Modern Charon

Modern Charon by Michael R. Burch I, too, have stood―paralyzed at the helm watching onrushing, inevitable disaster. I too have felt sweat (or ecstatic tears) plaster damp hair to my eyes, as a slug’s dense film becomes mucous-insulate. Always, thereafter living in darkness, bright things overwhelm. Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea. I wrote this poem in 2001 after the 911 terrorist attacks. Davenport Tomorrow by Michael R. Burch Davenport tomorrow ... all the trees stand stark-naked in the sun. Now it is always summer and the bees buzz in cesspools, adapted to a new life. There are no flowers, but the weeds, being hardier, have survived. The small town has become a city of millions; there is no longer a sea, only a huge sewer, but the children don't mind. They still study rocks and stars, but biology is a forgotten science ... after all, what is life? Davenport tomorrow ... all the children murmur through vein-streaked gills whispered wonders of long-ago. Burn by Michael R. Burch for Trump Sunbathe, ozone baby, till your parched skin cracks in the white-hot flash of radiation. Incantation from your pale parched lips shall not avail; you made this hell. Now burn. Bikini by Michael R. Burch Undersea, by the shale and the coral forming, by the shell’s pale rose and the pearl’s bright eye, through the sea’s green bed of lank seaweed worming like tangled hair where cold currents rise ... something lurks where the riptides sigh, something old, and odd, and wise. Something old when the world was forming now lifts its beak, its snail-blind eye, and, with tentacles like Medusa's squirming, it feels the cloud blot out the skies' ... then shudders, settles with a sigh, understanding man’s demise. This poem has over 800,000 Google results for the eleventh line. That's a lot of cutting and pasting! First They Came for the Muslims by Michael R. Burch after Martin Niemoller First they came for the Muslims and I did not speak out because I was not a Muslim. Then they came for the homosexuals and I did not speak out because I was not a homosexual. Then they came for the feminists and I did not speak out because I was not a feminist. Now when will they come for me because I was too busy and too apathetic to defend my sisters and brothers? Published in Amnesty International’s Words That Burn anthology, and by Borderless Journal (India), The Hindu (India), Matters India, New Age Bangladesh, Convivium Journal, PressReader (India) and Kracktivist (India) It is indeed an honor to have one of my poems published by an outstanding organization like Amnesty International. A stated goal for the "Words That Burn" anthology is to teach students about human rights through poetry. Warming Her Pearls by Michael R. Burch for Beth Warming her pearls, her breasts gleam like constellations. Her belly is a bit rotund ... she might have stepped out of a Rubens. 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, Grassroots Poetry, Romantics Quarterly, Angle, Poetry Life & Times 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 Poetry Porch/Sonnet Scroll Fascination with Light by Michael R. Burch Desire glides in on calico wings, a breath of a moth seeking a companionable light, where it hovers, unsure, sullen, shy or demure, in the margins of night, a soft blur. With a frantic dry rattle of alien wings, it rises and thrums one long breathless staccato and flutters and drifts on in dark aimless flight. And yet it returns to the flame, its delight, as long as it burns. Originally published by The HyperTexts Kin by Michael R. Burch O pale, austere moon, haughty beauty ... what do we know of love, or duty? Water and Gold by Michael R. Burch You came to me as rain breaks on the desert when every flower springs to life at once, but joy's a wan illusion to the expert: the Bedouin has learned how not to want. You came to me as riches to a miser when all is gold, or so his heart believes, until he dies much thinner and much wiser, his gleaming bones hauled off by chortling thieves. You gave your heart too soon, too dear, too vastly; I could not take it in; it was too much. I pledged to meet your price, but promised rashly. I died of thirst, of your bright Midas touch. I dreamed you gave me water of your lips, then sealed my tomb with golden hieroglyphs. Published by The Lyric, Black Medina, The Eclectic Muse, Kritya (India), Shabestaneh (Iran), Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry, Captivating Poetry (Anthology), Strange Road, Freshet, Shot Glass Journal, Better Than Starbucks, Famous Poets and Poems, Sonnetto Poesia, Poetry Life & Times escape!!! by michael r. burch for anaïs vionet to live among the daffodil folk . . . slip down the rainslickened drainpipe . . . suddenly pop out the GARGANTUAN SPOUT . . . minuscule as alice, shout yippee-yi-yee! in wee exultant glee to be leaving behind the LARGE THREE-DENALI GARAGE. Leave Taking by Michael R. Burch Brilliant leaves abandon battered limbs to waltz upon ecstatic winds until they die. But the barren and embittered trees, lament the frolic of the leaves and curse the bleak November sky ... Now, as I watch the leaves' high flight before the fading autumn light, I think that, perhaps, at last I may have learned what it means to say— goodbye. This poem started out as a stanza in a much longer poem, "Jessamyn's Song," that dates to around age 14 or 15. Passionate One by Michael R. Burch for Beth Love of my life, light of my morning― arise, brightly dawning, for you are my sun. Give me of heaven both manna and leaven― desirous Presence, Passionate One. Stay With Me Tonight by Michael R. Burch Stay with me tonight; be gentle with me as the leaves are gentle falling to the earth. And whisper, O my love, how that every bright thing, though scattered afar, retains yet its worth. Stay with me tonight; be as a petal long-awaited blooming in my hand. Lift your face to mine and touch me with your lips till I feel the warm benevolence of your breath’s heady fragrance like wine. That which we had when pale and waning as the dying moon at dawn, outshone the sun. And so lead me back tonight through bright waterfalls of light to where we shine as one. Originally published by The Lyric Ophélie (“Ophelia”), an Excerpt by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch On pitiless black waves unsinking stars abide ... while pale Ophelia, a lethargic lily, drifts by ... Here, tangled in her veils, she floats on the tide ... Far-off, in the woods, we hear the strident bugle’s cry. For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia, This albescent phantom, has rocked here, to and fro. For a thousand years, or more, in her gentle folly, Ophelia has rocked here when the night breezes blow. For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia, Has passed, an albescent phantom, down this long black river. For a thousand years, or more, in her sweet madness Ophelia has made this river shiver. bachelorhoodwinked by Michael R. Burch u are charming & disarming, but mostly alarming since all my resolve dissolved! u are chic as a sheikh's harem girl in the sheets but my castle’s no longer my own and my kingdom's been overthrown! chrysalis by Michael R. Burch these are the days of doom u seldom leave ur room u live in perpetual gloom yet also the days of hope how to cope? u pray and u grope toward self illumination ... becoming an angel (pure love) and yet You must love Your Self Self Reflection by Michael R. Burch (for anyone struggling with self-image) She has a comely form and a smile that brightens her dorm ... but she's grossly unthin when seen from within; soon a griefstricken campus will mourn. Yet she'd never once criticize a friend for the size of her thighs. Do unto others— sisters and brothers? Yes, but also ourselves, likewise. War is Obsolete by Michael R. Burch Trump’s war is on children and their mothers. "An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind." ― Gandhi War is obsolete; even the strange machinery of dread weeps for the child in the street who cannot lift her head to reprimand the Man who failed to countermand her soft defeat. But war is obsolete; even the cold robotic drone that flies far overhead has sense enough to moan and shudder at her plight (only men bereft of Light with hearts indurate stone embrace war’s Siberian night.) For war is obsolete; man’s tribal “gods,” long dead, have fled his awakening sight while the true Sun, overhead, has pity on her plight. O sweet, precipitate Light!― embrace her, reject the night that leaves gentle fledglings dead. For each brute ancestor lies with his totems and his “gods” in the slavehold of premature night that awaited him in his tomb; while Love, the ancestral womb, still longs to give birth to the Light. So which child shall we murder tonight, or which Ares condemn to the gloom? Originally published by The Flea. While campaigning for president in 2016, Donald Trump said that, as commander-in-chief of the American military, he would order American soldiers to track down and murder women and children as "retribution" for acts of terrorism. When aghast journalists asked Trump if he could possibly have meant what he said, he verified more than once that he did. Keywords/Tags: war, terrorism, retribution, violence, murder, children, Gandhi, Trump, drones In My House by Michael R. Burch When you were in my house you were not free― in chains bound. Manifest Destiny? I was wrong; my plantation burned to the ground. I was wrong. This is my song, this is my plea: I was wrong. When you are in my house, now, I am not free. I feel the song hurling itself back at me. We were wrong. This is my history. I feel my tongue stilting accordingly. We were wrong; brother, forgive me. Published by Black Medina Shock by Michael R. Burch It was early in the morning of the forming of my soul, in the dawning of desire, with passion at first bloom, with lightning splitting heaven to thunder's blasting roll and a sense of welling fire and, perhaps, impending doom― that I cried out through the tumult of the raging storm on high for shelter from the chaos of the restless, driving rain ... and the voice I heard replying from a rift of bleeding sky was mine, I'm sure, and, furthermore, was certainly insane. I may have been reading too many gothic ghost stories when I wrote this one! I think it shows a good touch with meter for a young poet, since I wrote it in my early teens. In Praise of Meter by Michael R. Burch The earth is full of rhythms so precise the octave of the crystal can produce a trillion oscillations, yet not lose a second's beat. The ear needs no device to hear the unsprung rhythms of the couch drown out the mouth's; the lips can be debauched by kisses, should the heart put back its watch and find the pulse of love, and sing, devout. If moons and tides in interlocking dance obey their numbers, what's been left to chance? Should poets be more lax―their circumstance as humble as it is?―or readers wince to see their ragged numbers thin, to hear the moans of drones drown out the Chanticleer? Originally published by The Eclectic Muse, then in The Best of the Eclectic Muse 1989-2003 Completing the Pattern by Michael R. Burch Walk with me now, among the transfixed dead who kept life’s compact and who thus endure harsh sentence here—among pink-petaled beds and manicured green lawns. The sky’s azure, pale blue once like their eyes, will gleam blood-red at last when sunset staggers to the door of each white mausoleum, to inquire— What use, O things of erstwhile loveliness? 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. Published by Grassroots Poetry and Poetry Webring 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 White in the Shadows by Michael R. Burch White in the shadows I see your face, unbidden. Go, tell Love it is commonplace; tell Regret it is not so rare. Our love is not here though you smile, full of sedulous grace. Lost in darkness, I fear the past is our resting place. Published by Carnelian, The Chained Muse, Poetry Life & Times, A-Poem-A-Day and in a YouTube video by Aurora G. with the titles “Ghost,” “White Goddess” and “White in the Shadows” The Octopi Jars by Michael R. Burch Long-vacant eyes now lodged in clear glass, a-swim with pale arms as delicate as angels'... you are beyond all hope of salvage now... and yet I would pause, no fear!, to once touch your arcane beaks... I, more alien than you to this imprismed world, notice, most of all, the scratches on the inside surfaces of your hermetic cells ... and I remember documentaries of albino Houdinis slipping like wraiths over the walls of shipboard aquariums, slipping down decks' brine-lubricated planks, spilling jubilantly into the dark sea, parachuting through clouds of pallid ammonia... and I know now in life you were unlike me: your imprisonment was never voluntary. The Children of Gaza Nine of my poems have been set to music by the composer Eduard de Boer and have been performed in Europe by the Palestinian soprano Dima Bawab. My poems that became “The Children of Gaza” were written from the perspective of Palestinian children and their mothers. On this page the poems come first, followed by the song lyrics, which have been adapted in places to fit the music … Epitaph for a Child of Gaza by Michael R. Burch I lived as best I could, and then I died. Be careful where you step: the grave is wide. Frail Envelope of Flesh by Michael R. Burch for the mothers and children of Gaza Frail envelope of flesh, lying cold on the surgeon’s table with anguished eyes like your mother’s eyes and a heartbeat weak, unstable ... Frail crucible of dust, brief flower come to this― your tiny hand in your mother’s hand for a last bewildered kiss ... Brief mayfly of a child, to live two artless years! Now your mother’s lips seal up your lips from the Deluge of her tears ... For a Child of Gaza, with Butterflies by Michael R. Burch Where does the butterfly go when lightning rails when thunder howls when hailstones scream while winter scowls and nights compound dark frosts with snow? Where does the butterfly go? Where does the rose hide its bloom when night descends oblique and chill beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill? When the only relief's a banked fire's glow, where does the butterfly go? And where shall the spirit flee when life is harsh, too harsh to face, and hope is lost without a trace? Oh, when the light of life runs low, where does the butterfly go? I Pray Tonight by Michael R. Burch for the children of Gaza and their mothers I pray tonight the starry Light might surround you. I pray by 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. Something by Michael R. Burch for the mothers and children of Gaza Something inescapable is lost― lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight, vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars immeasurable and void. Something uncapturable is gone― gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn, scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass and remembrance. Something unforgettable is past― blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less, and finality has swept into a corner where it lies in dust and cobwebs and silence. Mother’s Smile by Michael R. Burch for the mothers of Gaza and their children There never was a fonder smile than mother’s smile, no softer touch than mother’s touch. So sleep awhile and know she loves you more than “much.” So more than “much,” much more than “all.” Though tender words, these do not speak of love at all, nor how we fall and mother’s there, nor how we reach from nightmares in the ticking night and she is there to hold us tight. There never was a stronger back than father’s back, that held our weight and lifted us, when we were small, and bore us till we reached the gate, then held our hands that first bright mile till we could run, and did, and flew. But, oh, a mother’s tender smile will leap and follow after you! Such Tenderness by Michael R. Burch for the mothers of Gaza There was, in your touch, such tenderness―as only the dove on her mildest day has, when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing and coos to them softly, unable to sing. What songs long forgotten occur to you now― a babe at each breast? What terrible vow ripped from your throat like the thunder that day can never hold severing lightnings at bay? Time taught you tenderness―time, oh, and love. But love in the end is seldom enough ... and time?―insufficient to life’s brief task. I can only admire, unable to ask― what is the source, whence comes the desire of a woman to love as no God may require? who, US? by Michael R. Burch jesus was born a palestinian child where there’s no Room for the meek and the mild ... and in bethlehem still to this day, lambs are born to cries of “no Room!” and Puritanical scorn ... under Herod, Trump, Bibi their fates are the same― the slouching Beast mauls them and WE have no shame: “who’s to blame?” My nightmare ... I had a dream of Jesus! Mama, his eyes were so kind! But behind him I saw a billion Christians hissing "You're nothing!," so blind. ―The Child Poets of Gaza (written by Michael R. Burch for the children of Gaza) I, too, have a dream ... I, too, have a dream ... that one day Jews and Christians will see me as I am: a small child, lonely and afraid, staring down the barrels of their big bazookas, knowing I did nothing to deserve their enmity. ―The Child Poets of Gaza (written by Michael R. Burch for the children of Gaza) Suffer the Little Children by Nakba I saw the carnage . . . saw girls' dreaming heads blown to red atoms, and their dreams with them . . . saw babies liquefied in burning beds as, horrified, I heard their murderers’ phlegm . . . I saw my mother stitch my shroud’s black hem, for in that moment I was one of them . . . I saw our Father’s eyes grow hard and bleak to see frail roses severed at the stem . . . How could I fail to speak? ―Nakba is an alias of Michael R. Burch Here We Shall Remain by Tawfiq Zayyad loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Like twenty impossibilities in Lydda, Ramla and Galilee ... here we shall remain. Like brick walls braced against your chests; lodged in your throats like shards of glass or prickly cactus thorns; clouding your eyes like sandstorms. Here we shall remain, like brick walls obstructing your chests, washing dishes in your boisterous bars, serving drinks to our overlords, scouring your kitchens' filthy floors in order to snatch morsels for our children from between your poisonous fangs. Here we shall remain, like brick walls deflating your chests as we face our deprivation clad in rags, singing our defiant songs, chanting our rebellious poems, then swarming out into your unjust streets to fill dungeons with our dignity. Like twenty impossibilities in Lydda, Ramla and Galilee, here we shall remain, guarding the shade of the fig and olive trees, fermenting rebellion in our children like yeast in dough. Here we wring the rocks to relieve our thirst; here we stave off starvation with dust; but here we remain and shall not depart; here we spill our expensive blood and do not hoard it. For here we have both a past and a future; here we remain, the Unconquerable; so strike fast, penetrate deep, O, my roots! Labor Pains by Fadwa Tuqan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Tonight the wind wafts pollen through ruined fields and homes. The earth shivers with love, with the agony of giving birth, while the Invader spreads stories of submission and surrender. O, Arab Aurora! Tell the Usurper: childbirth’s a force beyond his ken because a mother’s wracked body reveals a rent that inaugurates life, a crack through which light dawns in an instant as the blood’s rose blooms in the wound. Hamza by Fadwa Tuqan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Hamza was one of my hometown’s ordinary men who did manual labor for bread. When I saw him recently, the land still wore its mourning dress in the solemn windless silence and I felt defeated. But Hamza-the-unextraordinary said: “Sister, our land’s throbbing heart never ceases to pound, and it perseveres, enduring the unendurable, keeping the secrets of mounds and wombs. This land sprouting cactus spikes and palms also births freedom-fighters. Thus our land, my sister, is our mother!” Days passed and Hamza was nowhere to be seen, but I felt the land’s belly heaving in pain. At sixty-five Hamza’s a heavy burden on her back. “Burn down his house!” some commandant screamed, “and slap his son in a prison cell!” As our town’s military ruler later explained this was necessary for law and order, that is, an act of love, for peace! Armed soldiers surrounded Hamza’s house; the coiled serpent completed its circle. The bang at his door came with an ultimatum: “Evacuate, damn it!' So generous with their time, they said: “You can have an hour, yes!” Hamza threw open a window. Face-to-face with the blazing sun, he yelled defiantly: “Here in this house I and my children will live and die, for Palestine!” Hamza's voice echoed over the hemorrhaging silence. An hour later, with impeccable timing, Hanza’s house came crashing down as its rooms were blown sky-high and its bricks and mortar burst, till everything settled, burying a lifetime’s memories of labor, tears, and happier times. Yesterday I saw Hamza walking down one of our town’s streets ... Hamza-the-unextraordinary man who remained as he always was: unshakable in his determination. Enough for Me by Fadwa Tuqan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Enough for me to lie in the earth, to be buried in her, to sink meltingly into her fecund soil, to vanish ... only to spring forth like a flower brightening the play of my countrymen's children. Enough for me to remain in my native soil's embrace, to be as close as a handful of dirt, a sprig of grass, a wildflower. Palestine by Mahmoud Darwish loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This land gives us all that makes life worthwhile: April's blushing advances, the aroma of bread warming at dawn, a woman haranguing men, the poetry of Aeschylus, love's trembling beginnings, a boulder covered with moss, mothers who dance to the flute's sighs, and the invaders' fear of memories. This land gives us all that makes life worthwhile: September's rustling end, a woman leaving forty behind, still full of grace, still blossoming, an hour of sunlight in prison, clouds taking the shapes of unusual creatures, the people's applause for those who mock their assassins, and the tyrant's fear of songs. This land gives us all that makes life worthwhile: Lady Earth, mother of all beginnings and endings! In the past she was called Palestine and tomorrow she will still be called Palestine. My Lady, because you are my Lady, I deserve life! Distant light by Walid Khazindar loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Bitterly cold, winter clings to the naked trees. If only you would free the bright sparrows from the tips of your fingers and release a smile—that shy, tentative smile— from the imprisoned anguish I see. Sing! Can we not sing as if we were warm, hand-in-hand, shielded by shade from a glaring sun? Can you not always remain this way, stoking the fire, more beautiful than necessary, and silent? Darkness increases; we must remain vigilant and this distant light is our only consolation— this imperiled flame, which from the beginning has been flickering, in danger of going out. Come to me, closer and closer. I don't want to be able to tell my hand from yours. And let's stay awake, lest the snow smother us. Walid Khazindar was born in 1950 in Gaza City. He is considered one of the best Palestinian poets; his poetry has been said to be "characterized by metaphoric originality and a novel thematic approach unprecedented in Arabic poetry." He was awarded the first Palestine Prize for Poetry in 1997. Excerpt from “Speech of the Red Indian” by Mahmoud Darwish loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Let's give the earth sufficient time to recite the whole truth ... The whole truth about us. The whole truth about you. In tombs you build the dead lie sleeping. Over bridges you erect file the newly slain. There are spirits who light up the night like fireflies. There are spirits who come at dawn to sip tea with you, as peaceful as the day your guns mowed them down. O, you who are guests in our land, please leave a few chairs empty for your hosts to sit and ponder the conditions for peace in your treaty with the dead. Existence by Fadwa Tuqan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch In my solitary life, I was a lost question; in the encompassing darkness, my answer lay concealed. You were a bright new star revealed by fate, radiating light from the fathomless darkness. The other stars rotated around you —once, twice — until I perceived your unique radiance. Then the bleak blackness broke and in the twin tremors of our entwined hands I had found my missing answer. Oh you! Oh you intimate, yet distant! Don't you remember the coalescence Of our spirits in the flames? Of my universe with yours? Of the two poets? Despite our great distance, Existence unites us. Nothing Remains by Fadwa Tuqan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Tonight, we’re together, but tomorrow you'll be hidden from me again, thanks to life’s cruelty. The seas will separate us ... Oh!—Oh!—If I could only see you! But I'll never know ... where your steps led you, which routes you took, or to what unknown destinations your feet were compelled. You will depart and the thief of hearts, the denier of beauty, will rob us of all that's dear to us, will steal our happiness, leaving our hands empty. Tomorrow at dawn you'll vanish like a phantom, dissipating into a delicate mist dissolving quickly in the summer sun. Your scent—your scent!—contains the essence of life, filling my heart as the earth absorbs the lifegiving rain. I will miss you like the fragrance of trees when you leave tomorrow, and nothing remains. Just as everything beautiful and all that's dear to us is lost—lost!—when nothing remains. Identity Card by Mahmoud Darwish loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Record! I am an Arab! And my identity card is number fifty thousand. I have eight children; the ninth arrives this autumn. Will you be furious? Record! I am an Arab! Employed at the quarry, I have eight children. I provide them with bread, clothes and books from the bare rocks. I do not supplicate charity at your gates, nor do I demean myself at your chambers' doors. Will you be furious? Record! I am an Arab! I have a name without a title. I am patient in a country where people are easily enraged. My roots were established long before the onset of time, before the unfolding of the flora and fauna, before the pines and the olive trees, before the first grass grew. My father descended from plowmen, not from the privileged classes. My grandfather was a lowly farmer neither well-bred, nor well-born! Still, they taught me the pride of the sun before teaching me how to read; now my house is a watchman's hut made of branches and cane. Are you satisfied with my status? I have a name, but no title! Record! I am an Arab! You have stolen my ancestors' orchards and the land I cultivated along with my children. You left us nothing but these bare rocks. Now will the State claim them as it has been declared? Therefore! Record on the first page: I do not hate people nor do I encroach, but if I become hungry I will feast on the usurper's flesh! Beware! Beware my hunger and my anger! NOTE: Darwish was married twice, but had no children. In the poem above, he is apparently speaking for his people, not for himself personally. Passport by Mahmoud Darwish loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch They left me unrecognizable in the shadows that bled all colors from this passport. To them, my wounds were novelties— curious photos for tourists to collect. They failed to recognize me. No, don't leave the palm of my hand bereft of sun when all the trees recognize me and every song of the rain honors me. Don't set a wan moon over me! All the birds that flocked to my welcoming wave as far as the distant airport gates, all the wheatfields, all the prisons, all the albescent tombstones, all the barbwired boundaries, all the fluttering handkerchiefs, all the eyes— they all accompanied me. But they were stricken from my passport shredding my identity! How was I stripped of my name and identity on soil I tended with my own hands? Today, Job's lamentations re-filled the heavens: Don't make an example of me, not again! Prophets! Gentlemen!— Don't require the trees to name themselves! Don't ask the valleys who mothered them! My forehead glistens with lancing light. From my hand the riverwater springs. My identity can be found in my people's hearts, so invalidate this passport! Autumn Conundrum by Michael R. Burch for the mothers and children of Gaza It's not that every leaf must finally fall, it's just that we can never catch them all. Piercing the Shell for the mothers and children of Gaza If we strip away all the accouterments of war, perhaps we'll discover what the heart is for. gimME that ol’ time religion! by michael r. burch fiddle-dee-dum, fiddle-dee-dee, jesus loves and understands ME! safe in his grace, I’LL damn them to hell— the strumpet, the harlot, the wild jezebel, the alky, the druggie, all queers short and tall! let them drink ashes and wormwood and gall, ’cause fiddle-dee-DUMB, fiddle-dee-WEEEEEEEEEee ... jesus loves and understands ME! To the boy Elis by Georg Trakl translation by Michael R. Burch Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest, it announces your downfall. Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness. Your brow sweats blood recalling ancient myths and dark interpretations of birds' flight. Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls; the ripe purple grapes hang suspended as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness. A thornbush crackles; where now are your moonlike eyes? How long, oh Elis, have you been dead? A monk dips waxed fingers into your body's hyacinth; Our silence is a black abyss from which sometimes a docile animal emerges slowly lowering its heavy lids. A black dew drips from your temples: the lost gold of vanished stars. TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive bloody sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem. Habeas Corpus by Michael R. Burch from “Songs of the Antinatalist” I have the results of your DNA analysis. If you want to have children, this may induce paralysis. I wish I had good news, but how can I lie? Any offspring you have are guaranteed to die. It wouldn’t be fair—I’m sure you’ll agree— to sentence kids to death, so I’ll waive my fee. Bittersight by Michael R. Burch for Abu al-Ala Al-Ma'arri, an ancient antinatalist poet To be plagued with sight in the Land of the Blind, —to know birth is death and that Death is kind— is to be flogged like Eve (stripped, sentenced and fined) because evil is “good” as some “god” has defined. In His Kingdom of Corpses by Michael R. Burch In His kingdom of corpses, God has been heard to speak in many enraged discourses, high, high from some mountain peak where He’s lectured man on compassion while the sparrows around Him fell, and babes, for His meager ration of rain, died and went to hell, unbaptized, for that’s His fashion. In His kingdom of corpses, God has been heard to vent in many obscure discourses on the need for man to repent, to admit that he’s a sinner; give up sex, and riches, and fame; be disciplined at his dinner though always he dies the same, whether fatter or thinner. In his kingdom of corpses, God has been heard to speak in many absurd discourses of man’s Ego, precipitous Peak!, while demanding praise and worship, and the bending of every knee. And though He sounds like the Devil, all religious men now agree He loves them indubitably. Uyghur Poetry Translations With my translations I am trying to build awareness of the plight of Uyghur poets and their people, who are being sent in large numbers to Chinese "reeducation" concentration camps. Perhat Tursun (1969-????) is one of the foremost living Uyghur language poets, if he is still alive. Unfortunately, Tursun was "disappeared" into a Chinese "reeducation" concentration camp where extreme psychological torture is the norm. According to a disturbing report he was later "hospitalized." Apparently no one knows his present whereabouts or condition, if he has one. According to John Bolton, when Donald Trump learned of these "reeducation" concentration camps, he told Chinese President Xi Jinping it was "exactly the right thing to do." Trump’s excuse? "Well, we were in the middle of a major trade deal." Elegy by Perhat Tursun loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch "Your soul is the entire world." ―Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha Asylum seekers, will you recognize me among the mountain passes' frozen corpses? Can you identify me here among our Exodus's exiled brothers? We begged for shelter but they lashed us bare; consider our naked corpses. When they compel us to accept their massacres, do you know that I am with you? Three centuries later they resurrect, not recognizing each other, Their former greatness forgotten. I happily ingested poison, like a fine wine. When they search the streets and cannot locate our corpses, do you know that I am with you? In that tower constructed of skulls you will find my dome as well: They removed my head to more accurately test their swords' temper. When before their swords our relationship flees like a flighty lover, Do you know that I am with you? When men in fur hats are used for target practice in the marketplace Where a dying man's face expresses his agony as a bullet cleaves his brain While the executioner's eyes fail to comprehend why his victim vanishes, ... Seeing my form reflected in that bullet-pierced brain's erratic thoughts, Do you know that I am with you? In those days when drinking wine was considered worse than drinking blood, did you taste the flour ground out in that blood-turned churning mill? Now, when you sip the wine Ali-Shir Nava'i imagined to be my blood In that mystical tavern's dark abyssal chambers, Do you know that I am with you? TRANSLATOR NOTES: This is my interpretation (not necessarily correct) of the poem's frozen corpses left 300 years in the past. For the Uyghur people the Mongol period ended around 1760 when the Qing dynasty invaded their homeland, then called Dzungaria. Around a million people were slaughtered during the Qing takeover, and the Dzungaria territory was renamed Xinjiang. I imagine many Uyghurs fleeing the slaughters would have attempted to navigate treacherous mountain passes. Many of them may have died from starvation and/or exposure, while others may have been caught and murdered by their pursuers. If anyone has a better explanation, they are welcome to email me at [email protected] (there is an "r" between my first and last names). The Fog and the Shadows adapted from a novel by Perhat Tursun loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch “I began to realize the fog was similar to the shadows.” I began to realize that, just as the exact shape of darkness is a shadow, even so the exact shape of fog is disappearance and the exact shape of a human being is also disappearance. At this moment it seemed my body was vanishing into the human form’s final state. After I arrived here, it was as if the danger of getting lost and the desire to lose myself were merging strangely inside me. While everything in that distant, gargantuan city where I spent my five college years felt strange to me; and even though the skyscrapers, highways, ditches and canals were built according to a single standard and shape, so that it wasn’t easy to differentiate them, still I never had the feeling of being lost. Everyone there felt like one person and they were all folded into each other. It was as if their faces, voices and figures had been gathered together like a shaman’s jumbled-up hair. Even the men and women seemed identical. You could only tell them apart by stripping off their clothes and examining them. The men’s faces were beardless like women’s and their skin was very delicate and unadorned. I was always surprised that they could tell each other apart. Later I realized it wasn’t just me: many others were also confused. For instance, when we went to watch the campus’s only TV in a corridor of a building where the seniors stayed when they came to improve their knowledge. Those elderly Uyghurs always argued about whether someone who had done something unusual in an earlier episode was the same person they were seeing now. They would argue from the beginning of the show to the end. Other people, who couldn’t stand such endless nonsense, would leave the TV to us and stalk off. Then, when the classes began, we couldn’t tell the teachers apart. Gradually we became able to tell the men from the women and eventually we able to recognize individuals. But other people remained identical for us. The most surprising thing for me was that the natives couldn’t differentiate us either. For instance, two police came looking for someone who had broken windows during a fight at a restaurant and had then run away. They ordered us line up, then asked the restaurant owner to identify the culprit. He couldn’t tell us apart even though he inspected us very carefully. He said we all looked so much alike that it was impossible to tell us apart. Sighing heavily, he left. The Encounter by Abdurehim Otkur loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I asked her, why aren’t you afraid? She said her God. I asked her, anything else? She said her People. I asked her, anything more? She said her Soul. I asked her if she was content? She said, I am Not. The Distance by Tahir Hamut loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch We can’t exclude the cicadas’ serenades. Behind the convex glass of the distant hospital building the nurses watch our outlandish party with their absurdly distorted faces. Drinking watered-down liquor, half-nude, descanting through the open window, we speak sneeringly of life, love, girls. The cicadas’ serenades keep breaking in, wrecking critical parts of our dissertations. The others dream up excuses to ditch me and I’m left here alone. The cosmopolitan pyramid of drained bottles makes me feel like I’m in a Turkish bath. I lock the door: Time to get back to work! I feel like doing cartwheels. I feel like self-annihilation. Refuge of a Refugee by Ablet Abdurishit Berqi aka Tarim loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I lack a passport, so I can’t leave legally. All that’s left is for me to smuggle myself to safety, but I’m afraid I’ll be beaten black and blue at the border and I can’t afford the trafficker. I’m a smuggler of love, though love has no national identity. Poetry is my refuge, where a refugee is most free. The following excerpts, translated by Anne Henochowicz, come from an essay written by Tang Danhong about her final meeting with Dr. Ablet Abdurishit Berqi, aka Tarim. Tarim is a reference to the Tarim Basin and its Uyghur inhabitants... I’m convinced that the poet Tarim Ablet Berqi the associate professor at the Xinjiang Education Institute, has been sent to a “concentration camp for educational transformation.” This scholar of Uyghur literature who conducted postdoctoral research at Israel’s top university, what kind of “educational transformation” is he being put through? Chen Quanguo, the Communist Party secretary of Xinjiang, has said it’s “like the instruction at school, the order of the military, and the security of prison. We have to break their blood relations, their networks, and their roots.” On a scorching summer day, Tarim came to Tel Aviv from Haifa. In a few days he would go back to Urumqi. I invited him to come say goodbye and once again prepared Sichuan cold noodles for him. He had already unfriended me on Facebook. He said he couldn’t eat, he was busy, and had to hurry back to Haifa. He didn’t even stay for twenty minutes. I can’t even remember, did he sit down? Did he have a glass of water? Yet this farewell shook me to my bones. He said, “Maybe when I get off the plane, before I enter the airport, they’ll take me to a separate room and beat me up, and I’ll disappear.” Looking at my shocked face, he then said, “And maybe nothing will happen …” His expression was sincere. To be honest, the Tarim I saw rarely smiled. Still, layer upon layer blocked my powers of comprehension: he’s a poet, a writer, and a scholar. He’s an associate professor at the Xinjiang Education Institute. He can get a passport and come to Israel for advanced studies. When he goes back he’ll have an offer from Sichuan University to be a professor of literature … I asked, “Beat you up at the airport? Disappear? On what grounds?” “That’s how Xinjiang is,” he said without any surprise in his voice. “When a Uyghur comes back from being abroad, that can happen.”… This poem helps us understand the nomadic lifestyle of many Uyghurs, the hardships they endure, and the character it builds... Iz (“Traces”) by Abdurehim Otkur loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch We were children when we set out on this journey; Now our grandchildren ride horses. We were just a few when we set out on this arduous journey; Now we're a large caravan leaving traces in the desert. We leave our traces scattered in desert dunes' valleys Where many of our heroes lie buried in sandy graves. But don't say they were abandoned: amid the cedars their resting places are decorated by springtime flowers! We left the tracks, the station... the crowds recede in the distance; The wind blows, the sand swirls, but here our indelible trace remains. The caravan continues, we and our horses become thin, But our great-grand-children will one day rediscover those traces. My Feelings by Dolqun Yasin loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The light sinking through the ice and snow, The hollyhock blossoms reddening the hills like blood, The proud peaks revealing their breasts to the stars, The morning-glories embroidering the earth’s greenery, Are not light, Not hollyhocks, Not peaks, Not morning-glories; They are my feelings. The tears washing the mothers’ wizened faces, The flower-like smiles suddenly brightening the girls’ visages, The hair turning white before age thirty, The night which longs for light despite the sun’s laughter, Are not tears, Not smiles, Not hair, Not night; They are my nomadic feelings. Now turning all my sorrow to passion, Bequeathing to my people all my griefs and joys, Scattering my excitement like flowers festooning fields, I harvest all these, then tenderly glean my poem. Therefore the world is this poem of mine, And my poem is the world itself. To My Brother the Warrior by Téyipjan Éliyow loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When I accompanied you, the commissioners called me a child. If only I had been a bit taller I might have proved myself in battle! The commission could not have known my commitment, despite my youth. If only they had overlooked my age and enlisted me, I'd have given that enemy rabble hell! Now, brother, I’m an adult. Doubtless, I’ll join the service soon. Soon enough, I’ll be by your side, battling the enemy: I’ll never surrender! Keywords/Tags: Uyghur, translation, Uighur, Xinjiang, elegy, Kafka, China, Chinese, reeducation, prison, concentration camp, desert, nomad, nomadic, race, racism, discrimination, Islam, Islamic, Muslim, mrbuyghur Free Fall to Liftoff by Michael R. Burch for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr. I see the longing for departure gleam in his still-keen eye, and I understand his desire to test this last wind, like those late autumn leaves with nothing left to cling to ... The One True Poem by Michael R. Burch Love was not meaningless ... nor your embrace, nor your kiss. And though every god proved a phantom, still you were divine to your last dying atom ... So that when you are gone and, yea, not a word remains of this poem, even so, We were One. The Poem of Poems by Michael R. Burch This is my Poem of Poems, for you. Every word ineluctably true: I love you. Peace Prayer by Michael R. Burch Be calm. Be still. Be silent, content. Be one with the buffalo cropping the grass to a safer height. Seek the composure of the great depths, barely moved by exterior storms. Lift your face to the dawning light; feel how it warms. And be calm. Be still. Be silent, content. Sometimes the Dead by Michael R. Burch Sometimes we catch them out of the corners of our eyes— the pale dead. After they have fled the gourds of their bodies, like escaping fragrances they rise. Once they have become a cloud’s mist, sometimes like the rain they descend; they appear, sometimes silver like laughter, to gladden the hearts of men. Sometimes like a pale gray fog, they drift unencumbered, yet lumbrously, as if over the sea there was the lightest vapor even Atlas could not lift. Sometimes they haunt our dreams like forgotten melodies only half-remembered. Though they lie dismembered in black catacombs, sepulchers and dismal graves; although they have committed felonies, yet they are us. Someday soon we will meet them in the graveyard dust blood-engorged, but never sated since Cain slew Abel. But until we become them, let us steadfastly forget them, even as we know our children must ... What the Poet Sees by Michael R. Burch What the poet sees, he sees as a swimmer ~~~underwater~~~ watching the shoreline blur sees through his breath’s weightless bubbles ... Both worlds grow obscure. Published by ByLine, Mandrake Poetry Review, Poetically Speaking, E Mobius Pi, Underground Poets, Little Brown Poetry, Little Brown Poetry, Triplopia, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, PW Review, Neovictorian/Cochlea, Muse Apprentice Guild, Mindful of Poetry, Poetry on Demand, Poet’s Haven, Famous Poets and Poems, and Bewildering Stories Finally to Burn (the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus) by Michael R. Burch Athena takes me sometimes by the hand and we go levitating through strange Dreamlands where Apollo sleeps in his dark forgetting and Passion seems like a wise bloodletting and all I remember ,upon awaking, is: to Love sometimes is like forsaking one’s Being―to glide heroically beyond thought, forsaking the here for the There and the Not. * O, finally to Burn, gravity beyond escaping! To plummet is Bliss when the blisters breaking rain down red scabs on the earth’s mudpuddle ... Feathers and wax and the watchers huddle ... Flocculent sheep, O, and innocent lambs!, I will rock me to sleep on the waves’ iambs. * To sleep's sweet relief from Love’s exhausting Dream, for the Night has Wings gentler than moonbeams― they will flit me to Life like a huge-eyed Phoenix fluttering off to quarry the Sphinx. * Riddlemethis, riddlemethat, Rynosseross, throw out the Welcome Mat. Quixotic, I seek Love amid the tarnished rusted-out steel when to live is varnish. To Dream―that’s the thing! Aye, that Genie I’ll rub, soak by the candle, aflame in the tub. * Riddlemethis, riddlemethat, Rynosseross, throw out the Welcome Mat. Somewhither, somewhither aglitter and strange, we must moult off all knowledge or perish caged. * I am reconciled to Life somewhere beyond thought― I’ll Live the Elsewhere, I’ll Dream of the Naught. Methinks it no journey; to tarry’s a waste, so fatten the oxen; make a nice baste. I’m coming, Fool Tom, we have Somewhere to Go, though we injure noone, ourselves wildaglow. Published by The Lyric and The Ekphrastic Review Chit Chat: In the Poetry Chat Room by Michael R. Burch WHY SHULD I LERN TO SPELL? HELL, NO ONE REEDS WHAT I SAY ANYWAY!!! :( Sing for the cool night, whispers of constellations. Sing for the supple grass, the tall grass, gently whispering. Sing of infinities, multitudes, of all that lies beyond us now, whispers begetting whispers. And i am glad to also whisper . . . I WUS HURT IN LUV I’M DYIN’ FER TH’ TEARS I BEEN A-CRYIN’!!! i abide beyond serenities and realms of grace, above love’s misdirected earth, i lift my face. i am beyond finding now . . . I WAS IN, LOVE, AND HE SCREWED ME!!! THE JERK!!! TOTALLY!!! i loved her once, before, when i was mortal too, and sometimes i would listen and distinctly hear her laughter from the juniper, but did not go . . . I JUST DON’T GET POETRY, SOMETIMES. IT’S OKAY, I GUESS. I REALLY DON’T READ THAT MUCH AT ALL, I MUST CONFESS!!! ;-) Travail, inherent to all flesh, i do not know, nor how to feel. Although i sing them nighttimes still: the bitter woes, that do not heal . . . POETRY IS BORING. SEE, IT SUCKS!!!, I’M SNORING!!! ZZZZZZZ!!! The words like breath, i find them here, among the fragrant juniper, and conifers amid the snow, old loves imagined long ago . . . WHY DON’T YOU LIKE MY PERFICKT WORDS YOU USELESS UN-AMERIC’N TURDS?!!! What use is love, to me, or Thou? O Words, my awe, to fly so smooth above the anguished hearts of men to heights unknown, Thy bare remove . . . Each Color a Scar by Michael R. Burch What she left here, upon my cheek, is a tear. She did not speak, but her intention was clear, and I was meek, far too meek, and, I fear, too sincere. What she can never take from my heart is its ache; for now we, apart, are like leaves without weight, scattered afar by love, or by hate, each color a scar. Ultimate Sunset by Michael R. Burch for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr. he now faces the Ultimate Sunset, his body like the leaves that fray as they dry, shedding their vital fluids (who knows why?) till they’ve become even lighter than the covering sky, ready to fly ... Free Fall by Michael R. Burch for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr. I see the longing for departure gleaming in his still-keen eye, and I understand his desire to test this last wind, like those late autumn leaves with nothing left to cling to ... Sanctuary at Dawn by Michael R. Burch I have walked these thirteen miles just to stand outside your door. The rain has dogged my footsteps for thirteen miles, for thirty years, through the monsoon seasons . . . and now my tears have all been washed away. Through thirteen miles of rain I slogged, I stumbled and I climbed rainslickened slopes that led me home to the hope that I might find a life I lived before. The door is wet; my cheeks are wet, but not with rain or tears . . . as I knock I sweat and the raining seems the rhythm of the years. Now you stand outlined in the doorway ―a man as large as I left― and with bated breath I take a step into the accusing light. Your eyes are grayer than I remembered; your hair is grayer, too. As the red rust runs down the dripping drains, our voices exclaim― "My father!" "My son!" NOTE: “Sanctuary at Dawn” was written either in high school or during my first two years of college. All Things Galore by Michael R. Burch for my grandfathers George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Paul Ray Burch Sr. Grandfather, now in your gray presence you are somehow more near and remind me that, once, upon a star, you taught me wish that ululate soft phrase, that hopeful phrase! and everywhere above, each hopeful star gleamed down and seemed to speak of times before when you clasped my small glad hand in your wise paw and taught me heaven, omen, meteor . . . Attend Upon Them Still by Michael R. Burch for my grandparents George and Ena Hurt With gentleness and fine and tender will, attend upon them still; thou art the grass. Nor let men’s feet here muddy as they pass thy subtle undulations, nor depress for long the comforts of thy lovingness, nor let the fuse of time wink out amid the violets. They have their use― to wave, to grow, to gleam, to lighten their paths, to shine sweet, transient glories at their feet. Thou art the grass; make them complete. The Composition of Shadows by Michael R. Burch for poets who write late at night We breathe and so we write; the night hums softly its accompaniment. Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn leads onward, and we smile, content. And what we mean we write to learn: the vowels of love, the consonants’ strange golden weight, each plosive’s shape— curved like the heart. Here, resonant, sounds’ shadows mass beneath bright glass like singing voles curled in a maze of blank white space. We touch a face— long-frozen words trapped in a glaze that insulates our hearts. Nowhere can love be found. Just shrieking air. Published by The Lyric, Contemporary Rhyme, Candelabrum, Iambs & Trochees (Poem of the Week), Triplopia, Romantics Quarterly, Hidden Treasures (Selected Poem), ImageNation (United Kingdom), Yellow Bat Review, Poetry Life & Times, Vallance Review, Poetica Victorian First Steps by Michael R. Burch for Caitlin Shea Murphy To her a year is like infinity, each day—an adventure never-ending. She has no concept of time, but already has begun the climb— from childhood to womanhood recklessly ascending. I would caution her, "No! Wait! There will be time enough another day ... time to learn the Truth and to slowly shed your youth, but for now, sweet child, go carefully on your way! ..." But her time is not a time for cautious words, nor a time for measured, careful understanding. She is just certain that, by grabbing the curtain, in a moment she will finally be standing! Little does she know that her first few steps will hurtle her on her way through childhood to adolescence, and then, finally, pubescence . . . while, just as swiftly, I’ll be going gray! brrExit by Michael R. Burch what would u give to simply not exist— for a painless exit? he asked himself, uncertain. then from behind the hospital room curtain a patient screamed— "my life!" Vacuum by Michael R. Burch Over hushed quadrants forever landlocked in snow, time’s senseless winds blow ... leaving odd relics of lives half-revealed, if still mostly concealed ... such are the things we are unable to know that once intrigued us so. Come then, let us quickly repent of whatever truths we’d once determined to learn: for whatever is left, we are unable to discern. There’s nothing left of us; it’s time to go. Spring by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465) loose translation/modernization by Michael R. Burch Young lovers, greeting the spring fling themselves downhill, making cobblestones ring with their wild leaps and arcs, like ecstatic sparks struck from coal. What is their brazen goal? They grab at whatever passes, so we can only hazard guesses. But they rear like prancing steeds raked by brilliant spurs of need, Young lovers. Oft in My Thought by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465) loose translation/modernization by Michael R. Burch So often in my busy mind I sought, Around the advent of the fledgling year, For something pretty that I really ought To give my lady dear; But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear, Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay And robbed the world of all that's precious here― God keep her soul, I can no better say. For me to keep my manner and my thought Acceptable, as suits my age's hour? While proving that I never once forgot Her worth? It tests my power! I serve her now with masses and with prayer; For it would be a shame for me to stray Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near— God keep her soul, I can no better say. Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost And the cost of everything became so dear; Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host, Take my good deeds, as many as there are, And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere, As heaven's truest maid! And may I say: Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer— God keep her soul, I can no better say. When I praise her, or hear her praises raised, I recall how recently she brought me pleasure; Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay And makes me wish to dress for my own bier— God keep her soul, I can no better say. Confession of a Stolen Kiss by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch My ghostly father, I confess, First to God and then to you, That at a window (you know how) I stole a kiss of great sweetness, Which was done out of avidness— But it is done, not undone, now. My ghostly father, I confess, First to God and then to you. But I shall restore it, doubtless, Again, if it may be that I know how; And thus to God I make a vow, And always I ask forgiveness. My ghostly father, I confess, First to God and then to you. Translator note: By "ghostly father" I take Charles d'Orleans to be confessing to a priest. If so, it's ironic that the kiss was "stolen" at a window and the confession is being made at the window of a confession booth. But it also seems possible that Charles could be confessing to his human father, murdered in his youth and now a ghost. There is wicked humor in the poem, as Charles is apparently vowing to keep asking for forgiveness because he intends to keep stealing kisses at every opportunity! Charles d'Orleans translations of Rondels/Roundels/Rondeaux Note: While there is some confusion about the names and definitions of poetic forms such as the rondel, roundel, rondelle and rondeau, these are all rhyming poems with refrains. Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray, Your ample breasts and slender arms' twin chains, Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain, Your little feet—please, what more can I say? It is my fetish when you're far away To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain— Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray, Your ample breasts and slender arms' twin chains. So would I beg you, if I only may, To see such sights as I before have seen, Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene? I'll be obsessed until my dying day By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray, Your ample breasts and slender arms' twin chains! The season has cast its coat aside by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The season has cast its coat aside of wind and cold and rain, to dress in embroidered light again: bright sunlight, fit for a bride! There isn't a bird or beast astride that fails to sing this sweet refrain: "The season has cast its coat aside! " Now rivers, fountains, springs and tides dressed in their summer best with silver beads impressed in a fine display now glide: the season has cast its coat aside! The year lays down his mantle cold by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The year lays down his mantle cold of wind, chill rain and bitter air, and now goes clad in clothes of gold of smiling suns and seasons fair, while birds and beasts of wood and fold now with each cry and song declare: "The year lays down his mantle cold! " All brooks, springs, rivers, seaward rolled, now pleasant summer livery wear with silver beads embroidered where the world puts off its raiment old. The year lays down his mantle cold. Winter has cast his cloak away by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Winter has cast his cloak away of wind and cold and chilling rain to dress in embroidered light again: the light of day—bright, festive, gay! Each bird and beast, without delay, in its own tongue, sings this refrain: "Winter has cast his cloak away! " Brooks, fountains, rivers, streams at play, wear, with their summer livery, bright beads of silver jewelry. All the Earth has a new and fresh display: Winter has cast his cloak away! Note: This rondeau was set to music by Debussy in his "Trois chansons de France." Caedmon's Hymn (circa 658-680 AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Humbly now we honour heaven-kingdom's Guardian, the Measurer's might and his mind-plans, the goals of the Glory-Father. First he, the Everlasting Lord, established earth's fearful foundations. Then he, the First Scop, hoisted heaven as a roof for the sons of men: Holy Creator, mankind's great Maker! Then he, the Ever-Living Lord, afterwards made men middle-earth: Master Almighty! Les Bijoux (The Jewels) by Charles Baudelaire loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch My lover nude and knowing my heart's whims Wore nothing more than a few bright-flashing gems; Her art was saving men despite their sins— She ruled like harem girls crowned with diadems! She danced for me with a gay but mocking air, My world of stone and metal sparking bright; I discovered in her the rapture of everything fair— Nay, an excess of joy where the spirit and flesh unite! Naked she lay and offered herself to me, Parting her legs and smiling receptively, As gentle and yet profound as the rising sea— Till her surging tide encountered my cliff, abruptly. A tigress tamed, her eyes met mine, intent ... Intent on lust, content to purr and please! Her breath, both languid and lascivious, lent An odd charm to her metamorphoses. Her limbs, her loins, her abdomen, her thighs, Oiled alabaster, sinuous as a swan, Writhed pale before my calm clairvoyant eyes; Like clustered grapes her breasts and belly shone. Skilled in more spells than evil imps can muster, To break the peace which had possessed my heart, She flashed her crystal rocks’ hypnotic luster Till my quietude was shattered, blown apart. Her waist awrithe, her breasts enormously Out-thrust, and yet ... and yet, somehow, still coy ... As if stout haunches of Antiope Had been grafted to a boy ... The room grew dark, the lamp had flickered out. Mute firelight, alone, lit each glowing stud; Each time the fire sighed, as if in doubt, It steeped her pale, rouged flesh in pools of blood. Duellem (The Duel) by Charles Baudelaire loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Two combatants charged! Their fearsome swords brightened the air with fiery sparks and blood. Their clashing blades clinked odd serenades, reminding us: youth's inspired by overloud love. But now their blades lie broken, like our hearts! Still, our savage teeth and talon-like fingernails can do more damage than the deadliest sword when lovers lash about with such natural flails. In a deep ravine haunted by lynxes and panthers, our heroes roll around in a cozy embrace, leaving their blood to redden the colorless branches. This abyss is pure hell; our friends occupy the place. Come, let us roll here too, cruel Amazon; let our hatred’s ardor never be over and done! Le Balcon (The Balcony) by Charles Baudelaire loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Paramour of memory, ultimate mistress, source of all pleasure, my only desire; how can I forget your ecstatic caresses, the warmth of your breasts by the roaring fire, paramour of memory, ultimate mistress? Each night illumined by the burning coals we lay together where the rose-fragrance clings― how soft your breasts, how tender your soul! Ah, and we said imperishable things, each night illumined by the burning coals. How beautiful the sunsets these sultry days, deep space so profound, beyond life’s brief floods ... then, when I kissed you, my queen, in a daze, I thought I breathed the bouquet of your blood as beautiful as sunsets these sultry days. Night thickens around us like a wall; in the deepening darkness our irises meet. I drink your breath, ah! poisonous yet sweet!, as with fraternal hands I massage your feet while night thickens around us like a wall. I have mastered the sweet but difficult art of happiness here, with my head in your lap, finding pure joy in your body, your heart; because you’re the queen of my present and past I have mastered love’s sweet but difficult art. O vows! O perfumes! O infinite kisses! Can these be reborn from a gulf we can’t sound as suns reappear, as if heaven misses their light when they sink into seas dark, profound? O vows! O perfumes! O infinite kisses! Il pleure dans mon coeur (“It rains in my heart”) by Paul Verlaine loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch It rains in my heart As it rains on the town; Heavy languor and dark Drenches my heart. Oh, the sweet-sounding rain Cleansing pavements and roofs! For my listless heart's pain The pure song of the rain! Still it rains without reason In my overcast heart. Can it be there's no treason? That this grief's without reason? As my heart floods with pain, Lacking hatred, or love, I've no way to explain Such bewildering pain! Spleen by Paul Verlaine loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The roses were so very red; The ivy, impossibly black. Dear, with a mere a turn of your head, My despair’s flooded back! The sky was too gentle, too blue; The sea, far too windswept and green. Yet I always imagined―or knew― I’d again feel your spleen. Now I'm tired of the glossy waxed holly, Of the shimmering boxwood too, Of the meadowland’s endless folly, When all things, alas, lead to you! In the Whispering Night by Michael R. Burch for George King In the whispering night, when the stars bend low till the hills ignite to a shining flame, when a shower of meteors streaks the sky while the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame, we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen, and gather our vigor, and all our intent. We must heave our bodies to some famished ocean and laugh as they vanish, and never repent. We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us, soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze ... blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning to the heights of awareness from which we were seized. Dispensing Keys by Hafiz aka Hafez loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The imbecile constructs cages for everyone he knows, while the sage (who has to duck his head whenever the moon glows) keeps dispensing keys all night long to the beautiful, rowdy, prison gang. Infectious! by Hafiz aka Hafez loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I became infected with happiness tonight as I wandered idly, singing in the starlight. Now I'm wonderfully contagious ... so kiss me! The Tally by Hafiz aka Hafez loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Lovers don't reveal all their Secrets; under the covers they may count each other's Moles (that reside and hide in the shy regions by forbidden holes), then keep the final tally strictly from Aunt Sally! This is admittedly a VERY loose translation of the original Hafiz poem! Mirror by Kajal Ahmad, a Kurdish poet loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch My era's obscuring mirror shattered because it magnified the small and made the great seem insignificant. Dictators and monsters filled its contours. Now when I breathe its jagged shards pierce my heart and instead of sweat I exude glass. The Lonely Earth by Kajal Ahmad loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The pale celestial bodies never bid her “Good morning!” nor do the creative stars kiss her. Earth, where so many tender persuasions and roses lie interred, might expire for the lack of a glance, or an odor. She’s a lonely dusty orb, so very lonely!, as she observes the moon's patchwork attire knowing the sun's an imposter who sears with rays he has stolen for himself and who looks down on the moon and earth like lodgers. Kurds are Birds by Kajal Ahmad loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Per the latest scientific classification, Kurds now belong to a species of bird! This is why, traveling across the torn, fraying pages of history, they are nomads recognized by their caravans. Yes, Kurds are birds! And, even worse, when there’s nowhere left to nest, no refuge from their pain, they turn to the illusion of traveling again between the warm and arctic sectors of their homeland. So I don’t think it strange Kurds can fly but not land. They wander from region to region never realizing their dreams of settling, of forming a colony, of nesting. No, they never settle down long enough to visit Rumi and inquire about his health, or to bow down deeply in the gust- stirred dust, like Nali. Birdsong by Rumi loose translation by Michael R. Burch Birdsong relieves my deepest griefs: now I'm just as ecstatic as they, but with nothing to say! Please universe, rehearse your poetry through me! After the Deluge by Michael R. Burch She was kinder than light to an up-reaching flower and sweeter than rain to the bees in their bower where anemones blush at the affections they shower, and love’s shocking power. She shocked me to life, but soon left me to wither. I was listless without her, nor could I be with her. I fell under the spell of her absence’s power. in that calamitous hour. Like blithe showers that fled repealing spring’s sweetness; like suns’ warming rays sped away, with such fleetness ... she has taken my heart— alas, our completeness! I now wilt in pale beams of her occult remembrance. grave request by michael r. burch come to ur doom in Tombstone; the stars stark and chill over Boot Hill care nothing for ur desire; still, imagine they wish u no ill, that u burn with the same antique fire; for there’s nothing to life but the thrill of living until u expire; so come, spend ur last hardearned bill on Tombstone. Defenses by Michael R. Burch Beyond the silhouettes of trees stark, naked and defenseless there stand long rows of sentinels: these pert white picket fences. Now whom they guard and how they guard, the good Lord only knows; but savages would have to laugh observing the tidy rows. Pool's Prince Charming by Michael R. Burch (this is my tribute poem, written on the behalf of his fellow pool sharks, for the legendary Saint Louie Louie Roberts) Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool, making all the ladies drool ... Take the “nuts”? I'd be a fool! Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool. Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis, owner of (ahem) a similar pelvis ... Compared to you, the books will shelve us. Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis. Louie, Louie, fearless gambler, ladies' man and constant rambler, but such a sweet, loquacious ambler! Louie, Louie, fearless gambler. Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic, pool's charming hero, but tragic, Byronic, winning the Open drinking gin and tonic? Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic. The Aery Faery Princess by Michael R. Burch for Keira There once was a princess lighter than fluff made of such gossamer stuff— the down of a thistle, butterflies’ wings, the faintest high note the hummingbird sings, moonbeams on garlands, strands of bright hair ... I think she’s just you when you’re floating on air! pretty pickle by Michael R. Burch u’d blaspheme if u could because ur God’s no good, but of course u cant: ur just a lowly ant (or so u were told by a Hierophant). and then i was made whole by Michael R. Burch ... and then i was made whole, but not a thing entire, glued to a perch in a gilded church, strung through with a silver wire ... singing a little of this and of that, warbling higher and higher: a thing wholly dead till I lifted my head and spat at the Lord and his choir. Album by Michael R. Burch I caress them—trapped in brittle cellophane— and I see how young they were, and how unwise; and I remember their first flight—an old prop plane, their blissful arc through alien blue skies ... And I touch them here through leaves which—tattered, frayed— are also wings, but wings that never flew: like insects’ wings—pinned, held. Here, time delayed, their features never changed, remaining two ... And Grief, which lurked unseen beyond the lens or in shadows where It crept on feral claws as It scratched Its way into their hearts, depends on sorrows such as theirs, and works Its jaws ... and slavers for Its meat—those young, unwise, who naively dare to dream, yet fail to see how, lumbering sunward, Hope, ungainly, flies, clutching to Her ruffled breast what must not be. Because You Came to Me by Michael R. Burch Because you came to me with sweet compassion and kissed my furrowed brow and smoothed my hair, I do not love you after any fashion, but wildly, in despair. Because you came to me in my black torment and kissed me fiercely, blazing like the sun upon parched desert dunes, till in dawn’s foment they melt, I am undone. Because I am undone, you have remade me as suns bring life, as brilliant rains endow the earth below with leaves, where you now shade me and bower me, somehow. Beckoning by Michael R. Burch Yesterday the wind whispered my name while the blazing locks of her rampant mane lay heavy on mine. And yesterday I saw the way the wind caressed tall pines in forests laced by glinting streams and thick with tangled vines. And though she reached for me in her sleep, the touch I felt was Time's. I believe I wrote the first version of this poem around age 18, wasn't happy with it, put it aside, then revised it six years later. Besieged by Michael R. Burch Life—the disintegration of the flesh before the fitful elevation of the soul upon improbable wings? Life—is this all we know, the travail one bright season brings? ... Now the fruit hangs, impendent, pregnant with death, as the hurricane builds and flings its white columns and banners of snow and the rout begins. Heroin or Heroine? by Michael R. Burch (for mothers battling addiction) serve the Addiction; worship the Beast; feed the foul Pythons your flesh, their fair feast ... or rise up, resist the huge many-headed hydra; for the sake of your Loved Ones decapitate medusa. Loose Knit by Michael R. Burch She blesses the needle, fetches fine red stitches, criss-crossing, embroidering dreams in the delicate fabric. And if her hand jerks and twitches in puppet-like fits, she tells herself reality is not as threadbare as it seems ... that a little more darning may gather loose seams. She weaves an unraveling tapestry of fatigue and remorse and pain; ... only the nervously pecking needle pricks her to motion, again and again. I Have Labored Sore anonymous medieval lyric (circa the fifteenth century) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I have labored sore / and suffered death, so now I rest / and catch my breath. But I shall come / and call right soon heaven and earth / and hell to doom. Then all shall know / both devil and man just who I was / and what I am. NOTE: This poem has a pronounced caesura (pause) in the middle of each line: a hallmark of Old English poetry. While this poem is closer to Middle English, it preserves the older tradition. I have represented the caesura with a slash. A Lyke-Wake Dirge anonymous medieval lyric (circa the sixteenth century) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The Lie-Awake Dirge is "the night watch kept over a corpse." This one night, this one night, every night and all; fire and sleet and candlelight, and Christ receive thy soul. When from this earthly life you pass every night and all, to confront your past you must come at last, and Christ receive thy soul. If you ever donated socks and shoes, every night and all, sit right down and put pull yours on, and Christ receive thy soul. But if you never helped your brother, every night and all, walk barefoot through the flames of hell, and Christ receive thy soul. If ever you shared your food and drink, every night and all, the fire will never make you shrink, and Christ receive thy soul. But if you never helped your brother, every night and all, walk starving through the black abyss, and Christ receive thy soul. This one night, this one night, every night and all; fire and sleet and candlelight, and Christ receive thy soul. This World's Joy (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 14th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Winter awakens all my care as leafless trees grow bare. For now my sighs are fraught whenever it enters my thought: regarding this world's joy, how everything comes to naught. How Long the Night (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts with the mild pheasants' song... but now I feel the northern wind's blast: its severe weather strong. Alas! Alas! This night seems so long! And I, because of my momentous wrong now grieve, mourn and fast. Adam Lay Ybounden (anonymous Medieval English lyric, circa early 15th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Adam lay bound, bound in a bond; Four thousand winters, he thought, were not too long. And all was for an apple, an apple that he took, As clerics now find written in their book. But had the apple not been taken, or had it never been, We'd never have had our Lady, heaven's queen and matron. So blesséd be the time the apple was taken thus; Therefore we sing, "God is gracious! " The poem has also been rendered as "Adam lay i-bounden" and "Adam lay i-bowndyn." Excerpt from "Ubi Sunt Qui Ante Nos Fuerunt? " anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1275 loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Where are the men who came before us, who led hounds and hawks to the hunt, who commanded fields and woods? Where are the elegant ladies in their boudoirs who braided gold through their hair and had such fair complexions? Once eating and drinking made their hearts glad; they enjoyed their games; men bowed before them; they bore themselves loftily... But then, in an eye's twinkling, their hearts were forlorn. Where are their laughter and their songs, the trains of their dresses, the arrogance of their entrances and exits, their hawks and their hounds? All their joy is departed; their "well" has come to "oh, well" and to many dark days... Westron Wynde (anonymous Middle English lyric, found in a partbook circa 1530 AD, but perhaps written much earlier) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Western wind, when will you blow, bringing the drizzling rain? Christ, that my love were in my arms, and I in my bed again! NOTE: The original poem has "the smalle rayne down can rayne" which suggests a drizzle or mist, either of which would suggest a dismal day. Pity Mary (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Now the sun passes under the wood: I rue, Mary, thy face: fair, good. Now the sun passes under the tree: I rue, Mary, thy son and thee. In the poem above, note how "wood" and "tree" invoke the cross while "sun" and "son" seem to invoke each other. Sun-day is also Son-day, to Christians. The anonymous poet who wrote the poem above may have been been punning the words "sun" and "son." The poem is also known as "Now Goeth Sun Under Wood" and "Now Go'th Sun Under Wood." Fowles in the Frith (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The fowls in the forest, the fishes in the flood and I must go mad: such sorrow I've had for beasts of bone and blood! Sounds like an early animal rights activist! The use of "and" is intriguing... is the poet saying that his walks in the wood drive him mad because he is also a "beast of bone and blood, " facing a similar fate? I am of Ireland (anonymous Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I am of Ireland, and of the holy realm of Ireland. Gentlefolk, I pray thee: for the sake of saintly charity, come dance with me in Ireland! If I am Syrian, what of it? Stranger, we all dwell in one world, not its portals. The same original Chaos gave birth to all mortals. —Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Love, how can I call on you: does Desire dwell with the dead? Cupid, that bold boy, never bowed his head to wail. —Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Cupid, I swear, your quiver holds only empty air: for all your winged arrows, set free, are now lodged in me. —Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Cupid, if you incinerate my soul, touché! For she too has wings and can fly away! —Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Cupid, the cuddly baby safe in his mother's lap, chucking the dice one day, gambled my heart away. —Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I lie defeated. Set your foot on my neck. Checkmate. I recognize you by your weight; yes, and by the gods, you’re a load to bear. I am also well aware of your fiery darts. But if you seek to ignite human hearts, fuck off with your tinders; mine’s already in cinders. —Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When I see Theron everything’s revealed. When he’s gone all’s concealed. —Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When I see Theron everything’s defined; When he’s gone I’m blind. —Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When I see Theron my eyes bug out; When he’s gone even sight is in doubt. —Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Mother-Earth, to all men dear, Aesigenes was never a burden to you, so please rest lightly on him here. —Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Meleager dedicates this lamp to you, dear Cypris, as a plaything, since it has been initiated into the mysteries of your nocturnal ceremonies. —Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I know you lied, because these ringlets still dripping scented essences betray your wantonness. These also betray you— your eyes sagging with the lack of sleep, stray tendrils of your unchaste hair escaping its garlands, your limbs uncoordinated by the wine. Away, trollop, they summon you— the reveling lyre and the clattering castanets rattled by lewd fingers! —Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Moon and Stars, lighting the way for lovers, and Night, and you, my mournful Mandolin, my bosom companion ... when will we see her, the little wanton one, lying awake and moaning to her lamp? Or does she embrace some other companion? Then let me hang conciliatory garlands on her door, wilted by my tears, and let me inscribe thereupon these words: "For you, Cypris, the one to whom you revealed the mysteries of your revels, Meleager, offers these spoiled tokens of his love." —Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Silence! They must have carried her off! Who could be so barbaric, to act with such violence, to wage war against Love himself? Quick, prepare the torches! But wait! A footfall, Heliodora's! Get back in my bosom, heart! —Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Tears, the last gifts of my love, I send drenching down to you, Heliodora. Here on your puddling tomb I pour them out— soul-wrenching tears in memory of affliction and affection. Piteously, so piteously Meleager mourns you, you still so precious, so dear to him in death, paying vain tributes to Acheron. Alas! Alas! Where is my beautiful one, my heart's desire? Death has taken her from me, has robbed me of her, and the lustrous blossom lies trampled in dust. But Earth-Mother, nurturer of us all ... Mother, I beseech you, hold her gently to your bosom, the one we all bewail. —Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You ask me why I've sent you no new verses? There might be reverses. ―Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You ask me to recite my poems to you? I know how you'll "recite" them, if I do. ―Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch NOTE: The irascible Martial is suggesting that if he shares his poems, they will be plagiarized. You ask me why I choose to live elsewhere? You're not there. ―Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You ask me why I love the fresh country air? You're not befouling it there. ―Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You never wrote a poem, yet criticize mine? Stop abusing me or write something fine of your own! ―Martial, loose translation by Michael R. Burch He starts everything but finishes nothing; thus I suspect there's no end to his stuffing. ―Martial, loose translation by Michael R. Burch NOTE: Martial concluded his epigram with a variation of the f-word; please substitute it if you prefer it. You alone own prime land, dandy! Gold, money, the finest porcelain―you alone! The best wines of the most famous vintages―you alone! Discrimination and wit―you alone! You have it all―who can deny that you alone are set for life? But everyone has had your wife―she is never alone! ―Martial, loose translation by Michael R. Burch You dine in great magnificence while offering guests a pittance. Sextus, did you invite friends to dinner tonight to impress us with your enormous appetite? ―Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch To you, my departed parents, dear mother and father, I commend my little lost angel, Erotion, love’s daughter. She fell a mere six days short of outliving her sixth frigid winter. Protect her now, I pray, should the chilling dark shades appear; muzzle hell’s three-headed hound, less her heart be dismayed! Lead her to romp in some sunny Elysian glade, her devoted patrons. Watch her play childish games as she excitedly babbles and lisps my name. Let no hard turf smother her softening bones; and do rest lightly upon her, earth, she was surely no burden to you! ―Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Alien Nation by Michael R. Burch for a Christian poet who believes in “hell” On a lonely outpost on Mars the astronaut practices “speech” as alien to primates below as mute stars winking high, out of reach. And his words fall as bright and as chill as ice crystals on Kilimanjaro — far colder than Jesus’s words over the “fortunate” sparrow. And I understand how gentle Emily must have felt, when all comfort had flown, gazing into those inhuman eyes, feeling zero at the bone. Oh, how can I grok his arctic thought? For if he is human, I am not. Burn, Ovid by Michael R. Burch “Burn Ovid”—Austin Clarke Sunday School, Faith Free Will Baptist, 1973: I sat imaging watery folds of pale silk encircling her waist. Explicit sex was the day’s “hot” topic (how breathlessly I imagined hers) as she taught us the perils of lust fraught with inhibition. I found her unaccountably beautiful, rolling implausible nouns off the edge of her tongue: adultery, fornication, masturbation, sodomy. Acts made suddenly plausible by the faint blush of her unrouged cheeks, by her pale lips accented only by a slight quiver, a trepidation. What did those lustrous folds foretell of our uncommon desire? Why did she cross and uncross her legs lovely and long in their taupe sheaths? Why did her breasts rise pointedly, as if indicating a direction? “Come unto me, (unto me),” together, we sang, cheek to breast, lips on lips, devout, afire, my hands up her skirt, her pants at her knees: all night long, all night long, in the heavenly choir. This poem is set at Faith Christian Academy, which I attended for a year during the ninth grade, in 1972-1973. While the poem definitely had its genesis there, I believe I revised it more than once and didn't finish it till 2001, nearly 28 years later, according to my notes on the poem. Another poem, "Sex 101," was also written about my experiences at FCA that year. Sex 101 by Michael R. Burch That day the late spring heat steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus crawling its way up the backwards slopes of Nowheresville, North Carolina ... Where we sat exhausted from the day’s skulldrudgery and the unexpected waves of muggy, summer-like humidity ... Giggly first graders sat two abreast behind senior high students sprouting their first sparse beards, their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ... The most unlikely coupling— Lambert, 18, the only college prospect on the varsity basketball team, the proverbial talldarkhandsome swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ... Beside him, Wanda, 13, bespectacled, in her primproper attire and pigtails, staring up at him, fawneyed, disbelieving ... And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her, as she twitched impaled on his finger like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes, I knew ... that love is a forlorn enterprise, that I would never understand it. This companion poem to "Burn, Ovid" is also set at Faith Christian Academy, in 1972-1973. honeybee by michael r. burch love was a little treble thing— prone to sing and (sometimes) to sting honeydew by michael r. burch i sampled honeysuckle and it made my taste buds buckle! Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ by Michael R. Burch Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ the bees rise in a dizzy circle of two. Oh, when I’m with you, I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too. Huntress Michael R. Burch Lynx-eyed cat-like and cruel you creep across a crevice dropping deep into a dark and doomed domain Your claws are sheathed. You smile, insane Rain falls upon your path and pain pours down. Your paws are pierced. You pause and heed the oft-lamented laws which bid you not begin again till night returns. You wail like wind, the sighing of a soul for sin, and give up hunting for a heart. Till sunset falls again, depart, though hate and hunger urge you—"On!" Heed, hearts, your hope—the break of dawn. Ibykos Fragment 286 (III) loose translation by Michael R. Burch Come spring, the grand apple trees stand watered by a gushing river where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver and the blossoming grape vine swells in the gathering shadows. Unfortunately for me Eros never rests but like a Thracian tempest ablaze with lightning emanates from Aphrodite; the results are frightening— black, bleak, astonishing, violently jolting me from my soles to my soul. Originally published by The Chained Muse Ince St. Child by Michael R. Burch When she was a child in a dark forest of fear, imagination cast its strange light into secret places, scattering traces of illumination so bright, years later, she could still find them there, their light undefiled. When she was young, the shafted light of her dreams shone on her uplifted face as she prayed ... though she strayed into a night fallen like woven lace shrouding the forest of screams, her faith led her home. Now she is old and the light that was flame is a slow-dying ember ... what she felt then she would explain; she would if she could only remember that forest of shame, faith beaten like gold. This was an unusual poem, and it took me some time to figure out who the old woman was. She was a victim of childhood incest, hence the title I eventually came up with. Lullaby by Michael R. Burch for Jeremy Cherubic laugh; sly, impish grin; Angelic face; wild chimp within. It does not matter; sleep awhile As soft mirth tickles forth a smile. Gray moths will hum a lullaby Of feathery wings, then you and I Will wake together, by and by. Life’s not long; those days are best Spent snuggled to a loving breast. The earth will wait; a sun-filled sky Will bronze lean muscle, by and by. Soon you will sing, and I will sigh, But sleep here, now, for you and I Know nothing but this lullaby. Kin by Michael R. Burch O pale, austere moon, haughty beauty ... what do we know of love, or duty? Kindred by Michael R. Burch Rise, pale disastrous moon! What is love, but a heightened effect of time, light and distance? Did you burn once, before you became so remote, so detached, so coldly, inhumanly lustrous, before you were able to assume the very pallor of love itself? What is the dawn now, to you or to me? We are as one, out of favor with the sun. We would exhume the white corpse of love for a last dance, and yet we will not. We will let her be, let her abide, for she is nothing now, to you or to me. Reflections by Michael R. Burch I am her mirror. I say she is kind, lovely, breathtaking. She screams that I’m blind. I show her her beauty, her brilliance and compassion. She refuses to believe me, for that’s the latest fashion. She storms and she rages; she dissolves into tears while envious Angels are, by God, her only Peers. Excerpts from “Travels with Einstein” by Michael R. Burch for Trump I went to Berlin to learn wisdom from Adolph. The wild spittle flew as he screamed at me, with great conviction: “Please despise me! I look like a Jew!” So I flew off to ’Nam to learn wisdom from tall Yankees who cursed “yellow” foes. “If we lose this small square,” they informed me, earth’s nations will fall, dominoes!” I then sat at Christ’s feet to learn wisdom, but his Book, from its genesis to close, said: “Men can enslave their own brothers!” (I soon noticed he lacked any clothes.) So I traveled to bright Tel Aviv where great scholars with lofty IQs informed me that (since I’m an Arab) I’m unfit to lick dirt from their shoes. At last, done with learning, I stumbled to a well where the waters seemed sweet: the mirage of American “justice.” There I wept a real sea, in defeat. Originally published by Café Dissensus Remembrance by Michael R. Burch Remembrance like a river rises; the rain of recollection falls; frail memories, like vines, entangled, cling to Time's collapsing walls. The past is like a distant mist, the future like a far-off haze, the present half-distinct an hour before it blurs with unseen days. Resurrecting Passion by Michael R. Burch Last night, while dawn was far away and rain streaked gray, tumescent skies, as thunder boomed and lightning railed, I conjured words, where passion failed ... But, oh, that you were mine tonight, sprawled in this bed, held in these arms, your breasts pale baubles in my hands, our bodies bent to old demands ... Such passions we might resurrect, if only time and distance waned and brought us back together; now I pray that this might be, somehow. But time has left us twisted, torn, and we are more apart than miles. How have you come to be so far— as distant as an unseen star? So that, while dawn is far away, my thoughts might not return to you, I feed your portrait to the flames, but as they feast, I burn for you. Published in Songs of Innocence and The Chained Muse. Currents by Michael R. Burch How can I write and not be true to the rhythm that wells within? How can the ocean not be blue, not buck with the clapboard slap of tide, the clockwork shock of wave on rock, the motion creation stirs within? Originally published by The Lyric Righteous by Michael R. Burch Come to me tonight in the twilight, O, and the full moon rising, spectral and ancient, will mutter a prayer. Gather your hair and pin it up, knowing that I will release it a moment anon. We are not one, nor is there a scripture to sanctify nights you might spend in my arms, but the swarms of bright stars revolving above us revel tonight, the most ardent of lovers. Published by Writer’s Gazette, Tucumcari Literary Review and The Chained Muse R.I.P. by Michael R. Burch When I am lain to rest and my soul is no longer intact, but dissolving, like a sunset diminishing to the west ... and when at last before His throne my past is put to test and the demons and the Beast await to feast on any morsel downward cast, while the vapors of impermanence cling, smelling of damask ... then let me go, and do not weep if I am left to sleep, to sleep and never dream, or dream, perhaps, only a little longer and more deep. Originally published by Romantics Quarterly The Shape of Mourning by Michael R. Burch The shape of mourning is an oiled creel shining with unuse, the bolt of cold steel on a locker shielding memory, the monthly penance of flowers, the annual wake, the face in the photograph no longer dissolving under scrutiny, becoming a keepsake, the useless mower lying forgotten in weeds, rings and crosses and all the paraphernalia the soul no longer needs. Tillage by Michael R. Burch What stirs within me is no great welling straining to flood forth, but an emptiness waiting to be filled. I am not an orchard ready to be harvested, but a field rough and barren waiting to be tilled. For All That I Remembered by Michael R. Burch For all that I remembered, I forgot her name, her face, the reason that we loved ... and yet I hold her close within my thought. I feel the burnished weight of auburn hair that fell across her face, the apricot clean scent of her shampoo, the way she glowed so palely in the moonlight, angel-wan. The memory of her gathers like a flood and bears me to that night, that only night, when she and I were one, and if I could ... I'd reach to her this time and, smiling, brush the hair out of her eyes, and hold intact each feature, each impression. Love is such a threadbare sort of magic, it is gone before we recognize it. I would crush my lips to hers to hold their memory, if not more tightly, less elusively. Originally published by The Raintown Review Hearthside by Michael R. Burch “When you are old and grey and full of sleep...” ― W. B. Yeats For all that we professed of love, we knew this night would come, that we would bend alone to tend wan fires’ dimming bars―the moan of wind cruel as the Trumpet, gelid dew an eerie presence on encrusted logs we hoard like jewels, embrittled so ourselves. The books that line these close, familiar shelves loom down like dreary chaperones. Wild dogs, too old for mates, cringe furtive in the park, as, toothless now, I frame this parchment kiss. I do not know the words for easy bliss and so my shriveled fingers clutch this stark, long-unenamored pen and will it: Move. I loved you more than words, so let words prove. This sonnet is written from the perspective of the great Irish poet William Butler Yeats in his loose translation or interpretation of the Pierre de Ronsard sonnet “When You Are Old.” The aging Yeats thinks of his Muse and the love of his life, the fiery Irish revolutionary Maude Gonne. As he seeks to warm himself by a fire conjured from ice-encrusted logs, he imagines her doing the same. Although Yeats had insisted that he wasn’t happy without Gonne, she said otherwise: “Oh yes, you are, because you make beautiful poetry out of what you call your unhappiness and are happy in that. Marriage would be such a dull affair. Poets should never marry. The world should thank me for not marrying you!” I Know The Truth by Marina Tsvetaeva loose translation by Michael R. Burch I know the truth―abandon lesser truths! There's no need for anyone living to struggle! See? Evening falls, night quickly descends! So why the useless disputes―generals, poets, lovers? The wind is calming now; the earth is bathed in dew; the stars' infernos will soon freeze in the heavens. And soon we'll sleep together, under the earth, we who never gave each other a moment's rest above it. I Know The Truth (Alternate Ending) by Marina Tsvetaeva loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I know the truth―abandon lesser truths! There's no need for anyone living to struggle! See? Evening falls, night quickly descends! So why the useless disputes―generals, poets, lovers? The wind caresses the grasses; the earth gleams, damp with dew; the stars' infernos will soon freeze in the heavens. And soon we'll lie together under the earth, we who were never united above it. Poems about Moscow by Marina Tsvetaeva loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 5 Above the city Saint Peter once remanded to hell now rolls the delirious thunder of the bells. As the thundering high tide eventually reverses, so, too, the woman who once bore your curses. To you, O Great Peter, and you, O Great Tsar, I kneel! And yet the bells above me continually peal. And while they keep ringing out of the pure blue sky, Moscow's eminence is something I can't deny ... though sixteen hundred churches, nearby and afar, all gaily laugh at the hubris of the Tsars. 8 Moscow, what a vast uncouth hostel of a home! In Russia all are homeless so all to you must come. A knife stuck in each boot-top, each back with its shameful brand, we heard you from far away. You called us: here we stand. Because you branded us criminals for every known kind of ill, we seek the all-compassionate Saint, the haloed one who heals. And there behind that narrow door where the uncouth rabble pour, we seek the red-gold radiant heart of Iver, who loved the poor. Now, as "Halleluiah" floods bright fields that blaze to the west, O sacred Russian soil, I kneel here to kiss your breast! Insomnia by Marina Tsvetaeva loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 2 In my enormous city it is night as from my house I step beyond the light; some people think I'm daughter, mistress, wife ... but I am like the blackest thought of night. July's wind sweeps a way for me to stray toward soft music faintly blowing, somewhere. The wind may blow until bright dawn, new day, but will my heart in its rib-cage really care? Black poplars brushing windows filled with light ... strange leaves in hand ... faint music from distant towers ... retracing my steps, there's nobody lagging behind ... This shadow called me? There's nobody here to find. The lights are like golden beads on invisible threads ... the taste of dark night in my mouth is a bitter leaf ... O, free me from shackles of being myself by day! Friends, please understand: I'm only a dreamlike belief. Poems for Akhmatova by Marina Tsvetaeva loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 4 You outshine everything, even the sun at its zenith. The stars are yours! If only I could sweep like the wind through some unbarred door, gratefully, to where you are ... to hesitantly stammer, suddenly shy, lowering my eyes before you, my lovely mistress, petulant, chastened, overcome by tears, as a child sobs to receive forgiveness ... This gypsy passion of parting! by Marina Tsvetaeva loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This gypsy passion of parting! We meet, and are ready for flight! I rest my dazed head in my hands, and think, staring into the night ... that no one, perusing our letters, will ever understand the real depth of just how sacrilegious we were, which is to say we had faith, in ourselves. The Appointment by Marina Tsvetaeva loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I will be late for the appointed meeting. When I arrive, my hair will be gray, because I abused spring. And your expectations were much too high! I shall feel the effects of the bitter mercury for years. (Ophelia tasted, but didn't spit out, the rue.) I will trudge across mountains and deserts, trampling souls and hands without flinching, living on, as the earth continues with blood in every thicket and creek. But always Ophelia's pallid face will peer out from between the grasses bordering each stream. She took a swig of passion, only to fill her mouth with silt. Like a shaft of light on metal, I set my sights on you, highly. Much too high in the sky, where I have appointed my dust its burial. Rails by Marina Tsvetaeva loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The railway bed's steel-blue parallel tracks are ruled out, neatly as musical staves. Over them, people are transported like possessed Pushkin creatures whose song has been silenced. See them: arriving, departing? And yet they still linger, the note of their pain remaining ... always rising higher than love, as the poles freeze to the embankment, like Lot's wife transformed to salt, forever. Despair has arranged my fate as someone arranges a wedding; then, like a voiceless Sappho I must weep like a pain-wracked seamstress with the mute lament of a marsh heron! Then the departing train will hoot above the sleepers as its wheels slice them to ribbons. In my eye the colors blur to a glowing but meaningless red. All young women, at times, are tempted by such a bed! Every Poem is a Child of Love by Marina Tsvetaeva loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Every poem is a child of love, A destitute bastard chick A fledgling blown down from the heights above― Left of its nest? Not a stick. Each heart has its gulf and its bridge. Each heart has its blessings and griefs. Who is the father? A liege? Maybe a liege, or a thief. Villanelle: Hangovers by Michael R. Burch We forget that, before we were born, our parents had “lives” of their own, ran drunk in the streets, or half-stoned. Yes, our parents had lives of their own until we were born; then, undone, they were buying their parents gravestones and finding gray hairs of their own (because we were born lacking some of their curious habits, but soon would certainly get them). Half-stoned, we watched them dig graves of their own. Their lives would be over too soon for their curious habits to bloom in us (though our children were born nine months from that night on the town when, punch-drunk in the streets or half-stoned, we first proved we had lives of our own). Happily Never After (the Second Curse of the Horny Toad) by Michael R. Burch He did not think of love of Her at all frog-plangent nights, as moons engoldened roads through crumbling stonewalled provinces, where toads (nee princes) ruled in chinks and grew so small at last to be invisible. He smiled (the fables erred so curiously), and thought bemusedly of being reconciled to human flesh, because his heart was not incapable of love, but, being cursed a second time, could only love a toad’s . . . and listened as inflated frogs rehearsed cheekbulging tales of anguish from green moats . . . and thought of her soft croak, her skin fine-warted, his anemic flesh, and how true love was thwarted. Haunted by Michael R. Burch Now I am here and thoughts of my past mistakes are my brethren. I am withering and the sweetness of your memory is like a tear. Go, if you will, for the ache in my heart is its hollowness and the flaw in my soul is its shallowness; there is nothing to fill. Take what you can; I have nothing left. And when you are gone, I will be bereft, the husk of a man. Or stay here awhile. My heart cannot bear the night, or these dreams. Your face is a ghost, though paler, it seems when you smile. Published by Romantics Quarterly 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 when we were living with my grandfather in his house on Chilton Street, within walking distance of the Nashville fairgrounds. I remember walking to the fairgrounds, stopping at a Dairy Queen along the way, and swimming at a public pool. But I believe the Ferris wheel only operated during the state fair. So my “educated guess” is that this poem was written during the 1973 state fair, or shortly thereafter. I remember watching people hanging suspended in mid-air, waiting for carnies to deposit them safely on terra firma again. Her Preference by Michael R. Burch Not for her the pale incandescence of dreams, the warm glow of imagination, the hushed whispers of possibility, or frail, blossoming hope. No, she prefers the anguish and screams of bitter condemnation, the hissing of hostility, damnation's rope. 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. 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." Nevermore! by Michael R. Burch Nevermore! O, nevermore shall the haunts of the sea― the swollen tide pools and the dark, deserted shore― mark her passing again. And the salivating sea shall never kiss her lips nor caress her breasts and hips as she dreamt it did before, once, lost within the uproar. The waves will never rape her, nor take her at their leisure; the sea gulls shall not have her, nor could she give them pleasure ... She sleeps forevermore. She sleeps forevermore, a virgin save to me and her other lover, who lurks now, safely covered by the restless, surging sea. And, yes, they sleep together, but never in that way! For the sea has stripped and shorn the one I once adored, and washed her flesh away. He does not stroke her honey hair, for she is bald, bald to the bone! And how it fills my heart with glee to hear them sometimes cursing me out of the depths of the demon sea ... their skeletal love―impossibility! This is one of my Poe-like creations, written around age 19. I think the poem has an interesting ending, since the male skeleton is missing an important "member." Mehmet Akif Ersoy: Modern English Translations of Turkish Poems Mehmet Âkif Ersoy (1873-1936) was a Turkish poet, author, writer, academic, member of parliament, and the composer of the Turkish National Anthem. Snapshot by Mehmet Akif Ersoy loose English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Earth’s least trace of life cannot be erased; even when you lie underground, it encompasses you. So, those of you who anticipate the shadows, how long will the darkness remember you? Zulmü Alkislayamam "I Can’t Applaud Tyranny" by Mehmet Akif Ersoy loose English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I can't condone cruelty; I will never applaud the oppressor; Yet I can't renounce the past for the sake of deluded newcomers. When someone curses my ancestors, I want to strangle them, Even if you don’t. But while I harbor my elders, I refuse to praise their injustices. Above all, I will never glorify evil, by calling injustice “justice.” From the day of my birth, I've loved freedom; The golden tulip never deceived me. If I am nonviolent, does that make me a docile sheep? The blade may slice, but my neck resists! When I see someone else's wound, I suffer a great hardship; To end it, I'll be whipped, I'll be beaten. I can't say, “Never mind, just forget it!” I'll mind, I'll crush, I'll be crushed, I'll uphold justice. I'm the foe of the oppressor, the friend of the oppressed. What the hell do you mean, with your backwardness? Çanakkale Sehitlerine "For the Çanakkale Martyrs" by Mehmet Akif Ersoy loose English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Was there ever anything like the Bosphorus war?― The earth’s mightiest armies pressing Marmara, Forcing entry between her mountain passes To a triangle of land besieged by countless vessels. Oh, what dishonorable assemblages! Who are these Europeans, come as rapists? Who, these braying hyenas, released from their reeking cages? Why do the Old World, the New World, and all the nations of men now storm her beaches? Is it Armageddon? Truly, the whole world rages! Seven nations marching in unison! Australia goose-stepping with Canada! Different faces, languages, skin tones! Everything so different, but the mindless bludgeons! Some warriors Hindu, some African, some nameless, unknown! This disgraceful invasion, baser than the Black Death! Ah, the 20th century, so noble in its own estimation, But all its favored ones nothing but a parade of worthless wretches! For months now Turkish soldiers have been vomited up Like stomachs’ retched contents regarded with shame. If the masks had not been torn away, the faces would still be admired, But the whore called civilization is far from blameless. Now the damned demand the destruction of the doomed And thus bring destruction down on their own heads. Lightning severs horizons! Earthquakes regurgitate the bodies of the dead! Bombs’ thunderbolts explode brains, rupture the breasts of brave soldiers. Underground tunnels writhe like hell Full of the bodies of burn victims. The sky rains down death, the earth swallows the living. A terrible blizzard heaves men violently into the air. Heads, eyes, torsos, legs, arms, chins, fingers, hands, feet... Body parts rain down everywhere. Coward hands encased in armor callously scatter Floods of thunderbolts, torrents of fire. Men’s chests gape open, Beneath the high, circling vulture-like packs of the air. Cannonballs fly as frequently as bullets Yet the heroic army laughs at the hail. Who needs steel fortresses? Who fears the enemy? How can the shield of faith not prevail? What power can make religious men bow down to their oppressors When their stronghold is established by God? The mountains and the rocks are the bodies of martyrs!... For the sake of a crescent, oh God, many suns set, undone! Dear soldier, who fell for the sake of this land, How great you are, your blood saves the Muslims! Only the lions of Bedr rival your glory! Who then can dig the grave wide enough to hold you. and your story? If we try to consign you to history, you will not fit! No book can contain the eras you shook! Only eternities can encompass you!... Oh martyr, son of the martyr, do not ask me about the grave: The prophet awaits you now, his arms flung wide open, to save! W. S. Rendra translations Willibrordus Surendra Broto Rendra (1935-2009), better known as W. S. Rendra or simply Rendra, was an Indonesian dramatist and poet. He said, “I learned meditation and the disciplines of the traditional Javanese poet from my mother, who was a palace dancer. The idea of the Javanese poet is to be a guardian of the spirit of the nation.” The press gave him the nickname Burung Merak (“The Peacock”) for his flamboyant poetry readings and stage performances. SONNET by W. S. Rendra loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Best wishes for an impending deflowering. Yes, I understand: you will never be mine. I am resigned to my undeserved fate. I contemplate irrational numbers―complex & undefined. And yet I wish love might ... ameliorate ... such negative numbers, dark and unsigned. But at least I can’t be held responsible for disappointing you. No cause to elate. Still, I am resigned to my undeserved fate. The gods have spoken. I can relate. How can this be, when all it makes no sense? I was born too soon―such was my fate. You must choose another, not half of who I AM. Be happy with him when you consummate. THE WORLD'S FIRST FACE by W. S. Rendra loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Illuminated by the pale moonlight the groom carries his bride up the hill― both of them naked, both consisting of nothing but themselves. As in all beginnings the world is naked, empty, free of deception, dark with unspoken explanations― a silence that extends to the limits of time. Then comes light, life, the animals and man. As in all beginnings everything is naked, empty, open. They're both young, yet both have already come a long way, passing through the illusions of brilliant dawns, of skies illuminated by hope, of rivers intimating contentment. They have experienced the sun's warmth, drenched in each other's sweat. Here, standing by barren reefs, they watch evening fall bringing strange dreams to a bed arrayed with resplendent coral necklaces. They lift their heads to view trillions of stars arrayed in the sky. The universe is their inheritance: stars upon stars upon stars, more than could ever be extinguished. Illuminated by the pale moonlight the groom carries his bride up the hill― both of them naked, to recreate the world's first face. Keywords/Tags: Rendra, Indonesian, Javanese, translation, love, fate, god, gods, goddess, groom, bride, world, time, life, sun, hill, hills, moon, moonlight, stars, life, animals?, international, travel, voyage, wedding, relationship, mrbtran Shadows by Michael R. Burch Alone again as evening falls, I join gaunt shadows and we crawl up and down my room's dark walls. Up and down and up and down, against starlight―strange, mirthless clowns― we merge, emerge, submerge . . . then drown. We drown in shadows starker still, shadows of the somber hills, shadows of sad selves we spill, tumbling, to the ground below. There, caked in grimy, clinging snow, we flutter feebly, moaning low for days dreamed once an age ago when we weren't shadows, but were men . . . when we were men, or almost so. Recursion by Michael R. Burch In a dream I saw boys lying under banners gaily flying and I heard their mothers sighing from some dark distant shore. For I saw their sons essaying into fields—gleeful, braying— their bright armaments displaying; such manly oaths they swore! From their playfields, boys returning full of honor’s white-hot burning and desire’s restless yearning sired new kids for the corps. In a dream I saw boys dying under banners gaily lying and I heard their mothers crying from some dark distant shore. THE RUIN an Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch well-hewn was this wall-stone, till Wyrdes wrecked it and the Colossus sagged inward ... broad battlements broken; the Builders' work battered; the high ramparts toppled; tall towers collapsed; the great roof-beams shattered; gates groaning, agape ... mortar mottled and marred by scarring hoar-frosts ... the Giants’ dauntless strongholds decaying with age ... shattered, the shieldwalls, the turrets in tatters ... where now are those mighty Masons, those Wielders and Wrights, those Samson-like Stonesmiths? the grasp of the earth, the firm grip of the ground holds fast those fearless Fathers men might have forgotten except that this slow-rotting siege-wall still stands after countless generations! for always this edifice, grey-lichened, blood-stained, stands facing fierce storms with their wild-whipping winds because those master Builders bound its wall-base together so cunningly with iron! it outlasted mighty kings and their claims! how high rose those regal rooftops! how kingly their castle-keeps! how homely their homesteads! how boisterous their bath-houses and their merry mead-halls! how heavenward flew their high-flung pinnacles! how tremendous the tumult of those famous War-Wagers ... till mighty Fate overturned it all, and with it, them. then the wide walls fell; then the bulwarks were broken; then the dark days of disease descended ... as death swept the battlements of brave Brawlers; as their palaces became waste places; as ruin rained down on their grand Acropolis; as their great cities and castles collapsed while those who might have rebuilt them lay gelded in the ground: those marvelous Men, those mighty master Builders! therefore these once-decorous courts court decay; therefore these once-lofty gates gape open; therefore these roofs' curved arches lie stripped of their shingles; therefore these streets have sunk into ruin and corroded rubble ... when in times past light-hearted Titans flushed with wine strode strutting in gleaming armor, adorned with splendid ladies’ favors, through this brilliant city of the audacious famous Builders to compete for bright treasure: gold, silver, amber, gemstones. here the cobblestoned courts clattered; here the streams gushed forth their abundant waters; here the baths steamed, hot at their fiery hearts; here this wondrous wall embraced it all, with its broad bosom. ... that was spacious ... Victor Hugo "Love Stronger Than Time" loose translation/interpretation by Michael Burch Since I first set my lips to your full cup, Since my pallid face first nested in your hands, Since I sensed your soul and every bloom lit up— Till those rare perfumes were lost to deepening sands; Since I was once allowed those pleasures deep— To hear your heart speak mysteries, divine; Since I have seen you smile, have watched you weep, Your lips pressed to my lips, your eyes on mine; Since I have sensed above my thoughts the gleam Of a ray, a single ray, of your bright star (If sometimes veiled), and felt light falling stream, Like one rose petal plucked from high, afar; I now can say to time's swift-changing hours: Pass, pass upon your way, for you grow old; Flee to the dark abyss with your drear flowers, but one unmarred within my heart I hold. Your flapping wings may jar but cannot spill The cup fulfilled of love, from which I drink; My heart has fires your frosts can never chill, My soul more love to fly than you can sink. We Came Together by Michael R. Burch We came together – people of two lands so unalike, at first, we hardly knew how to be friends. We went to war, and drew lines in the sand. And yet the sky was blue for everyone, and big enough to share. We came together, and our friendships grew. We had to learn to share the selfsame air, to find the path to harmony, to find some common ground and let peace bloom. We came together and we gave hope room to blossom in our hearts. We learned to be together in our common destiny. We come together – people of many lands so unalike, at first, and now we know how to be friends. Lines for My Ascension by Michael R. Burch I. If I should die, there will come a Doom, and the sky will darken to the deepest Gloom. But if my body should not be found, never think of me in the cold ground. II. If I should die, let no mortal say, “Here was a man, with feet of clay, or a timid sparrow God’s hand let fall.” But watch the sky darken to an eerie pall and know that my Spirit, unvanquished, broods, and cares naught for graves, prayers, coffins, or roods. And if my body should not be found, never think of me in the cold ground. III. If I should die, let no man adore his incompetent Maker: Zeus, Jehovah, or Thor. Think of Me as One who never died― the unvanquished Immortal with the unriven side. And if my body should not be found, never think of me in the cold ground. IV. And if I should “die,” though the clouds grow dark as fierce lightnings rend this bleak asteroid, stark ... If you look above, you will see a bright Sign― the sun with the moon in its arms, Divine. So divine, if you can, my bright meaning, and know― my Spirit is mine. I will go where I go. And if my body should not be found, never think of me in the cold ground. The Quickening by Michael R. Burch for Beth I never meant to love you when I held you in my arms promising you sagely wise, noncommittal charms. And I never meant to need you when I touched your tender lips with kisses that intrigued my own— such kisses I had never known, nor a heartbeat in my fingertips! ITALIAN POETRY TRANSLATIONS These are my modern English translations of the Roman, Latin and Italian poets Anonymous, Marcus Aurelius, Catullus, Guido Cavalcanti, Cicero, Dante Alighieri, Veronica Franco, Guido Guinizelli, Hadrian, Primo Levi, Martial, Michelangelo, Seneca, Seneca the Younger and Leonardo da Vinci. I also have translations of Latin poems by the English poets Aldhelm, Thomas Campion and Saint Godric of Finchale. Wall, I'm astonished that you haven't collapsed, since you're holding up verses so prolapsed! —Ancient Roman graffiti, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch My objective is not to side with the majority, but to avoid the ranks of the insane.—Marcus Aurelius, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Little sparks ignite great Infernos.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation Michael R. Burch MARTIAL I must admit I'm partial to Martial. —Michael R. Burch You ask me why I've sent you no new verses? There might be reverses. —Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You ask me to recite my poems to you? I know how you'll 'recite' them, if I do. —Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You ask me why I choose to live elsewhere? You're not there. —Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You ask me why I love fresh country air? You're not befouling it there. —Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You never wrote a poem, yet criticize mine? Stop abusing me or write something fine of your own! —Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch He starts everything but finishes nothing; thus I suspect there's no end to his fucking. —Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You dine in great magnificence while offering guests a pittance. Sextus, did you invite friends to dinner tonight to impress us with your enormous appetite? —Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You alone own prime land, dandy! Gold, money, the finest porcelain—you alone! The best wines of the most famous vintages—you alone! Discrimination, taste and wit—you alone! You have it all—who can deny that you alone are set for life? But everyone has had your wife— she is never alone! —Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch To you, my departed parents, dear mother and father, I commend my little lost angel, Erotion, love's daughter, who died six days short of completing her sixth frigid winter. Protect her now, I pray, should the chilling dark shades appear; muzzle hell's three-headed hound, less her heart be dismayed! Lead her to romp in some sunny Elysian glade, her devoted patrons. Watch her play childish games as she excitedly babbles and lisps my name. Let no hard turf smother her softening bones; and do rest lightly upon her, earth, she was surely no burden to you! —Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch To you, my departed parents, with much emotion, I commend my little lost darling, my much-kissed Erotion, who died six days short of completing her sixth bitter winter. Protect her, I pray, from hell's hound and its dark shades a-flitter; and please don't let fiends leave her maiden heart dismayed! But lead her to romp in some sunny Elysian glade with her cherished friends, excitedly lisping my name. Let no hard turf smother her softening bones; and do rest lightly upon her, earth, she was such a slight burden to you! —Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch CATULLUS Catullus LXXXV: 'Odi et Amo' loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 1. I hate. I love. You ask, 'Why not refrain?' I wish I could explain. I can't, but feel the pain. 2. I hate. I love. Why? Heavens above! I wish I could explain. I can't, but feel the pain. 3. I hate. I love. How can that be, turtledove? I wish I could explain. I can't, but feel the pain. Catullus CVI: 'That Boy' loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch See that young boy, by the auctioneer? He's so pretty he sells himself, I fear! Catullus LI: 'That Man' This is Catullus's translation of a poem by Sappho of Lesbos loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I'd call that man the equal of the gods, or, could it be forgiven in heaven, their superior, because to him space is given to bask in your divine presence, to gaze upon you, smile, and listen to your ambrosial laughter which leaves men senseless here and hereafter. Meanwhile, in my misery, I'm left speechless. Lesbia, there's nothing left of me but a voiceless tongue grown thick in my mouth and a thin flame running south... My limbs tingle, my ears ring, my eyes water till they swim in darkness. Call it leisure, Catullus, or call it idleness, whatever it is that incapacitates you. By any other name it's the nemesis fallen kings, empires and cities rue. Catullus 1 ('cui dono lepidum novum libellum') loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch To whom do I dedicate this novel book polished drily with a pumice stone? To you, Cornelius, for you would look content, as if my scribblings took the cake, when in truth you alone unfolded Italian history in three scrolls, as learned as Jupiter in your labors. Therefore, this little book is yours, whatever it is, which, O patron Maiden, I pray will last more than my lifetime! Catullus XLIX: 'A Toast to Cicero' loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Cicero, please confess: You're drunk on your success! All men of good taste attest That you're the very best— At making speeches, first class! While I'm the dregs of the glass. Catullus CI: 'His Brother's Burial' loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 1. Through many lands and over many seas I have journeyed, brother, to these wretched rites, to this final acclamation of the dead... and to speak — however ineffectually — to your voiceless ashes now that Fate has wrested you away from me. Alas, my dear brother, wrenched from my arms so cruelly, accept these last offerings, these small tributes blessed by our fathers' traditions, these small gifts for the dead. Please accept, by custom, these tokens drenched with a brother's tears, and, for all eternity, brother, 'Hail and Farewell.' 2. Through many lands and over many seas I have journeyed, brother, to these wretched rites, to this final acclamation of the dead... and to speak — however ineffectually — to your voiceless ashes now that Fate has wrested you away from me. Alas, my dear brother, wrenched from my arms so cruelly, accept these small tributes, these last gifts, offered in the time-honored manner of our fathers, these final votives. Please accept, by custom, these tokens drenched with a brother's tears, and, for all eternity, brother, 'Hail and Farewell.' [Here 'offered in the time-honored manner of our fathers' is from another translation by an unknown translator.] [What do the gods know, with their superior airs, wiser than a mother's tears for her lost child? If they had hearts, surely they would be beguiled, repeal the sentence of death! Since they have none, or only hearts of stone, believers, save your breath. —Michael R. Burch, after Catullus] Catullus LXV aka Carmina 65 loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Hortalus, I’m exhausted by relentless grief, and have thus abandoned the learned virgins; nor can my mind, so consumed by malaise, partake of the Muses' mete fruit; for lately the Lethaean flood laves my brother's death-pale foot with its dark waves, where, beyond mortal sight, ghostly Ilium disgorges souls beneath the Rhoetean shore. Never again will I hear you speak, O my brother, more loved than life, never see you again, unless I behold you hereafter. But surely I'll always love you, always sing griefstricken dirges for your demise, such as Procne sings under the dense branches’ shadows, lamenting the lot of slain Itys. Yet even amidst such unfathomable sorrows, O Hortalus, I nevertheless send you these, my recastings of Callimachus, lest you conclude your entrusted words slipped my mind, winging off on wayward winds, as a suitor’s forgotten apple hidden in the folds of her dress escapes a virgin's chaste lap; for when she starts at her mother's arrival, it pops out, then downward it rolls, headlong to the ground, as a guilty blush flushes her downcast face. Catullus IIA: 'Lesbia's Sparrow' loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Sparrow, my sweetheart's pet, with whom she plays cradled to her breast, or in her lap, giving you her fingertip to peck, provoking you to nip its nib... Whenever she's flushed with pleasure my gorgeous darling plays such dear little games: to relieve her longings, I suspect, until her ardour abates. Oh, if only I could play with you as gaily, and alleviate my own longings! Catullus V: 'Let us live, Lesbia, let us love' loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Let us live, Lesbia, let us love, and let the judgments of ancient moralists count less than a farthing to us! Suns may set then rise again, but when our brief light sets, we will sleep through perpetual night. Give me a thousand kisses, a hundred more, another thousand, then a second hundred, yet another thousand, then a third hundred... Then, once we've tallied the many thousands, let's jumble the ledger, so that even we (and certainly no malicious, evil-eyed enemy) will ever know there were so many kisses! Catullus VII: 'How Many Kisses' loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You ask, Lesbia, how many kisses are enough, or more than enough, to satisfy me? As many as the Libyan sands swirling in incense-bearing Cyrene between the torrid oracle of Jove and the sacred tomb of Battiades. Or as many as the stars observing amorous men making love furtively on a moonless night. As many of your kisses are enough, and more than enough, for mad Catullus, as long as there are too many to be counted by inquisitors and by malicious-tongued bewitchers. Catullus VIII: 'Advice to Himself' loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Snap out of it Catullus, stop this foolishness! It's time to cut losses! What is dead is gone, accept it. Once brilliant suns shone on you both, when you trotted about wherever she led, and loved her as never another before. That was a time of such happiness, when your desire intersected her will. But now she doesn't want you any more. Be resolute, weak as you are, stop chasing mirages! What you need is not love, but a clean break. Goodbye girl, now Catullus stands firm. Never again Lesbia! Catullus is clear: He won't miss you. Won't crave you. Catullus is cold. Now it's you who will grieve, when nobody calls. It's you who will weep that you're ruined. Who'll submit to you now? Admire your beauty? Whom will you love? Whose girl will you be? Who will you kiss? Whose lips will you bite? But you, Catullus, you must break with the past, hold fast. Catullus LX: 'Lioness' loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Did an African mountain lioness or a howling Scylla beget you from the nether region of her loins, my harsh goddess? Are you so pitiless you would hold in contempt this supplicant voicing his inconsolable despair? Are you really that cruel-hearted? Catullus LXX: 'Marriage Vows' loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch My sweetheart says she'd marry no one else but me, not even Jupiter, if he were to ask her! But what a girl says to her eager lover ought to be written on the wind or in running water. CICERO The famous Roman orator Cicero employed 'tail rhyme' in this pun: O Fortunatam natam me consule Romam. O fortunate natal Rome, to be hatched by me! —Cicero, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch MICHELANGELO Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564) is considered by many experts to be the greatest artist and sculptor of all time. He was also a great poet. Michelangelo Epigram Translations loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch I saw the angel in the marble and freed him. I hewed away the coarse walls imprisoning the lovely apparition. Each stone contains a statue; it is the sculptor's task to release it. The danger is not aiming too high and missing, but aiming too low and hitting the mark. Our greatness is only bounded by our horizons. Be at peace, for God did not create us to abandon us. God grant that I always desire more than my capabilities. My soul's staircase to heaven is earth's loveliness. I live and love by God's peculiar light. Trifles create perfection, yet perfection is no trifle. Genius is infinitely patient, and infinitely painstaking. I have never found salvation in nature; rather I love cities. He who follows will never surpass. Beauty is what lies beneath superfluities. I criticize via creation, not by fault-finding. If you knew how hard I worked, you wouldn't call it 'genius.' SONNET: RAVISHED by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Ravished, by all our eyes find fine and fair, yet starved for virtues pure hearts might confess, my soul can find no Jacobean stair that leads to heaven, save earth's loveliness. The stars above emit such rapturous light our longing hearts ascend on beams of Love and seek, indeed, Love at its utmost height. But where on earth does Love suffice to move a gentle heart, or ever leave it wise, save for beauty itself and the starlight in her eyes? SONNET: TO LUIGI DEL RICCIO, AFTER THE DEATH OF CECCHINO BRACCI by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A pena prima. I had barely seen the beauty of his eyes Which unto yours were life itself, and light, When he closed them fast in death's eternal night To reopen them on God, in Paradise. In my tardiness, I wept, too late made wise, Yet the fault not mine: for death's disgusting ploy Had robbed me of that deep, unfathomable joy Which in your loving memory never dies. Therefore, Luigi, since the task is mine To make our unique friend smile on, in stone, Forever brightening what dark earth would dim, And because the Beloved causes love to shine, And since the artist cannot work alone, I must carve you, to tell the world of him! BEAUTY AND THE ARTIST by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Al cor di zolfo. A heart aflame; alas, the flesh not so; Bones brittle wood; the soul without a guide To curb the will's inferno; the crude pride Of restless passions' pulsing surge and flow; A witless mind that - halt, lame, weak - must go Blind through entrapments scattered far and wide; ... Why wonder then, when one small spark applied To such an assemblage, renders it aglow? Add beauteous Art, which, Heaven-Promethean, Must exceed nature - so divine a power Belongs to those who strive with every nerve. Created for such Art, from childhood given As prey for her Infernos to devour, I blame the Mistress I was born to serve. SONNET XVI: LOVE AND ART by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Sì come nella penna. Just as with pen and ink, there is a high, a low, and an in-between style; and, as marble yields its images pure and vile to excite the fancies artificers might think; even so, my lord, lodged deep within your heart are mingled pride and mild humility; but I draw only what I truly see when I trust my eyes and otherwise stand apart. Whoever sows the seeds of tears and sighs (bright dews that fall from heaven, crystal-clear) in various pools collects antiquities and so must reap old griefs through misty eyes; while the one who dwells on beauty, so painful here, finds ephemeral hopes and certain miseries. SONNET XXXI: LOVE'S LORDSHIP, TO TOMMASO DE' CAVALIERI by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A che più debb' io. Am I to confess my heart's desire with copious tears and windy words of grief, when a merciless heaven offers no relief to souls consumed by fire? Why should my aching heart aspire to life, when all must die? Beyond belief would be a death delectable and brief, since in my compound woes all joys expire! Therefore, because I cannot dodge the blow, I rather seek whoever rules my breast, to glide between her gladness and my woe. If only chains and bonds can make me blessed, no marvel if alone and bare I go to face the foe: her captive slave oppressed. LEONARDO DA VINCI Once we have flown, we will forever walk the earth with our eyes turned heavenward, for there we were and will always long to return.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The great achievers rarely relaxed and let things happen to them. They set out and kick-started whatever happened.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Nothing enables authority like silence.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch The greatest deceptions spring from men's own opinions.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch There are three classes of people: Those who see by themselves. Those who see only when they are shown. Those who refuse to see.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Blinding ignorance misleads us. Myopic mortals, open your eyes! —Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch It is easier to oppose evil from the beginning than at the end.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch Small minds continue to shrink, but those whose hearts are firm and whose consciences endorse their conduct, will persevere until death.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I am impressed with the urgency of doing. Knowledge is not enough; we must apply ourselves. Wanting and being willing are insufficient; we must act.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Time is sufficient for anyone who uses it wisely.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Where the spirit does not aid and abet the hand there is no art.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Necessity is the mistress of mother nature's inventions.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Nature has no effect without cause, no invention without necessity.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Did Leonardo da Vinci anticipate Darwin with his comments about Nature and necessity being the mistress of her inventions? Yes, and his studies of comparative anatomy, including the intestines, led da Vinci to say explicitly that 'apes, monkeys and the like' are not merely related to humans but are 'almost of the same species.' He was, indeed, a man ahead of his time, by at least 350 years. Excerpts from 'Paragone of Poetry and Painting' and Other Writings by Leonardo da Vinci, circa 1500 loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Sculpture requires light, received from above, while a painting contains its own light and shade. Painting is the more beautiful, the more imaginative, the more copious, while sculpture is merely the more durable. Painting encompasses infinite possibilities which sculpture cannot command. But you, O Painter, unless you can make your figures move, are like an orator who can't bring his words to life! While as soon as the Poet abandons nature, he ceases to resemble the Painter; for if the Poet abandons the natural figure for flowery and flattering speech, he becomes an orator and is thus neither Poet nor Painter. Painting is poetry seen but not heard, while poetry is painting heard but not seen. And if the Poet calls painting dumb poetry, the Painter may call poetry blind painting. Yet poor is the pupil who fails to surpass his master! Shun those studies in which the work dies with the worker. Because I find no subject especially useful or pleasing and because those who preceded me appropriated every useful theme, I will be like the beggar who comes late to the fair, who must content himself with other buyers' rejects. Thus, I will load my humble cart full of despised and rejected merchandise, the refuse of so many other buyers, and I will go about distributing it, not in the great cities, but in the poorer towns, selling at discounts whatever the wares I offer may be worth. And what can I do when a woman plucks my heart? Alas, how she plays me, and yet I must persist! The Point by Leonardo da Vinci loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Here forms, colors, the character of the entire universe, contract to a point, and that point is miraculous, marvelous … O marvelous, O miraculous, O stupendous Necessity! By your elegant laws you compel every effect to be the direct result of its cause, by the shortest path possible. Such are your miracles! VERONICA FRANCO Veronica Franco (1546-1591) was a Venetian courtesan who wrote literary-quality poetry and prose. A Courtesan's Love Lyric (I) by Veronica Franco loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch My rewards will be commensurate with your gifts if only you give me the one that lifts me laughing... And though it costs you nothing, still it is of immense value to me. Your reward will be not just to fly but to soar, so high that your joys vastly exceed your desires. And my beauty, to which your heart aspires and which you never tire of praising, I will employ for the raising of your spirits. Then, lying sweetly at your side, I will shower you with all the delights of a bride, which I have more expertly learned. Then you who so fervently burned will at last rest, fully content, fallen even more deeply in love, spent at my comfortable bosom. When I am in bed with a man I blossom, becoming completely free with the man who loves and enjoys me. Here is a second version of the same poem... I Resolved to Make a Virtue of My Desire (II) by Veronica Franco loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch My rewards will match your gifts If you give me the one that lifts Me, laughing. If it comes free, Still, it is of immense value to me. Your reward will be—not just to fly, But to soar—so incredibly high That your joys eclipse your desires (As my beauty, to which your heart aspires And which you never tire of praising, I employ for your spirit's raising) . Afterwards, lying docile at your side, I will grant you all the delights of a bride, Which I have more expertly learned. Then you, who so fervently burned, Will at last rest, fully content, Fallen even more deeply in love, spent At my comfortable bosom. When I am in bed with a man I blossom, Becoming completely free With the man who freely enjoys me. Capitolo 24 by Veronica Franco loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch (written by Franco to a man who had insulted a woman) Please try to see with sensible eyes how grotesque it is for you to insult and abuse women! Our unfortunate sex is always subject to such unjust treatment, because we are dominated, denied true freedom! And certainly we are not at fault because, while not as robust as men, we have equal hearts, minds and intellects. Nor does virtue originate in power, but in the vigor of the heart, mind and soul: the sources of understanding; and I am certain that in these regards women lack nothing, but, rather, have demonstrated superiority to men. If you think us 'inferior' to yourself, perhaps it's because, being wise, we outdo you in modesty. And if you want to know the truth, the wisest person is the most patient; she squares herself with reason and with virtue; while the madman thunders insolence. The stone the wise man withdraws from the well was flung there by a fool... When I bed a man who—I sense—truly loves and enjoys me, I become so sweet and so delicious that the pleasure I bring him surpasses all delight, till the tight knot of love, however slight it may have seemed before, is raveled to the core. —Veronica Franco, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch We danced a youthful jig through that fair city— Venice, our paradise, so pompous and pretty. We lived for love, for primal lust and beauty; to please ourselves became our only duty. Floating there in a fog between heaven and earth, We grew drunk on excesses and wild mirth. We thought ourselves immortal poets then, Our glory endorsed by God's illustrious pen. But paradise, we learned, is fraught with error, and sooner or later love succumbs to terror. —Veronica Franco, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I wish it were not a sin to have liked it so. Women have not yet realized the cowardice that resides, for if they should decide to do so, they would be able to fight you until death; and to prove that I speak the truth, amongst so many women, I will be the first to act, setting an example for them to follow. —Veronica Franco, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch ANONYMOUS The poem below is based on my teenage misinterpretation of a Latin prayer... Elegy for a little girl, lost by Michael R. Burch for my mother, Christine Ena Burch, who was always a little girl at heart ... qui laetificat juventutem meam... She was the joy of my youth, and now she is gone. ... requiescat in pace... May she rest in peace. ... amen... Amen I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem, which I started in high school and revised as an adult. From what I now understand, 'ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam' means 'to the God who gives joy to my youth, ' but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Latin Vulgate Bible (circa 385 AD) . I can't remember exactly when I read the novel or wrote the poem, but I believe it was around my junior year of high school, age 17 or thereabouts. This was my first translation. I revised the poem slightly in 2001 after realizing I had 'misremembered' one of the words in the Latin prayer. The Latin hymn 'Dies Irae' employs end rhyme: Dies irae, dies illa Solvet saeclum in favilla Teste David cum Sybilla The day of wrath, that day which will leave the world ash-gray, was foretold by David and the Sybil fey. —attributed to Thomas of Celano, St. Gregory the Great, St. Bernard of Clairvaux, and St. Bonaventure; loose translation by Michael R. Burch HADRIAN Hadrian's Elegy loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 1. Little soul, little tramp, little vagabond ... where are we fluttering off to, so bedraggled, pale and woebegone, who used to be so full of mirth? Where are we going—from bad to worse? Who’ll laugh last? Was the joke on us? 2. My delicate soul, now aimlessly fluttering... drifting... unwhole, former consort of my failing corpse... Where are we going—from bad to worse? From jail to hearse? Where do we wander now—fraught, pale and frail? To hell? To some place devoid of jests, mirth, happiness? Is the joke on us? THOMAS CAMPION NOVELTIES by Thomas Campion loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Booksellers laud authors for novel editions as p-mps praise their wh-res for exotic positions. PRIMO LEVI These are my translations of poems by the Italian Jewish Holocaust survivor Primo Levi. Shema by Primo Levi loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You who live secure in your comfortable houses, who return each evening to find warm food, welcoming faces... consider whether this is a man: who toils in the mud, who knows no peace, who fights for crusts of bread, who dies at another man's whim, at his 'yes' or his 'no.' Consider whether this is a woman: bereft of hair, of a recognizable name because she lacks the strength to remember, her eyes as void and her womb as frigid as a frog's in winter. Consider that such horrors have been: I commend these words to you. Engrave them in your hearts when you lounge in your house, when you walk outside, when you go to bed, when you rise. Repeat them to your children, or may your house crumble and disease render you helpless so that even your offspring avert their faces from you. Buna by Primo Levi loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Wasted feet, cursed earth, the interminable gray morning as Buna smokes corpses through industrious chimneys. A day like every other day awaits us. The terrible whistle shrilly announces dawn: 'You, O pale multitudes with your sad, lifeless faces, welcome the monotonous horror of the mud... another day of suffering has begun.' Weary companion, I see you by heart. I empathize with your dead eyes, my disconsolate friend. In your breast you carry cold, hunger, nothingness. Life has broken what's left of the courage within you. Colorless one, you once were a strong man, A courageous woman once walked at your side. But now you, my empty companion, are bereft of a name, my forsaken friend who can no longer weep, so poor you can no longer grieve, so tired you no longer can shiver with fear. O, spent once-strong man, if we were to meet again in some other world, sweet beneath the sun, with what kind faces would we recognize each other? Note: Buna was the largest Auschwitz sub-camp. ALDHELM 'The Leiden Riddle' is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle 'Lorica' or 'Corselet.' The Leiden Riddle anonymous Old English riddle poem, circa 700 loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb. I know I was not fashioned from woolen fleeces; nor was I skillfully spun from skeins; I have neither warp nor weft; no thread thrums through me in the thrashing loom; nor do whirring shuttles rattle me; nor does the weaver's rod assail me; nor did silkworms spin me like skillfull fates into curious golden embroidery. And yet heroes still call me an excellent coat. Nor do I fear the dread arrows' flights, however eagerly they leap from their quivers. Solution: a coat of mail. SAINT GODRIC OF FINCHALE The song below is said in the 'Life of Saint Godric' to have come to Godric when he had a vision of his sister Burhcwen, like him a solitary at Finchale, being received into heaven. She was singing a song of thanksgiving, in Latin, and Godric renders her song in English bracketed by a Kyrie eleison. Led By Christ and Mary by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led that the earth never felt my bare foot's tread! DANTE Translations of Dante Epigrams and Quotes by Michael R. Burch Little sparks may ignite great Infernos.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch In Beatrice I beheld the outer boundaries of blessedness.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch She made my veins and even the pulses within them tremble.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Her sweetness left me intoxicated.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Love commands me by determining my desires.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Follow your own path and let the bystanders gossip.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The devil is not as dark as depicted.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch There is no greater sorrow than to recall how we delighted in our own wretchedness.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch As he, who with heaving lungs escaped the suffocating sea, turns to regard its perilous waters.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you nosedive in the mildest breeze? —Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you quail at the least breath of wind? —Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Midway through my life's journey I awoke to find myself lost in a trackless wood, for I had strayed far from the straight path. —Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch INSCRIPTION ON THE GATE OF HELL Before me nothing existed, to fear. Eternal I am, and eternal I endure. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. —Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Excerpts from LA VITA NUOVA by Dante Alighieri Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi. Here is a Deity, stronger than myself, who comes to dominate me. —Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra. Your blessedness has now been manifested unto you. —Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Heu miser! quia frequenter impeditus ero deinceps. Alas, how often I will be restricted now! —Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Fili mi, tempus est ut prætermittantur simulata nostra. My son, it is time to cease counterfeiting. —Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Ego tanquam centrum circuli, cui simili modo se habent circumferentiæ partes: tu autem non sic. Love said: 'I am as the center of a harmonious circle; everything is equally near me. No so with you.' —Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Translations of Dante Cantos by Michael R. Burch Paradiso, Canto III: 1-33, The Revelation of Love and Truth by Dante Alighieri loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch That sun, which had inflamed my breast with love, Had now revealed to me—as visions move— The gentle and confounding face of Truth. Thus I, by her sweet grace and love reproved, Corrected, and to true confession moved, Raised my bowed head and found myself behooved To speak, as true admonishment required, And thus to bless the One I so desired, When I was awed to silence! This transpired: As the outlines of men's faces may amass In mirrors of transparent, polished glass, Or in shallow waters through which light beams pass (Even so our eyes may easily be fooled By pearls, or our own images, thus pooled) : I saw a host of faces, pale and lewd, All poised to speak; but when I glanced around There suddenly was no one to be found. A pool, with no Narcissus to astound? But then I turned my eyes to my sweet Guide. With holy eyes aglow and smiling wide, She said, 'They are not here because they lied.' Excerpt from 'Paradiso' by Dante Alighieri loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O Virgin Mother, daughter of your Son, Humble, and yet held high, above creation, You are the apex of all Wisdom known! You are the Pinnacle of human nature, Your nobility instilled by its Creator who was not shamed to be born with your features. Love was engendered in your perfect womb Where warmth and holy peace were given room For heaven's Perfect Rose, once sown, to bloom. Now unto us you are a Torch held high: Our noonday Sun—the Light of Charity, Our Wellspring of all Hope, a living Sea. Madonna, so pure, high and all-availing, The man who desires Grace of you, though failing, Despite his grounded state, is given wing! Your mercy does not fail us, Ever-Blessed! Indeed, the one who asks may find his wish Unneeded: you predicted his request! You are our Mercy; you are our Compassion; you are Magnificence; in you creation becomes the sum of Goodness and Salvation. Translations of Dante Sonnets by Michael R. Burch Sonnet: 'A Vision of Love' or 'Love's Faithful Ones' from LA VITA NUOVA by Dante Alighieri loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch To every gentle heart true Love may move, And unto whom my words must now be brought For wise interpretation's tender thought— I greet you in our Lord's name, which is Love. Through night's last watch, as winking stars, above, Kept their high vigil over men, distraught, Love came to me, with such dark terrors fraught As mortals may not casually speak of. Love seemed a being of pure Joy and held My heart, pulsating. On his other arm, My lady, wrapped in thinnest gossamers, slept. He, having roused her from her sleep, then made My heart her feast—devoured, with alarm. Love then departed; as he left, he wept. Sonnet: 'Love's Thoroughfare' from LA VITA NUOVA by Dante Alighieri loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 'O voi che par la via' All those who travel Love's worn tracks, Pause here awhile, and ask Has there ever been a grief like mine? Pause here, from that mad race, And with patience hear my case: Is it not a piteous marvel and a sign? Love, not because I played a part, But only due to his great heart, Afforded me a provenance so sweet That often others, as I went, Asked what such unfair gladness meant: They whispered things behind me in the street. But now that easy gait is gone Along with all Love proffered me; And so in time I've come to be So poor I dread to think thereon. And thus I have become as one Who hides his shame of his poverty, Pretending richness outwardly, While deep within I moan. Sonnet: 'Cry for Pity' from LA VITA NUOVA by Dante Alighieri loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch These thoughts lie shattered in my memory: When through the past I see your lovely face. When you are near me, thus, Love fills all Space, And often whispers, 'Is death better? Fly! ' My face reflects my heart's contentious tide, Which, ebbing, seeks some shallow resting place; Till, in the blushing shame of such disgrace, The very earth seems to be shrieking, 'Die! ' 'Twould be a grievous sin, if one should not Relay some comfort to my harried mind, If only with some simple pitying thought For this great anguish which fierce scorn has wrought Through the faltering sight of eyes grown nearly blind, Which search for death now, as a blessed thing. Sonnet: 'Ladies of Modest Countenance' from LA VITA NUOVA by Dante Alighieri loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You who wear a modest countenance With eyelids weighted by such heaviness, How is it, that among you every face Is haunted by the same pale troubled glance? Have you seen in my lady's face, perchance, the grief that Love provokes despite her grace? Confirm this thing is so, then in her place, Complete your grave and sorrowful advance. And if indeed you match her heartfelt sighs And mourn, as she does, for her heart's relief, Then tell Love how it fares with her, to him. Love knows how you have wept, seen in your eyes, And is so grieved by gazing on your grief, His courage falters and his sight grows dim. Translations of Poems by Other Italian Poets Sonnet IV: ‘S'io prego questa donna che Pietate' by Guido Cavalcante loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch If I should ask this lady, in her grace, not to make her heart my enemy, she'd call me foolish, venturing: 'No man was ever possessed of such strange vanity! ' Why such harsh judgements, written on a face where once I'd thought to find humility, true gentleness, calm wisdom, courtesy? My soul despairs, unwilling to embrace the sighs and griefs that flood my drowning heart, the rains of tears that well my watering eyes, the miseries to which my soul's condemned... For through my mind there flows, as rivers part, the image of a lady, full of thought, through heartlessness became a thoughtless friend. Guido Guinizelli, also known as Guido di Guinizzello di Magnano, was born in Bologna. He became an esteemed Italian love poet and is considered to be the father of the 'dolce stil nuovo' or 'sweet new style.' Dante called him 'il saggio' or 'the sage.' Sonetto by Guido Guinizelli loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch In truth I sing her honor and her praise: My lady, with whom flowers can't compare! Like Diana, she unveils her beauty's rays, Then makes the dawn unfold here, bright and fair! She's like the wind and like the leaves they swell: All hues, all colors, flushed and pale, beside... Argent and gold and rare stones' brilliant spell; Even Love, itself, in her, seems glorified. She moves in ways so tender and so sweet, Pride fails and falls and flounders at her feet. The impure heart cannot withstand such light! Ungentle men must wither, at her sight. And still this greater virtue I aver: No man thinks ill once he's been touched by her. This is a poem of mine that has been translated into Italian by Comasia Aquaro. Her Grace Flows Freely by Michael R. Burch July 7,2007 Her love is always chaste, and pure. This I vow. This I aver. If she shows me her grace, I will honor her. This I vow. This I aver. Her grace flows freely, like her hair. This I vow. This I aver. For her generousness, I would worship her. This I vow. This I aver. I will not damn her for what I bear This I vow. This I aver. like a most precious incense-desire for her, This I vow. This I aver. nor call her 'whore' where I seek to repair. This I vow. This I aver. I will not wink, nor smirk, nor stare This I vow. This I aver. like a foolish child at the foot of a stair This I vow. This I aver. where I long to go, should another be there. This I vow. This I aver. I'll rejoice in her freedom, and always dare This I vow. This I aver. the chance that she'll flee me-my starling rare. This I vow. This I aver. And then, if she stays, without stays, I swear This I vow. This I aver. that I will joy in her grace beyond compare. This I vow. This I aver. Her Grace Flows Freely by Michael R. Burch Italian translation by Comasia Aquaro La sua grazia vola libera 7 luglio 2007 Il suo amore è sempre casto, e puro. Lo giuro. Lo prometto. Se mi mostra la sua grazia, le farò onore. Lo giuro. Lo prometto. La sua grazia vola libera, come i suoi capelli. Lo giuro. Lo prometto. Per la sua generosità, la venererò. Lo giuro. Lo prometto. Non la maledirò per ciò che soffro Lo giuro. Lo prometto. come il più prezioso desiderio d'incenso per lei, Lo giuro. Lo prometto. non chiamarla 'sgualdrina' laddove io cerco di aggiustare. Lo giuro. Lo prometto. Io non strizzerò l'occhio, non riderò soddisfatto, non fisserò lo sguardo Lo giuro. Lo prometto. Come un bambino sciocco ai piedi di una scala Lo giuro. Lo prometto. Laddove io desidero andare, ci sarebbe forse un altro. Lo giuro. Lo prometto. Mi rallegrerò nella sua libertà, e sempre sfiderò Lo giuro. Lo prometto. la sorte che lei mi sfuggirà—il mio raro storno Lo giuro. Lo prometto. E dopo, se lei resta, senza stare, io lo garantisco Lo giuro. Lo prometto. Gioirò nella sua grazia al di là del confrontare. Lo giuro. Lo prometto. A risqué Latin epigram: C-nt, while you weep and seep neediness all night, -ss has claimed what would bring you delight. —Musa Lapidaria, #100A, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch References to Dante in other Translations by Michael R. Burch THE MUSE by Anna Akhmatova loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch My being hangs by a thread tonight as I await a Muse no human pen can command. The desires of my heart — youth, liberty, glory — now depend on the Maid with the flute in her hand. Look! Now she arrives; she flings back her veil; I meet her grave eyes — calm, implacable, pitiless. 'Temptress, confess! Are you the one who gave Dante hell? ' She answers, 'Yes.' I have also translated this tribute poem written by Marina Tsvetaeva for Anna Akhmatova: Excerpt from 'Poems for Akhmatova' by Marina Tsvetaeva loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You outshine everything, even the sun at its zenith. The stars are yours! If only I could sweep like the wind through some unbarred door, gratefully, to where you are... to hesitantly stammer, suddenly shy, lowering my eyes before you, my lovely mistress, petulant, chastened, overcome by tears, as a child sobs to receive forgiveness... Dante-Related Poems and Dante Criticism by Michael R. Burch Of Seabound Saints and Promised Lands by Michael R. Burch Judas sat on a wretched rock, his head still sore from Satan's gnawing. Saint Brendan's curragh caught his eye, wildly geeing and hawing. 'I'm on parole from Hell today!' Pale Judas cried from his lonely perch. 'You've fasted forty days, good Saint! Let this rock by my church, my baptismal, these icy waves. O, plead for me now with the One who saves!' Saint Brendan, full of mercy, stood at the lurching prow of his flimsy bark, and mightily prayed for the mangy man whose flesh flashed pale and stark in the golden dawn, beneath a sun that seemed to halo his tonsured dome. Then Saint Brendan sailed for the Promised Land and Saint Judas headed Home. O, behoove yourself, if ever you can, of the fervent prayer of a righteous man! In Dante's 'Inferno' Satan gnaws on Judas Iscariot's head. A curragh is a boat fashioned from wood and ox hides. Saint Brendan of Ireland is the patron saint of sailors and whales. According to legend, he sailed in search of the Promised Land and discovered America centuries before Columbus. Dante's was a defensive reflex against religion's hex. —Michael R. Burch Dante, you Dunce! by Michael R. Burch The earth is hell, Dante, you Dunce! Which you should have perceived—since you lived here once. God is no Beatrice, gentle and clever. Judas and Satan were wise to dissever from false 'messiahs' who cannot save. Why flit like a bat through Plato's cave believing such shadowy illusions are real? There is no 'hell' but to live and feel! How Dante Forgot Christ by Michael R. Burch Dante damned the brightest and the fairest for having loved—pale Helen, wild Achilles— agreed with his Accuser in the spell of hellish visions and eternal torments. His only savior, Beatrice, was Love. His only savior, Beatrice, was Love, the fulcrum of his body's, heart's and mind's sole triumph, and their altogether conquest. She led him to those heights where Love, enshrined, blazed like a star beyond religion's hells. Once freed from Yahweh, in the arms of Love, like Blake and Milton, Dante forgot Christ. The Christian gospel is strangely lacking in Milton's and Dante's epics. Milton gave the 'atonement' one embarrassed enjambed line. Dante damned the Earth's star-crossed lovers to his grotesque hell, while doing exactly what they did: pursing at all costs his vision of love, Beatrice. Blake made more sense to me, since he called the biblical god Nobodaddy and denied any need to be 'saved' by third parties. Dante's Antes by Michael R. Burch There's something glorious about man, who lives because he can, who dies because he must, and in between's a bust. No god can reign him in: he's quite intent on sin and likes it rather, really. He likes sex touchy-feely. He likes to eat too much. He has the Midas touch and paves hell's ways with gold. The things he's bought and sold! He's sold his soul to Mammon and also plays backgammon and poker, with such antes as still befuddle Dantes. I wonder—can hell hold him? His chances seem quite dim because he's rather puny and also loopy-looney. And yet like Evel Knievel he dances with the Devil and seems so damn courageous, good-natured and outrageous some God might show him mercy and call religion heresy. RE: Paradiso, Canto III by Michael R. Burch for the most 'Christian' of poets What did Dante do, to earn Beatrice's grace (grace cannot be earned!) but cast disgrace on the whole human race, on his peers and his betters, as a man who wears cheap rayon suits might disparage men who wear sweaters? How conventionally 'Christian' — Poet! — to damn your fellow man for being merely human, then, like a contented clam, to grandly claim near-infinite 'grace' as if your salvation was God's only aim! What a scam! And what of the lovely Piccarda, whom you placed in the lowest sphere of heaven for neglecting her vows — She was forced! Were you chaste? Intimations V by Michael R. Burch We had not meditated upon sound so much as drowned in the inhuman ocean when we imagined it broken open like a conch shell whorled like the spiraling hell of Dante's 'Inferno.' Trapped between Nature and God, what is man but an inquisitive, acquisitive sod? And what is Nature but odd, or God but a Clod, and both of them horribly flawed? Endgame by Michael R. Burch The honey has lost all its sweetness, the hive—its completeness. Now ambient dust, the drones lie dead. The workers weep, their King long fled (who always had been nude, invisible, his 'kingdom' atomic, divisible, and pathetically risible) . The queen has flown, long Dis-enthroned, who would have gladly given all she owned for a promised white stone. O, Love has fled, has fled, has fled... Religion is dead, is dead, is dead. The drones are those who drone on about the love of God in a world full of suffering and death: dead prophets, dead pontiffs, dead preachers. Spewers of dead words and false promises. The queen is disenthroned, as in Dis-enthroned. In Dante's Inferno, the lower regions of hell are enclosed within the walls of Dis, a city surrounded by the Stygian marshes. The river Styx symbolizes death and the journey from life to the afterlife. But in Norse mythology, Dis was a goddess, the sun, and the consort of Heimdal, himself a god of light. DIS is also the stock ticker designation for Disney, creator of the Magic Kingdom. The 'promised white stone' appears in Revelation, which turns Jesus and the Angels into serial killers. The Final Revelation of a Departed God's Divine Plan by Michael R. Burch Here I am, talking to myself again... pissed off at God and bored with humanity. These insectile mortals keep testing my sanity! Still, I remember when... planting odd notions, dark inklings of vanity, in their peapod heads might elicit an inanity worth a chuckle or two. Philosophers, poets... how they all made me laugh! The things they dreamed up! Sly Odysseus's raft; Plato's 'Republic'; Dante's strange crew; Shakespeare's Othello, mad Hamlet, Macbeth; Cervantes' Quixote; fat, funny Falstaff! ; Blake's shimmering visions. Those days, though, are through... for, puling and tedious, their 'poets' now seem content to write, but not to dream, and they fill the world with their pale derision of things they completely fail to understand. Now, since God has long fled, I am here, in command, reading this crap. Earth is Hell. We're all damned. Brief Encounters: Other Roman, Italian and Greek Epigrams No wind is favorable to the man who lacks direction.—Seneca the Younger, translation by Michael R. Burch Little sparks ignite great Infernos.—Dante, translation by Michael R. Burch The danger is not aiming too high and missing, but aiming too low and hitting the mark.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch He who follows will never surpass.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch Nothing enables authority like silence.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch My objective is not to side with the majority, but to avoid the ranks of the insane.—Marcus Aurelius, translation by Michael R. Burch Time is sufficient for anyone who uses it wisely.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch Blinding ignorance misleads us. Myopic mortals, open your eyes! —Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch It is easier to oppose evil from the beginning than at the end.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch Fools call wisdom foolishness.—Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch One true friend is worth ten thousand kin.—Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch Not to speak one's mind is slavery.—Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch I would rather die standing than kneel, a slave.—Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch Fresh tears are wasted on old griefs.—Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch Improve yourself by other men's writings, attaining less painfully what they gained through great difficulty.—Socrates, translation by Michael R. Burch Just as I select a ship when it's time to travel, or a house when it's time to change residences, even so I will choose when it's time to depart from life.―Seneca, speaking about the right to euthanasia in the first century AD, translation by Michael R. Burch Booksellers laud authors for novel editions as p-mps praise their wh-res for exotic positions. —Thomas Campion, Latin epigram, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch #POEMS #POETRY #LATIN #ROMAN #ITALIAN #TRANSLATION #MRB-POEMS #MRB-POETRY #MRBPOEMS #MRBPOETRY #MRBLATIN #MRBROMAN #MRBITALIAN #MRBTRANSLATION Ah! Sunflower by Michael R. Burch after William Blake O little yellow flower like a star... how beautiful, how wonderful we are! Published as the collection "Modern Charon" Keywords/Tags: Charon, Styx, death, ferry, boat, ship, captain, steering, helm, wheel, rudder, shipwreck, disaster, night, darkness, 911, 9-11, mrbch

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