published in my high school literary journal, The Lantern, in 1976. The poem is “rhyme rich” with eleven rhymes in the first four lines: well, farewell, tell, bells, within, din, in, say, today, had, bad. The last two lines appear in brackets because they were part of the original poem but I later chose to publish just the first six lines. I didn’t see the full movie until 2001, around age 43, after which I addressed two poems to my twin, Hermie … Listen, Hermie by Michael R. Burch Listen, Hermie . . . you can hear the strangled roar of water inundating that lost shore . . . and you can see how white she shone that distant night, before you blinked and she was gone . . . But is she ever really gone from you . . . or are her lips the sweeter since you kissed them once: her waist wasp-thin beneath your hands always, her stockinged shoeless feet for that one dance still whispering their rustling nylon trope of―“Love me. Love me. Love me. Give me hope that love exists beyond these dunes, these stars.” How white her prim brassiere, her waist-high briefs; how lustrous her white slip. And as you danced― how white her eyes, her skin, her eager teeth. She reached, but not for *** . . . for more . . . for you . . . You cannot quite explain, but what is true is true despite our fumblings in the dark. Hold tight. Hold tight. The years that fall away still make us what we are. If love exists, we find it in ourselves, grown wan and gray, within a weathered hand, a wrinkled cheek. She cannot touch you now, but I would reach across the years to touch that chord in you which still reverberates, and play it true. Tell me, Hermie by  Michael R. Burch Tell me, Hermie ― when you saw her white brassiere crash to the floor as she stepped from her waist-high briefs into your arms, and mutual griefs ― did you feel such fathomless awe as mystics do, in artists’ reliefs? How is it that dark night remains forever with us ― present still ― despite her absence and the pains of dreams relived without the thrill of any ecstasy but this ― one brief, eternal, transient kiss? She was an angel; you helped us see the beauty of love’s iniquity. Fountainhead by Michael R. Burch I did not delight in love so much as in a kiss like linnets' wings, the flutterings of a pulse so soft the heart remembers, as it sings: to bathe there was its transport, brushed by marble lips, or porcelain,— one liquid kiss, one cool outburst from pale rosettes. What did it mean ... to float awhirl on minute tides within the compass of your eyes, to feel your alabaster bust grow cold within? Ecstatic sighs seem hisses now; your eyes, serene, reflect the sun's pale tourmaline. Published by Romantics Quarterly, Poetica Victorian, Nutty Stories (South Africa) 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. A Possible Argument for Mercy by Michael R. Burch Did heaven ever seem so far? Remember-we are as You were, but all our lives, from birth to death― Gethsemane in every breath. Gethsemane in Every Breath by Michael R. Burch LORD, we have lost our way, and now we have mislaid love―earth's fairest rose. We forgot hope's song―the way it goes. Help us reclaim their gifts, somehow. LORD, we have wondered long and far in search of Bethlehem's retrograde star. Now in night's dead cold grasp, we gasp: our lives one long-drawn rattling rasp of misspent breath... before we drown. LORD, help us through this spiral down because we faint, and do not see above or beyond despair's trajectory. Remember that You, too, once held imperiled life within your hands as hope withdrew... that where You knelt ―a stranger in a stranger land― the chalice glinted cold afar and red with blood as hellfire. Did heaven ever seem so far? Remember―we are as You were, but all our lives, from birth to death― Gethsemane in every breath. Just Smile by Michael R. Burch We’d like to think some angel smiling down will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard, ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps, his doddering progress through the scarlet house to tell his mommy "boo-boo!," only two. We’d like to think his reconstructed face will be as good as new, will often smile, that baseball’s just as fun with just one arm, that God is always Just, that girls will smile, not frown down at his thousand livid scars, that Life is always Just, that Love is Just. We do not want to hear that he will shave at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks, that lips aren’t easily fashioned, that his smile’s lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each new operation costs a billion tears, when tears are out of fashion. O, beseech some poet with more skill with words than tears to find some happy ending, to believe that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these are Parables we live, Life’s Mysteries ... Or look inside his courage, as he ties his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived and smiling says, "It’s me I see. Just me." He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures. Your pity is the worst cut he endures. Originally published by Lucid Rhythms Aflutter by Michael R. Burch This rainbow is the token of the covenant, which I have established between me and all flesh.—Yahweh You are gentle now, and in your failing hour how like the child you were, you seem again, and smile as sadly as the girl (age ten?) who held the sparrow with the mangled wing close to her heart. It marveled at your power but would not mend. And so the world renews old vows it seemed to make: false promises spring whispers, as if nothing perishes that does not resurrect to wilder hues like rainbows’ eerie pacts we apprehend but cannot fail to keep. Now in your eyes I see the end of life that only dies and does not care for bright, translucent lies. Are tears so precious? These few, let us spend together, as before, then lay to rest these sparrows’ hearts aflutter at each breast. Gallant Knight by Michael R. Burch for Alfred Dorn and Anita Dorn Till you rest with your beautiful Anita, rouse yourself, Poet; rouse and write. The world is not ready for your departure, Gallant Knight. Teach us to sing in the ringing cathedrals of your Verse, as you outduel the Night. Give us new eyes to see Love's bright Vision robed in Light. Teach us to pray, that the true Word may conquer, that the slaves may be freed, the blind have Sight. Write the word LOVE with a burning finger. I shall recite. O, bless us again with your chivalrous pen, Gallant Knight! It was my honor to have been able to publish the poetry of Dr. Alfred Dorn and his wife Anita Dorn. To Have Loved by Michael R. Burch "The face that launched a thousand ships ..." Helen, bright accompaniment, accouterment of war as sure as all the polished swords of princes groomed to lie in mausoleums all eternity ... The price of love is not so high as never to have loved once in the dark beyond foreseeing. Now, as dawn gleams pale upon small wind-fanned waves, amid white sails, ... now all that war entails becomes as small, as though receding. Paris in your arms was never yours, nor were you his at all. And should gods call in numberless strange voices, should you hear, still what would be the difference? Men must die to be remembered. Fame, the shrillest cry, leaves all the world dismembered. Hold him, lie, tell many pleasant tales of lips and thighs; enthrall him with your sweetness, till the pall and ash lie cold upon him. Is this all? You saw fear in his eyes, and now they dim with fear’s remembrance. Love, the fiercest cry, becomes gasped sighs in his once-gallant hymn of dreamed “salvation.” Still, you do not care because you have this moment, and no man can touch you as he can ... and when he’s gone there will be other men to look upon your beauty, and have done. Smile―woebegone, pale, haggard. Will the tales paint this―your final portrait? Can the stars find any strange alignments, Zodiacs, to spell, or unspell, what held beauty lacks? Published by The Raintown Review, Triplopia, The Electic Muse, The Chained Muse, and The Pennsylvania Review Fahr an' Ice (Apologies to Robert Frost and Ogden Nash) by Michael R. Burch From what I know of death, I'll side with those who'd like to have a say in how it goes: just make mine cool, cool rocks (twice drowned in likker), and real fahr off, instead of quicker. Originally published by Light Quarterly Ordinary Love by Michael R. Burch Indescribable—our love—and still we say with eyes averted, turning out the light, "I love you," in the ordinary way and tug the coverlet where once we lay, all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white ... indescribably in love. Or so we say. Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray; you turn your back; you murmur to the night, "I love you," in the ordinary way. Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite a love so indescribable. We say we're older now, that "love" has had its day. But that which Love once countenanced, delight, still makes you indescribable. I say, "I love you," in the ordinary way. Winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest; published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly, Mandrake Poetry Review, Carnelian, and Famous Poets and Poems The Locker by Michael R. Burch All the dull hollow clamor has died and what was contained, removed, reproved adulation or sentiment, left with the pungent darkness as remembered as the sudden light. Originally published by The Raintown Review Tremble by Michael R. Burch Her predatory eye, the single feral iris, scans. Her raptor beak, all jagged sharp-edged ****** juts. Her hard talon, clenched in pinched expectation, waits. Her clipped wings, preened against reality, tremble. Published by The Lyric, Verses Magazine, Romantics Quarterly, Journeys, The Raintown Review, MahMag (Iran), The Eclectic Muse (Canada) Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor by Michael R. Burch After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs, Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs: “Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!” (His name, let’s assume, was, er... Percival Queemly.) “Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes. “Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise, for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name... Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!” “Continue to live here—carouse as you please!” the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees. Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose: “I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose... but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.” (Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.) Shrill Gulls and Other Skeptics by Michael R. Burch for Richard Moore 1. Shrill gulls, how like my thoughts you, struggling, rise to distant bliss― the weightless blue of skies that are not blue in any atmosphere, but closest here... 2. You seek an air so clear, so rarified the effort leaves you famished; earthly tides soon call you back― one long, descending glide... 3. Disgruntledly you ***** dirt shores for orts you pull like mucous ropes from shells’ bright forts... You eye the teeming world with nervous darts― this way and that... Contentious, shrewd, you scan― the sky, in hope, the earth, distrusting man. Originally published by Able Muse Caveat Spender by Michael R. Burch It’s better not to speculate "continually" on who is great. Though relentless awe’s a Célèbre Cause, please reserve some time for the contemplation of the perils of EXAGGERATION. At Wilfred Owen’s Grave by Michael R. Burch A week before the Armistice, you died. They did not keep your heart like Livingstone’s, then plant your bones near Shakespeare’s. So you lie between two privates, sacrificed like Christ to politics, your poetry unknown except for that brief flurry’s: thirteen months with Gaukroger beside you in the trench, dismembered, as you babbled, as the stench of gangrene filled your nostrils, till you clenched your broken heart together and the fist began to pulse with life, so close to death. Or was it at Craiglockhart, in the care of “ergotherapists” that you sensed life is only in the work, and made despair a thing that Yeats despised, but also breath, a mouthful’s merest air, inspired less than wrested from you, and which we confess we only vaguely breathe: the troubled air that even Sassoon failed to share, because a man in pieces is not healed by gauze, and breath’s transparent, unless we believe the words are true despite their lack of weight and float to us like chlorine—scalding eyes, and lungs, and hearts. Your words revealed the fate of boys who retched up life here, gagged on lies. Safe Harbor by Michael R. Burch for Kevin N. Roberts The sea at night seems an alembic of dreams— the moans of the gulls, the foghorns’ bawlings. A century late to be melancholy, I watch the last shrimp boat as it steams to safe harbor again. In the twilight she gleams with a festive light, done with her trawlings, ready to sleep... Deep, deep, in delight glide the creatures of night, elusive and bright as the poet’s dreams. Published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly and Angle The Harvest of Roses by Michael R. Burch for Harvey Stanbrough I have not come for the harvest of roses— the poets' mad visions, their railing at rhyme... for I have discerned what their writing discloses: weak words wanting meaning, beat torsioning time. Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer— images weak, too forced not to fail; gathered by poets who worship their luster, they shimmer, impendent, resplendently pale. Originally published by The Raintown Review when Harvey Stanbrough was the editor The Pain of Love by Michael R. Burch for T.M. The pain of love is this: the parting after the kiss; the train steaming from the station whistling abnegation; each interstate’s bleak white bar that vanishes under your car; every hour and flower and friend that cannot be saved in the end; dear things of immeasurable cost... now all irretrievably lost. Note: The title “The Pain of Love” was suggested by an interview with Little Richard, then eighty years old, in Rolling Stone. He said that someone should create a song called “The Pain of Love.” I have always found the departure platforms of railway stations and the vanishing broken white bars of highway dividing lines depressing. Lean Harvests by Michael R. Burch for T.M. the trees are shedding their leaves again: another summer is over. the Christians are praising their Maker again, but not the disconsolate plover: i hear him berate the fate of his mate; he claims God is no body’s lover. Published by The Rotary Dial and Angle The Heimlich Limerick by Michael R. Burch for T. M. The sanest of poets once wrote: "Friend, why be a sheep or a goat? Why follow the leader or be a blind ******* But almost no one took note. Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor by Michael R. Burch After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs, Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs: “Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!” (His name, let’s assume, was, er... Percival Queemly.) “Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes. “Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise, for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name... Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!” “Continue to live here—carouse as you please!” the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees. Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose: “I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose... but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.” (Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.) Abide by Michael R. Burch after Philip Larkin's "Aubade" It is hard to understand or accept mortality— such an alien concept: not to be. Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion, or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea boiling like goopy green tea in a kettle. Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle. And so we abide... even in life, staring out across that dark brink. And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink, it is best not to drink (or, drinking, certainly not to think). Snapshots by Michael R. Burch Here I scrawl extravagant rainbows. And there you go, skipping your way to school. And here we are, drifting apart like untethered balloons. Here I am, creating "art," chanting in shadows, pale as the crinoline moon, ignoring your face. There you go, in diaphanous lace, making another man’s heart swoon. Suddenly, unthinkably, here he is, taking my place. Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Centrifugal Eye, and The Eclectic Muse Distances by Michael R. Burch Moonbeams on water — the reflected light of a halcyon star now drowning in night ... So your memories are. Footprints on beaches now flooding with water; the small, broken ribcage of some primitive slaughter ... So near, yet so far. Originally published by The HyperTexts Step Into Starlight by Michael R. Burch Step into starlight, lovely and wild, lonely and longing, a woman, a child . . . Throw back drawn curtains, enter the night, dream of his kiss as a comet ignites . . . Then fall to your knees in a wind-fumbled cloud and shudder to hear oak hocks groaning aloud. Flee down the dark path to where the snaking vine bends and withers and writhes as winter descends . . . And learn that each season ends one vanished day, that each pregnant moon holds no spent tides in its sway . . . For, as suns seek horizons― boys fall, men decline. As the grape sags with its burden, remember―the wine! Originally published by The Lyric 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 airy stuff be, to, phantomlike, flit through tall trees on fall days, such as these? 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. This poem appeared in my high school literary journal; I believe I was around 16 when I wrote it. ****** Analysis by Michael R. Burch This is not what I need . . . analysis, paralysis, as though I were a seed to be planted, supported with a stick and some string until I emerge. Your words are not water. I need something more nourishing, like cherishing, something essential, like love so that when I climb out of the lime and the mulch. When I shove myself up from the muck . . . we can **** The One and Only by Michael R. Burch for Beth If anyone ever loved me, It was you. If anyone ever cared beyond mere things declared; if anyone ever knew ... My darling, it was you. If anyone ever touched my beating heart as it flew, it was you, and only you. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller #2 - Love Poetry She says an epigram’s too terse to reveal her tender heart in verse ... but really, darling, ain’t the thrill of a kiss much shorter still? ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #5 - Criticism Why don’t I openly criticize the man? Because he’s a friend; thus I reproach him in silence, as I do my own heart. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #11 - Holiness What is holiest? This heart-felt love binding spirits together, now and forever. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #12 - Love versus Desire You love what you have, and desire what you lack because a rich nature expands, while a poor one retracts. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #19 - Nymph and Satyr As shy as the trembling doe your horn frightens from the woods, she flees the huntsman, fainting, uncertain of love. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #20 - Desire What stirs the virgin’s heaving ******* to sighs? What causes your bold gaze to brim with tears? ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #23 - The Apex I Everywhere women yield to men, but only at the apex do the manliest men surrender to femininity. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #24 - The Apex II What do we mean by the highest? The crystalline clarity of triumph as it shines from the brow of a woman, from the brow of a goddess. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #25 -Human Life Young sailors brave the sea beneath ten thousand sails while old men drift ashore on any bark that avails. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #35 - Dead Ahead What’s the hardest thing of all to do? To see clearly with your own eyes what’s ahead of you. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #36 - Unexpected Consequence Friends, before you utter the deepest, starkest truth, please pause, because straight away people will blame you for its cause. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #41 - Earth vs. Heaven By doing good, you nurture humanity; but by creating beauty, you scatter the seeds of divinity. ―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The Poet by Michael R. Burch He walks to the sink, takes out his teeth, rubs his gums. He tries not to think. In the mirror, on the mantle, Time—the silver measure— does not stare or blink, but in a wrinkle flutters, in a hand upon the brink of a second, hovers. Through a mousehole, something scuttles on restless incessant feet. There is no link between life and death or from a fading past to a more tenuous present that a word uncovers in the great wink. The white foam lathers at his thin pink stretched neck like a tightening noose. He tries not to think. These are poems I wrote in my early teens on the themes of play, playing, playmates, vacations, etc. Playmates by Michael R. Burch WHEN you were my playmate and I was yours, we spent endless hours with simple toys, and the sorrows and cares of our indentured days were uncomprehended... far, far away... for the temptations and trials we had yet to face were lost in the shadows of an unventured maze. Then simple pleasures were easy to find and if they cost us a little, we didn't mind; for even a penny in a pocket back then was one penny too many, a penny to spend. Then feelings were feelings and love was just love, not a strange, complex mystery to be understood; while "sin" and "damnation" meant little to us, since forbidden cookies were our only lusts! Then we never worried about what we had, and we were both sure—what was good, what was bad. And we sometimes quarreled, but we didn't hate; we seldom gave thought to the uncertainties of fate. Hell, we seldom thought about the next day, when tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away. Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past, and wondered, at times, why things couldn't last. Still, we never worried about getting by, and we didn't know that we were to die... when we spent endless hours with simple toys, and I was your playmate, and we were boys. This is probably the poem that "made" me, because my high school English teacher called it "beautiful" and I took that to mean I was surely the Second Coming of Percy Bysshe Shelley! "Playmates" is the second longish poem I remember writing; I believe I was around 13 or 14 at the time. Playthings by Michael R. Burch a sequel to “Playmates” There was a time, as though a long-forgotten dream remembered, when you and I were playmates and the days were long; then we were pirates stealing plaits of daisies from trembling maidens fearing men so strong . . . Our world was like an unplucked Rose unfolding, and you and I were busy, then, as bees; the nectar that we drank, it made us giddy; each petal within reach seemed ours to seize . . . But you were more the doer, I the dreamer, so I wrote poems and dreamed a noble cause; while you were linking logs, I met old Merlin and took a dizzy ride to faery Oz . . . But then you put aside all "silly" playthings; with sunburned hands you built, from bricks and stone, tall buildings, then a life, and then you married. Now my fantasies, again, are all my own. I believe “Playthings” was written in my late teens, around 1977. According to my notes, I revised the poem in 1991, then again in 2020 and 2021. hey pete by Michael R. Burch for Pete Rose hey pete, it's baseball season and the sun ascends the sky, encouraging a schoolboy's dreams of winter whizzing by; go out, go out and catch it, put it in a jar, set it on a shelf and then you'll be a Superstar. This is another of my boyhood poems about play and playing. When I was a boy, Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather an ironic jab at the term "superstar." Have I been too long at the fair? by Michael R. Burch Have I been too long at the fair? The summer has faded, the leaves have turned brown; the Ferris wheel teeters ... not up, yet not down. Have I been too long at the fair? This is one of my earliest poems, written around age 15. Ironic Vacation by Michael R. Burch Salzburg. Seeing Mozart’s baby grand piano. Standing in the presence of sheer incalculable genius. Grabbing my childish pen to write a poem & challenge the Immortals. Next stop, the catacombs! This is a poem I wrote about a vacation my family took to Salzburg when I was a boy, age 11 or perhaps a bit older. But I wrote the poem much later in life: around 50 years later, in 2020. Of course the ultimate form of play is love ... An Illusion by Michael R. Burch The sky was as hushed as the breath of a bee and the world was bathed in shades of palest gold when I awoke. She came to me with the sound of falling leaves and the scent of new-mown grass; I held out my arms to her and she passed into oblivion ... This little dream-poem appeared in my high school literary journal, the Lantern, so I was no older than 18 when I wrote it, probably younger. I will guess around age 16. Smoke by Michael R. Burch The hazy, smoke-filled skies of summer I remember well; farewell was on my mind, and the thoughts that I can't tell rang bells within (the din was in) my mind, and I can't say if what we had was good or bad, or where it is today. The endless days of summer's haze I still recall today; she spoke and smoky skies stood still as summer slipped away ... This poem appeared in my high school journal, the Lantern, in 1976. It also appeared in my college literary journal, Homespun, in 1977. I was probably around 14 when I wrote the poem. Myth by Michael R. Burch Here the recalcitrant wind sighs with grievance and remorse over fields of wayward gorse and thistle-throttled lanes. And she is the myth of the scythed wheat hewn and sighing, complete, waiting, lain in a low sheaf— full of faith, full of grief. Here the immaculate dawn requires belief of the leafed earth and she is the myth of the mown grain— golden and humble in all its weary worth. I believe I wrote the first version of this poem toward the end of my senior year of high school, around age 18. The Communion of Sighs by Michael R. Burch There was a moment   without the sound of trumpets or a shining light,     but with only silence and darkness and a cool mist       felt more than seen.       I was eighteen,     my heart pounding wildly within me like a fist.   Expectation hung like a cry in the night, and your eyes shone like the corona of a comet. There was an instant ...   without words, but with a deeper communion,     as clothing first, then inhibitions fell;       liquidly our lips met       —feverish, wet—     forgotten, the tales of heaven and hell,   in the immediacy of our fumbling union ... when the rest of the world became distant. Then the only light was the moon on the rise, and the only sound, the communion of sighs. I believe this poem was written around age 18 as the poem itself says. Infinity by Michael R. Burch Have you tasted the bitterness of tears of despair? Have you watched the sun sink through such pale, balmless air that your heart sought its shell like a crab on a beach, then scuttled inside to be safe, out of reach? Might I lift you tonight from earth’s wreckage and damage on these waves gently rising to pay the moon homage? Or better, perhaps, let me say that I, too, have dreamed of infinity ... windswept and blue. This is one of the first poems that made me feel like a "real" poet. I remember reading the poem and asking myself, "Did I really write that?" I believe I wrote it around age 17 or 18. Will There Be Starlight by Michael R. Burch for Beth Will there be starlight tonight while she gathers damask and lilac and sweet-scented heathers? And will she find flowers, or will she find thorns guarding the petals of roses unborn? Will there be starlight tonight while she gathers seashells and mussels and albatross feathers? And will she find treasure or will she find pain at the end of this rainbow of moonlight on rain? If I remember correctly, I wrote the first version of this poem toward the end of my senior year in high school, around age 18, then forgot about it for fifteen years until I met my future wife Beth and she reminded me of the poem’s mysterious enchantress. Childhood's End by Michael R. Burch How well I remember those fiery Septembers: dry leaves, dying embers of summers aflame lay trampled before me and fluttered, imploring the bright, dancing rain to descend once again. Now often I’ve thought on the meaning of autumn, how the moons those pale mornings enchanted dark clouds while robins repeated gay songs they had heeded so wisely when winters before they’d flown south. And still, in remembrance, I’ve conjured a semblance of childhood and how the world seemed to me then; but early this morning, when, rising and yawning, my lips brushed your ******* . . . I celebrated its end. I believe I wrote this poem in my early twenties, no later than 1982, but probably around 1980. The Tender Weight of Her Sighs by Michael R. Burch The tender weight of her sighs lies heavily upon my heart; apart from her, full of doubt, without her presence to revolve around, found wanting direction or course, cursed with the thought of her grief, believing true love is a myth, with hope as elusive as tears, hers and mine, unable to lie, I sigh ... This poem has an unusual rhyme scheme, with the last word of each line rhyming with the first word of the next line. The final line is a “closing couplet” in which both words rhyme with the last word of the preceding line. I believe I invented this ***** form and will dub it the "End-First Curtal Sonnet." Starting from Scratch with Ol’ Scratch by Michael R. Burch for the Religious Right Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh went to the ovens. Please don’t bother to cry. You could have saved her, but you were all tied up complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp. Scratch that. You were born after World War II. You had something more important to do: while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a religious tract against homosexual marriage and various things gods and evangelists disparage.) Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I’m quite sure that your intentions were good and ineluctably pure. After all, what the hell does he care about Palestinians? Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians. Scratch that. You’re one of the Devil’s minions. Orpheus by Michael R. Burch for and after William Blake I. Many a sun and many a moon I walked the earth and whistled a tune. I did not whistle as I worked: the whistle was my work. I shirked nothing I saw and made a rhyme to children at play and hard time. II. Among the prisoners I saw the leaden manacles of Law, the heavy ball and chain, the quirt. And yet I whistled at my work. III. Among the children’s daisy faces and in the women’s frowsy laces, I saw redemption, and I smiled. Satanic millers, unbeguiled, were swayed by neither girl, nor child, nor any God of Love. Yet mild I whistled at my work, and Song broke out, ere long. how many Nights by michael r. burch how many Nights we laughed to see the sun go down because the Night was made for reckless fun. ...Your golden crown, Your skin so soft, so smooth, and lightly downed... how many nights i wept glad tears to hold You tight against the years. ...Your eyes so bold, Your hair spun gold, and all the pleasures Your soft flesh foretold... how many Nights i did not dare to dream You were so real... now all that i have left here is to feel in dreams surreal Time is the Nightmare God before whom men kneel. and how few Nights, i reckoned, in the end, we were allowed to gather, less to spend. Duet (II) by Michael R. Burch If love is just an impulse meant to bring two tiny hearts together, skittering like hamsters from their Quonsets late at night in search of lust’s productive exercise . . . If love is the mutation of some gene made radiant—an accident of bliss played out by two small actors on a screen of silver mesh, who never even kiss . . . If love is evolution, nature’s way of sorting out its DNA in pairs, of matching, mating, sculpting flesh’s clay . . . why does my wrinkled hamster climb his stairs to set his wheel revolving, then descend and stagger off . . . to make hers fly again? Originally published by Bewildering Stories Rant: The Elite by Michael R. Burch When I heard Harold Bloom unsurprisingly say: Poetry is necessarily difficult. It is our elitist art ... I felt a small suspicious thrill. After all, sweetheart, isn’t this who we are? Aren’t we obviously better, and certainly fairer and taller, than they are? Though once I found Ezra Pound perhaps a smidgen too profound, perhaps a bit over-fond of Benito and the advantages of fascism to be taken ad finem, like high tea with a pure white spot of intellectualism and an artificial sweetener, calorie-free. I know! I know! Politics has nothing to do with art And it tempts us so to be elite, to stand apart ... but somehow the word just doesn’t ring true, echoing effetely away—the distance from me to you. Of course, politics has nothing to do with art, but sometimes art has everything to do with becoming elite, with climbing the cultural ladder, with being able to meet someone more Exalted than you, who can demonstrate how to **** so that everyone below claims one’s odor is sweet. *You had to be there! We were falling apart with gratitude! We saw him! We wept at his feet!* Though someone will always be far, far above you, clouding your air, gazing down at you with a look of wondering despair. Chinese Poets: English Translations These are modern English translations of poems by some of the greatest Chinese poets of all time, including Du Fu, Huang O, Li Bai/Li Po, Li Ching-jau, Li Qingzhao, Po Chu-I, Tzu Yeh, Yau Ywe-Hwa and Xu Zhimo. Quiet Night Thoughts by Li Bai aka Li Po loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Moonlight illuminates my bed as frost brightens the ground. Lifting my eyes, the moon allures. Lowering my eyes, I long for home. The Solitude of Night by Li Bai aka Li Po loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch At the wine party I lay comatose, knowing nothing. Windblown flowers fell, perfuming my lap. When I arose, still drunk, The birds had all flown to their nests. All that remained were my fellow inebriates. I left to walk along the river—alone with the moonlight. Lines from Laolao Ting Pavilion by Li Bai aka Li Po loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The spring breeze knows partings are bitter; The willow twig knows it will never be green again. A Toast to Uncle Yun by Li Bai aka Li Po loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Water reforms, though we slice it with our swords; Sorrow returns, though we drown it with our wine. Chinese translations Li Bai These are my modern English translations of Chinese poems by Li Bai, who was also known as Li Po. Zazen on Ching-t’ing Mountain by Li Bai loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Now the birds have deserted the sky and the last cloud slips down the drains. We sit together, the mountain and I, until only the mountain remains. Farewell to a Friend by Li Bai loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Rolling hills rim the northern border; white waves lap the eastern riverbank... Here you set out like a windblown wisp of grass, floating across fields, growing smaller and smaller. You’ve longed to travel like the rootless clouds, yet our friendship declines to wane with the sun. Thus let it remain, our insoluble bond, even as we wave goodbye till you vanish. My horse neighs, as if unconvinced. Li Bai (701-762) was a romantic figure called the Lord Byron of Chinese poetry. He and his friend Du Fu (712-770) were the leading poets of the Tang Dynasty era, the Golden Age of Chinese poetry. Li Bai is also known as Li Po, Li Pai, Li T’ai-po, and Li T’ai-pai. Keywords/Tags: China, Chinese, bird, birds, clouds, mountains, spring, partings, farewell, goodbye, green, twig, bitter, water, sorrow, wine, moon, love, bed, frost, eyes, introspection Moonlit Night by Du Fu (712-770) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Alone in your bedchamber you gaze out at the Fu-Chou moon. Here, so distant, I think of our children, too young to understand what keeps me away or to remember Ch'ang-an ... A perfumed mist, your hair's damp ringlets! In the moonlight, your arms' exquisite jade! Oh, when can we meet again within your bed's drawn curtains, and let the heat dry our tears? Moonlit Night by Du Fu (712-770) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Tonight the Fu-Chou moon watches your lonely bedroom. Here, so distant, I think of our children, too young to understand what keeps me away or to remember Ch'ang-an ... By now your hair will be damp from your bath and fall in perfumed ringlets; your jade-white arms so exquisite in the moonlight! Oh, when can we meet again within those drawn curtains, and let the heat dry our tears? Lone Wild Goose by Du Fu (712-770) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The abandoned goose refuses food and drink; he cries querulously for his companions. Who feels kinship for that strange wraith as he vanishes eerily into the heavens? You watch it as it disappears; its plaintive calls cut through you. The indignant crows ignore you both: the bickering, bantering multitudes. Du Fu (712-770) is also known as Tu Fu. The first poem is addressed to the poet's wife, who had fled war with their children. Ch'ang-an is an ironic pun because it means "Long-peace." The Red Cockatoo by Po Chu-I (772-846) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A marvelous gift from Annam— a red cockatoo, bright as peach blossom, fluent in men's language. So they did what they always do to the erudite and eloquent: they created a thick-barred cage and shut it up. Po Chu-I (772-846) is best known today for his ballads and satirical poems. Po Chu-I believed poetry should be accessible to commoners and is noted for his simple diction and natural style. His name has been rendered various ways in English: Po Chu-I, Po Chü-i, Bo Juyi and Bai Juyi. The Migrant Songbird Li Qingzhao aka Li Ching-chao (c. 1084-1155) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The migrant songbird on the nearby yew brings tears to my eyes with her melodious trills; this fresh downpour reminds me of similar spills: another spring gone, and still no word from you ... The Plum Blossoms Li Qingzhao aka Li Ching-chao (c. 1084-1155) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This year with the end of autumn I find my reflection graying at the edges. Now evening gales hammer these ledges ... what shall become of the plum blossoms? Li Qingzhao was a poet and essayist during the Song dynasty. She is generally considered to be one of the greatest Chinese poets. In English she is known as Li Qingzhao, Li Ching-chao and The Householder of Yi’an. Star Gauge Sui Hui (c. 351-394 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch So much lost so far away on that distant rutted road. That distant rutted road wounds me to the heart. Grief coupled with longing, so much lost so far away. Grief coupled with longing wounds me to the heart. This house without its master; the bed curtains shimmer, gossamer veils. The bed curtains shimmer, gossamer veils, and you are not here. Such loneliness! My adorned face lacks the mirror's clarity. I see by the mirror's clarity my Lord is not here. Such loneliness! Sui Hui, also known as Su Hui and Lady Su, appears to be the first female Chinese poet of note. And her "Star Gauge" or "Sphere Map" may be the most impressive poem written in any language to this day, in terms of complexity. "Star Gauge" has been described as a palindrome or "reversible" poem, but it goes far beyond that. According to contemporary sources, the original poem was shuttle-woven on brocade, in a circle, so that it could be read in multiple directions. Due to its shape the poem is also called Xuanji Tu ("Picture of the Turning Sphere"). The poem is now generally placed in a grid or matrix so that the Chinese characters can be read horizontally, vertically and diagonally. The story behind the poem is that Sui Hui's husband, Dou Tao, the governor of Qinzhou, was exiled to the desert. When leaving his wife, Dou swore to remain faithful. However, after arriving at his new post, he took a concubine. Lady Su then composed a circular poem, wove it into a piece of silk embroidery, and sent it to him. Upon receiving the masterwork, he repented. It has been claimed that there are up to 7,940 ways to read the poem. My translation above is just one of many possible readings of a portion of the poem. Reflection Xu Hui (627–650) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Confronting the morning she faces her mirror; Her makeup done at last, she paces back and forth awhile. It would take vast mountains of gold to earn one contemptuous smile, So why would she answer a man's summons? Due to the similarities in names, it seems possible that Sui Hui and Xu Hui were the same poet, with some of her poems being discovered later, or that poems written later by other poets were attributed to her. Waves Zhai Yongming (1955-) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The waves manhandle me like a midwife pounding my back relentlessly, and so the world abuses my body— accosting me, bewildering me, according me a certain ecstasy ... Monologue Zhai Yongming (1955-) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I am a wild thought, born of the abyss and—only incidentally—of you. The earth and sky combine in me—their concubine—they consolidate in my body. I am an ordinary embryo, encased in pale, watery flesh, and yet in the sunlight I dazzle and amaze you. I am the gentlest, the most understanding of women. Yet I long for winter, the interminable black night, drawn out to my heart's bleakest limit. When you leave, my pain makes me want to ***** my heart up through my mouth— to destroy you through love—where's the taboo in that? The sun rises for the rest of the world, but only for you do I focus the hostile tenderness of my body. I have my ways. A chorus of cries rises. The sea screams in my blood but who remembers me? What is life? Zhai Yongming is a contemporary Chinese poet, born in Chengdu in 1955. She was one of the instigators and prime movers of the “Black Tornado” of women’s poetry that swept China in 1986-1989. Since then Zhai has been regarded as one of China’s most prominent poets. Pyre Guan Daosheng (1262-1319) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You and I share so much desire: this love―like a fire— that ends in a pyre's charred coffin. "Married Love" or "You and I" or "The Song of You and Me" Guan Daosheng (1262-1319) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You and I shared a love that burned like fire: two lumps of clay in the shape of Desire molded into twin figures. We two. Me and you. In life we slept beneath a single quilt, so in death, why any guilt? Let the skeptics keep scoffing: it's best to share a single coffin. Guan Daosheng (1262-1319) is also known as Kuan Tao-Sheng, Guan Zhongji and Lady Zhongji. A famous poet of the early Yuan dynasty, she has also been called "the most famous female painter and calligrapher in the Chinese history ... remembered not only as a talented woman, but also as a prominent figure in the history of bamboo painting." She is best known today for her images of nature and her tendency to inscribe short poems on her paintings. Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I heard my love was going to Yang-chou So I accompanied him as far as Ch'u-shan. For just a moment as he held me in his arms I thought the swirling river ceased flowing and time stood still. Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Will I ever hike up my dress for you again? Will my pillow ever caress your arresting face? Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Night descends ... I let my silken hair spill down my shoulders as I part my thighs over my lover. Tell me, is there any part of me not worthy of being loved? Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I will wear my robe loose, not bothering with a belt; I will stand with my unpainted face at the reckless window; If my petticoat insists on fluttering about, shamelessly, I'll blame it on the unruly wind! Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When he returns to my embrace, I’ll make him feel what no one has ever felt before: Me absorbing him like water Poured into a wet clay jar. Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Bare branches tremble in a sudden breeze. Night deepens. My lover loves me, And I am pleased that my body's beauty pleases him. Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Do you not see that we have become like branches of a single tree? Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I could not sleep with the full moon haunting my bed! I thought I heard―here, there, everywhere― disembodied voices calling my name! Helplessly I cried "Yes!" to the phantom air! Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I have brought my pillow to the windowsill so come play with me, tease me, as in the past ... Or, with so much resentment and so few kisses, how much longer can love last? Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When she approached you on the bustling street, how could you say no? But your disdain for me is nothing new. Squeaking hinges grow silent on an unused door where no one enters anymore. Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I remain constant as the Northern Star while you rush about like the fickle sun: rising in the East, drooping in the West. Tzŭ-Yeh (or Tzu Yeh) was a courtesan of the Jin dynasty era (c. 400 BC) also known as Lady Night or Lady Midnight. Her poems were pinyin ("midnight songs"). Tzŭ-Yeh was apparently a "sing-song" girl, perhaps similar to a geisha trained to entertain men with music and poetry. She has also been called a "wine shop girl" and even a professional concubine! Whoever she was, it seems likely that Rihaku (Li-Po) was influenced by the lovely, touching (and often very **** poems of the "sing-song" girl. Centuries later, Arthur Waley was one of her translators and admirers. Waley and Ezra Pound knew each other, and it seems likely that they got together to compare notes at Pound's soirees, since Pound was also an admirer and translator of Chinese poetry. Pound's most famous translation is his take on Li-Po's "The River Merchant's Wife: A Letter." If the ancient "sing-song" girl influenced Li-Po and Pound, she was thus an influence―perhaps an important influence―on English Modernism. The first Tzŭ-Yeh poem makes me think that she was, indeed, a direct influence on Li-Po and Ezra Pound.―Michael R. Burch The Day after the Rain Lin Huiyin (1904-1955) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I love the day after the rain and the meadow's green expanses! My heart endlessly rises with wind, gusts with wind ... away the new-mown grasses and the fallen leaves ... away the clouds like smoke ... vanishing like smoke ... Music Heard Late at Night Lin Huiyin (1904-1955) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch for Xu Zhimo I blushed, hearing the lovely nocturnal tune. The music touched my heart; I embraced its sadness, but how to respond? The pattern of life was established eons ago: so pale are the people's imaginations! Perhaps one day You and I can play the chords of hope together. It must be your fingers gently playing late at night, matching my sorrow. Lin Huiyin (1904-1955), also known as Phyllis Lin and Lin Whei-yin, was a Chinese architect, historian, novelist and poet. Xu Zhimo died in a plane crash in 1931, allegedly flying to meet Lin Huiyin. Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again Xu Zhimo (1897-1931) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Quietly I take my leave, as quietly as I came; quietly I wave good-bye to the sky's dying flame. The riverside's willows like lithe, sunlit brides reflected in the waves move my heart's tides. Weeds moored in dark sludge sway here, free of need, in the Cam's gentle wake ... O, to be a waterweed! Beneath shady elms a nebulous rainbow crumples and reforms in the soft ebb and flow. Seek a dream? Pole upstream to where grass is greener; rig the boat with starlight; sing aloud of love's splendor! But how can I sing when my song is farewell? Even the crickets are silent. And who should I tell? So quietly I take my leave, as quietly as I came; gently I flick my sleeves ... not a wisp will remain. (6 November 1928) Xu Zhimo's most famous poem is this one about leaving Cambridge. English titles for the poem include "On Leaving Cambridge," "Second Farewell to Cambridge," "Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again,"  and "Taking Leave of Cambridge Again." The Leveler by Michael R. Burch The nature of Nature is bitter survival from Winter’s bleak fury till Spring’s brief revival. The weak implore Fate; bold men ravish, dishevel her . . . till both are cut down by mere ticks of the Leveler. I believe I wrote this poem around age 20, in 1978 or thereabouts. It has since been published in The Lyric, Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly and The Aurorean. The Insurrection of Sighs by Michael R. Burch She was my Shiloh, my Gethsemane; she nestled my head to her breast and breathed upon my insensate lips the fierce benedictions of her ubiquitous sighs, the veiled allegations of her disconsolate tears . . . Many years I abided the agile assaults of her flesh . . . She loved me the most when I was most sorely pressed; she undressed with delight for her ministrations when all I needed was a good night’s rest . . . She anointed my lips with her soft lips’ dews; the insurrection of sighs left me fallen, distressed, at her elegant heel. I felt the hard iron, the cold steel, in her words and I knew: the terrible arrow showed through my conscripted flesh. The sun in retreat left her victor and all was Night. The last peal of surrender went sinking and dying—unheard. Star Crossed by Michael R. Burch Remember— night is not like day; the stars are closer than they seem ... now, bending near, they seem to say the morning sun was merely a dream ember. The State of the Art (?) by Michael R. Burch Has rhyme lost all its reason and rhythm, renascence? Are sonnets out of season and poems but poor pretense? Are poets lacking fire, their words too trite and forced? What happened to desire? Has passion been coerced? Shall poetry fade slowly, like Latin, to past tense? Are the bards too high and holy, or their readers merely dense? Options Underwater: The Song of the First Amphibian by Michael R. Burch “Evolution’s a Fishy Business!” 1. Breathing underwater through antiquated gills, I’m running out of options. I need to find fresh Air, to seek some higher Purpose. No porpoise, I despair to swim among anemones’ pink frills. 2. My fins will make fine flippers, if only I can walk, a little out of kilter, safe to the nearest rock’s sweet, unmolested shelter. Each eye must grow a stalk, to take in this green land on which it gawks. 3. No predators have made it here, so I need not adapt. Sun-sluggish, full, lethargic―I’ll take such nice long naps! The highest form of life, that’s me! (Quite apt to lie here chortling, calling fishes saps.) 4. I woke to find life teeming all around― mammals, insects, reptiles, loathsome birds. And now I cringe at every sight and sound. The water’s looking good! I look Absurd. 5. The moral of my story’s this: don’t leap wherever grass is greener. Backwards creep. And never burn your bridges, till you’re sure leapfrogging friends secures your Sinecure. Originally published by Lighten Up Online 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. “Whoso List to Hunt” is a famous early English sonnet written by Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542) in the mid-16th century. Whoever Longs to Hunt by Sir Thomas Wyatt loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer; but as for me, alas!, I may no more. This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore I'm one of those who falters, at the rear. Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind away from the doe?                                Thus, as she flees before me, fainting I follow.                                 I must leave off, therefore, since in a net I seek to hold the wind. Whoever seeks her out,                                      I relieve of any doubt, that he, like me, must spend his time in vain. For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain, these words appear, her fair neck ringed about: Touch me not, for Caesar's I am, And wild to hold, though I seem tame. The First Complete Musical Composition Shine, while you live; blaze beyond grief, for life is brief and Time, a thief. —Michael R. Burch, after Seikilos of Euterpes The so-called Seikilos Epitaph is the oldest known surviving complete musical composition which includes musical notation. It is believed to date to the first or second century AD. The epitaph appears to be signed “Seikilos of Euterpes” or dedicated “Seikilos to Euterpe.” Euterpe was the ancient Greek Muse of music. Sinking by Michael R. Burch for Virginia Woolf Weigh me down with stones ... fill all the pockets of my gown ... I’m going down, mad as the world that can’t recover, to where even mermaids drown. VILLANELLES These are villanelles and villanelle-like poems, including a new new poetic form I invented, the “trinelle” or “triplenelle.” What happened to the songs of yesterdays? by Michael R. Burch Is poetry mere turning of a phrase? Has prose become its height and depth and sum? What happened to the songs of yesterdays? Does prose leave all nine Muses vexed and glum, with fingers stuck in ears, till hearing’s numbed? Is poetry mere turning of a phrase? Should we cut loose, drink, guzzle jugs of *** write prose nonstop, till Hell or Kingdom Come? What happened to the songs of yesterdays? Are there no beats to which tense thumbs might thrum? Did we outsmart ourselves and end up dumb? Is poetry mere turning of a phrase? How did a feast become this measly crumb, such noble princess end up in a slum? What happened to the songs of yesterdays? I’m running out of rhymes! Please be a chum and tell me if some Muse might spank my *** for choosing rhyme above the painted phrase? What happened to the songs of yesterdays? Trump’s Retribution Resolution by Michael R. Burch My New Year’s resolution? I require your money and votes, for you are my retribution. May I offer you dark-skinned scapegoats and bigger and deeper moats as part of my sweet resolution? Please consider a YUGE contribution, a mountain of lovely C-notes, for you are my retribution. Revenge is our only solution, since my critics are weasels and stoats. Come, second my sweet resolution! The New Year’s no time for dilution of the anger of victimized GOATs, when you are my retribution. Forget the ****** Constitution! To dictators “ideals” are footnotes. My New Year’s resolution? You are my retribution. Why I Left the Right by Michael R. Burch I was a Reagan Republican in my youth but quickly “left” the GOP when I grokked its inherent racism, intolerance and retreat into the Dark Ages. I fell in with the troops, but it didn’t last long: I’m not one to march to a klanging gong. “Right is wrong” became my song. I’m not one to march to a klanging gong with parrots all singing the same strange song. I fell in with the bloops, but it didn’t last long. These parrots all singing the same strange song, with no discernment between right and wrong? “Right is wrong” became my song. With no discernment between right and wrong, the **** marched on in a white-robed throng. I fell in with the rubes, but it didn’t last long. The **** marched on in a white-robed throng, enraged by the sight of boys in sarongs. “Right is wrong” became my song. Enraged by the sight of boys in sarongs and girls with butch hairdos, the clan klanged its gongs. I fell in with the dupes, but it didn’t last long. “Right is wrong” became my song. The vanilla-nelle by Michael R. Burch The vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write In a chocolate world where purity is slight, When every rhyming word must rhyme with white! As sure as night is day and day is night, And walruses write songs, such is my plight: The vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write. I’m running out of rhymes and it’s a fright because the end’s not nearly (yet) in sight, When every rhyming word must rhyme with white! It’s tougher when the poet’s not too bright And strains his brain, which only turns up “blight.” Yes, the vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write. I strive to seem aloof and recondite while avoiding ancient words like “knyghte” and “flyte” But every rhyming word must rhyme with white! I think I’ve failed: I’m down to “zinnwaldite.” I fear my Muse is torturing me, for spite! For the vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write When every rhyming word must rhyme with white! I may have invented a new poetic form, the “trinelle” or “triplenelle.” Ars Brevis by Michael R. Burch Better not to live, than live too long: this is my theme, my purpose and desire. The world prefers a brief three-minute song. My will to live was never all that strong. Eternal life? Find some poor fool to hire! Better not to live, than live too long. Granny ******* or a flosslike thong? The latter rock, the former feed the fire. The world prefers a brief three-minute song. Let briefs be brief: the short can do no wrong, since David slew Goliath, who stood higher. Better not to live, than live too long. A long recital gets a sudden gong. Quick death’s preferred to drowning in the mire. The world prefers a brief three-minute song. A wee bikini or a long sarong? French Riviera or some dull old Shire? Better not to live, than live too long: The world prefers a brief three-minute song. This is a "trinelle" or "triplenelle" about one of my favorite basketball players: The Ballad of Dalton "Connect" Knecht by Michael R. Burch The basket's bent, the nets are charred. It's hard to **** his will, as well. Dalton Knecht is hard to guard. To all defenders, it's "en garde!" It's hard to **** his will, as well. The basket's bent, the nets are charred. There's no defense, all exits 're barred. It's hard to **** his will, as well. Dalton Knecht is hard to guard. All hope is lost, not even a shard. It's hard to **** his will, as well. The basket's bent, the nets are charred. The opposing coach's faith is jarred. It's hard to **** his will, as well. Dalton Knecht is hard to guard. The defense's pride is maimed and scarred. It's hard to **** his will, as well. The basket's bent, the nets are charred. Dalton Knecht is hard to guard. Door Mouse by Michael R. Burch I’m sure it’s not good for my heart— the way it will jump-start when the mouse scoots the floor (I try to **** it with the door, never fast enough, or fling a haphazard shoe ... always too slow too) in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion absurdly inconvenient for mashin’, till our hearts, each maniacally revvin’, make us both early candidates for heaven. Prose Poem: The Trouble with Poets by Michael R. Burch This morning the neighborhood girls were helping their mothers with chores, but one odd little girl was out picking roses by herself, looking very small and lonely. Suddenly the odd one refused to pick roses anymore because she decided it might “hurt” them. Now she just sits beside the bushes, rocking gently back and forth, weeping and consoling the vegetation! Now she’s lost all interest in nature, which she finds “appalling.” She dresses in black “like Rilke” and says she prefers the “roses of the imagination”! She mumbles constantly about being “pricked in conscience” and being “pricked to death.” What on earth can she mean? Does she plan to have *** until she dies? For chrissake, now she’s locked herself in her room and refuses to come out until she has “conjured” the “perfect rose of the imagination”! We haven’t seen her for days. Her only communications are texts punctuated liberally with dashes. They appear to be badly-rhymed poems. She signs them “starving artist” in lower-case. What on earth can she mean? Is she anorexic, or bulimic, or is this just a phase she’ll outgrow? Mercedes Benz by Michael R. Burch I'd like to do a song of great social and political import. It goes like this: Oh Donnie, won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz? My friends ***** in Porsches, I must make amends! Like you, I ****** my partners and now have no friends. So, Donnie won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz? Oh Donnie, won't you sell me a **** import? You need to pay your lawyers: a **** for a tort! I’ll await her delivery, each day until three. And Donnie, please throw in Ivanka for free! Oh, Donnie won't you buy me a night on the town? I'm counting on you, Don, so please don't let me down! Oh, prove you're a ******* and bring them around. Oh, Donnie won't you buy me a night on the town? Oh Donnie, won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz? My friends ***** in Porsches, I must make amends! Like you, I ****** my partners and now have no friends. So, Donnie won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz? Syndrome by Michael R. Burch When the heart of a child, fragile, like a flower, unfolds; when his soul emerges from its last concealment, nestled in the womb’s muscular whorls, its secret chambers; when he kicks and screams, flung from the watery darkness into the harsh light’s glare, feeling its restive anger, its accusatory stare; when he feels the heart his emergent heart remembers fluttering against his cheek, then falls into the lilac arms of heavy-lidded sleep; when he reopens his eyes to the bellows’ thunder (which he has never heard before, save as a drowned echo) and feels its wild surmise, and sees—with wonder the tenderness in another’s eyes reflecting his startled wonder back at him, as his heart picks up the beat of his mother’s grieving hymn for the world’s intolerable slander; when he understands, with a babe’s discernment— the ******* the hands, that now, throughout the years, will bless him with their comforts, console him with caresses, the gentle eyes, which, with their knowing tears, will weep him away from the world’s slick, writhing dangers through all his restlessly-flowering years; as his helplessly-frail fingers curl around the nose now leaning to catch his powdery talcum scent ... Remember—it is the world’s syndrome, its handicap, not his, that will insulate assumers from the gentle pollinations of his loveliness, from his gifts of enchantment, from his all-encompassing acceptance, from these tender angelic charms now lifting awed earthlings who gladly embrace him. Published by the National Association for Down Syndrome Homer translations Surrender to sleep at last! What a misery, keeping watch all night, wide awake. Soon you’ll succumb to sleep and escape all your troubles. Sleep. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Passage home? Impossible! Surely you have something else in mind, Goddess, urging me to cross the ocean’s endless expanse in a raft. So vast, so full of danger! Hell, sometimes not even the sea-worthiest ships can prevail, aided as they are by Zeus’s mighty breath! I’ll never set foot on a raft, Goddess, until you swear by all that’s holy you’re not plotting some new intrigue! — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Let’s hope the gods are willing. They rule the vaulting skies. They’re stronger than men to plan, execute and realize their ambitions. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Few sons surpass their fathers; most fall short, all too few overachieve. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Death is the Great Leveler, not even the immortal gods can defend the man they love most when the dread day dawns for him to take his place in the dust. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Any moment might be our last. Earth’s magnificence? Magnified because we’re doomed. You will never be lovelier than at this moment. We will never pass this way again. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Beauty! Ah, Terrible Beauty! A deathless Goddess, she startles our eyes! — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Many dread seas and many dark mountain ranges lie between us. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The lives of mortal men? Like the leaves’ generations. Now the old leaves fall, blown and scattered by the wind. Soon the living timber bursts forth green buds as spring returns. Even so with men: as one generation is born, another expires. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Since I’m attempting to temper my anger, it does not behoove me to rage unrelentingly on. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Overpowering memories subsided to grief. Priam wept freely for Hector, who had died crouching at Achilles’ feet, while Achilles wept himself, first for his father, then for Patroclus, as their mutual sobbing filled the house. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch “Genius is discovered in adversity, not prosperity.” — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Ruin, the eldest daughter of Zeus, blinds us all with her fatal madness. With those delicate feet of hers, never touching the earth, she glides over our heads, trapping us all. First she entangles you, then me, in her lethal net. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Death and Fate await us all. Soon comes a dawn or noon or sunset when someone takes my life in battle, with a well-flung spear or by whipping a deadly arrow from his bow. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Death is the Great Leveler, not even the immortal gods can defend the man they love most when the dread day dawns for him to take his place in the dust.—Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Giacomo da Lentini Giacomo da Lentini, also known as Jacopo da Lentini or by the appellative Il Notaro (“The Notary”), was an Italian poet of the 13th century who has been credited with creating the sonnet. Sonnet 26 by Giacomo da Lentini loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I've seen it rain on sunny days; I’ve seen the darkness split by light; I’ve seen white lightning fade to haze; Seen frozen snow turn water-bright. Some sweets have bitter aftertastes While bitter things can taste quite sweet: So enemies become best mates While former friends no longer meet. Yet the strangest thing I've seen is Love, Who healed my wounds by wounding me. Love quenched the fire he lit before; The life he gave was death, therefore. How to warm my heart? It eluded me. Yet extinguished, Love sears all the more. Haiku Am I really this old, so many ghosts beckoning? —Michael R. Burch Sleepyheads! I recite my haiku to the inattentive lilies. —Michael R. Burch The sky tries to assume your eyes’ azure but can’t quite pull it off. —Michael R. Burch The sky tries to assume your eyes’ arresting blue but can’t quite pull it off. —Michael R. Burch Early robins get the worms, cats waiting to pounce. —Michael R. Burch Two bullheaded frogs croaking belligerently: election season. —Michael R. Burch An enterprising cricket serenades the sunrise: soloist. —Michael R. Burch A single cricket serenades the sunrise: solo violinist. —Michael R. Burch My life: how little remains of a night so brief? —Masaoka Shiki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Masaoka Shiki struggled with tuberculosis and died at age 35. Yesterday’s snows that fell like cherry blossoms are mudpuddles again. —Koshigaya Gozan, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I write, erase, revise, erase again, and then... suddenly a poppy blooms! —Katsushika Hokusai, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Vanishing spring: songbirds lament, fish weep with watery eyes. —Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Wearily, I enter the inn to be welcomed by wisteria! —Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Pale moonlight: the wisteria’s fragrance seems equally distant. —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 Pale moonlight: the wisteria’s fragrance drifts in from afar. —Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Pale moonlight: the wisteria’s fragrance drifts in from nowhere. —Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Plum flower temple: voices ascend from the valleys. —Natsume Soseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch limping to the grave under the sentence of death, should i praise ur LORD? think i’ll save my breath! –michael r. burch Because you made a world where nothing matters, our hearts lie in tatters. —Michael R. Burch 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?" Ammiditāna's Hymn to Ištar Ancient Akkadian poem, author unknown loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 1 iltam zumrā rašubti ilātim 2 litta''id bēlet iššī rabīt igigī 3 ištar zumrā rašubti ilātim 4 litta''id bēlet ilī nišī rabīt igigī 1 Sing the praises of the Goddess, our awe-inspiring Goddess! 2 Sing the praises of our Lady, the greatest of the gods! 3 Sing the praises of Ishtar, our awe-inspiring Goddess! 4 Sing the praises of our Lady, the greatest of the gods! 5 šāt mēleṣim ruāmam labšat 6 za'nat inbī mīkiam u kuzbam 7 šāt mēleṣim ruāmam labšat 8 za'nat inbī mīkiam u kuzbam 5 Ishtar who becomes aroused, exuding lust, 6 dripping desire—voluptuous and amorous! 7 Ishtar who becomes aroused, exuding lust, 8 dripping desire—voluptuous and amorous! 9 šaptīn duššupat balāṭum pīša 10 simtišša ihannīma ṣīhātum 11 šarhat irīmū ramû rēšušša 12 banâ šimtāša bitrāmā īnāša šitārā 9 Her lips drip honey-sweetness, her mouth is life itself, 10 Her cheeks are flushed with delight! 11 She is lovely, with beads braided in her hair! 12 Her cheeks are comely, her eyes are iridescent! 13 eltum ištāša ibašši milkum 14 šīmat mimmami qatišša tamhat 15 naplasušša bani bu'āru 16 baštum mašrahu lamassum šēdum 13 Our Goddess is pure, her counsel uncontested; 14 She holds the fates of all worlds in her hands! 15 Seeing her brings prosperity and happiness 16 for her pride, splendor, and protective spirit! 17 tartāmī tešmê ritūmī ṭūbī 18 u mitguram tebēl šīma 19 ardat tattadu umma tarašši 20 izakkarši innišī innabbi šumša 17 She is the Goddess of ********** and seduction, 18 of pleasure and harmony! 19 She teaches the naked girl to become a mother; 20 She will advance her name among the people! 21 ayyum narbiaš išannan mannum 22 gašrū ṣīrū šūpû parṣūša 23 ištar narbiaš išannan mannum 24 gašrū ṣīrū šūpû parṣūša 21 Who can rival her glory? 22 Her powers are unlimited, exalted and manifest! 23 Who can rival Ishtar's glory? 24 Her powers are unlimited, exalted and manifest! 25 gaṣṣat inilī atar nazzazzuš 26 kabtat awassa elšunu haptatma 27 ištar inilī atar nazzazzuš 28 kabtat awassa elšunu haptatma 25 Highest of the gods, her standing immense, 26 Her word is law, she towers above them! 27 Ishtar among the gods, her standing immense, 28 Her word is law, she towers above them! 29 šarrassun uštanaddanū siqrīša 30 kullassunu šâš kamsūšim 31 nannarīša illakūši 32 iššû u awīlum palhūšīma 29 They beg their queen to issue them orders; 30 they bow down obsequiously before her! 31 Acolytes orbit around her; 32 Men and women approach her in fear! 33 puhriššun etel qabûša šūtur 34 ana anim šarrīšunu malâm ašbassunu 35 uznam nēmeqim hasīsam eršet 36 imtallikū šī u hammuš 33 Foremost in the assembly, her speech altogether exalted, 34 she sits throned among them, an equal to Anu, the king! 35 She is wise beyond comprehension 36 when she and her chieftan confer! 37 ramûma ištēniš parakkam 38 iggegunnim šubat rīšātim 39 muttiššun ilū nazzuizzū 40 epšiš pîšunu bašiā uznāšun 37 They sit at the dais together, 38 in their delightful dwelling, 39 as the gods stand respectfully 40 awaiting her bidding. 41 šarrum migrašun narām libbīšun 42 šarhiš itnaqqišunūt niqi'ašu ellam 43 ammiditāna ellam niqī qātīšu 44 mahrīšun ušebbi li'ī u yâlī namrā'i 41 The king, their favourite, their hearts' beloved, 42 offers his sacrifice before them in splendour. 43 In their presence, Ammiditana, with his own hands 44 makes fattened offerings of bulls and stags. 45 išti anim hāmerīša tēteršaššum 46 dāriam balāṭam arkam 47 madātim šanāt balāṭim ana ammiditāna 48 tušatlim ištar tattadin 45 From Anum, her bridegroom, she has demanded 46 for the king a long fruitful life. 47 Many long years of life for Ammiditana 48 Ishtar has granted! 49 siqrušša tušaknišaššu 50 kibrat erbe'im ana šēpīšu 51 u naphar kalīšunu dadmī 52 taṣammissunūti ana nīrīšu 49 At her command the four corners of the earth 50 bow down to him! 51 She has bound the entire orb of the earth 52 to his yoke! 53 bibil libbīša zamar lalêša 54 naṭumma ana pîšu siqri ea īpuš 55 ešmēma tanittaša irissu 56 libluṭmi šarrašu lirāmšu addāriš 53 Her heart's desire, the praise-filled song, 54 is suited to his mouth, the commandment of Ea. 55 "I have heard her eulogy," said Ea, "and I was delighted with it!" 56 "May her king live long and may she love him forever!" 57 ištar ana ammiditāna šarri rā'imīki 58 arkam dāriam balāṭam šurqī 57 O Ishtar, may he live long and prosper, 58 Ammiditana, the king who loves you! Keywords/Tags: amphibian, amphibians, evolution, gills, water, air, lungs, fins, flippers, fish, fishy business, poets, poetry, writing, art, work, works, rhyme, ballad, immortality, passion, emotion, desire, mrbwork, mrbworks Published as the collection "What Works"
#poets#poetry#writing#art#work#works#rhyme#ballad#immortality#passion
Written by
michael-r-burch
62/M/Nashville, Tennessee
Apr 16, 2020
Apr 16, 2020 at 1:51 AM UTC
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