Frail Envelope of Flesh

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 ... Note: The phrase "frail envelope of flesh" was one of my first encounters with the power of poetry, although I read it in a superhero comic book as a young boy (I forget which one). More than thirty years later, the line kept popping into my head, so I wrote this poem. I have dedicated it to the mothers and children of Gaza and the Palestinian Nakba. The word Nakba is Arabic for "Catastrophe." Epitaph for a Palestinian Child by Michael R. Burch I lived as best I could, and then I died. Be careful where you step: the grave is wide. Autumn Conundrum by Michael R. Burch for the mothers and children of Palestine It’s not that every leaf must finally fall, it’s just that we can never catch them all. For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies by Michael R. Burch Where does the butterfly go when lightning rails, when thunder howls, when hailstones scream, when winter scowls, when 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? 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? "War" is a poem I wrote in my teens that mentions the Jordan River and wars waged with axes in ancient Palestine. War by Michael R. Burch lysander lies in lauded greece and sleeps and dreams, a stone for a pillow, unseeing as sunset devours limp willows, but War glares on. and joab's sightless gaze is turned beyond the jordan's ravaged shore; his war-ax lies to be taxed no more, but War hacks on. and roland sleeps in poppied fields with flowers flowing at his feet; their fragrance lulls his soul to sleep, but War raves on. and patton sighs an unheard sigh for sorties past and those to come; he does not heed the battle drum, but War rolls on. for now new heroes grab up guns and rush to fight their fathers' wars, as warriors' children must, of course, while War laughs on. War is Obsolete by Michael R. Burch 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? Something by Michael R. Burch for the children of the Holocaust and the Palestinian Nakba 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, which finality has swept into a corner ... where it lies in dust and cobwebs and silence. Keywords/Tags: Frail, envelope, flesh, Nakba, Gaza, Jordan, Palestine, Palestinian, children, mothers, tiny, hand, kiss, mayfly, deluge, tears, epitaph, grave, butterflies The childless woman, how tenderly she caresses homeless dolls ... —Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Clinging to the plum tree: one blossom's worth of warmth —Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch One leaf falls, enlightenment! Another leaf falls, swept away by the wind ... —Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Advice to Young Poets by Nicanor Parra Sandoval loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Youngsters, write however you will in your preferred style. Too much blood flowed under the bridge for me to believe there’s just one acceptable path. In poetry everything’s permitted. Pan by Michael R. Burch ... Among the shadows of the groaning elms, amid the darkening oaks, we fled ourselves ... ... Once there were paths that led to coracles that clung to piers like loosening barnacles ... ... where we cannot return, because we lost the pebbles and the playthings, and the moss ... ... hangs weeping gently downward, maidens’ hair who never were enchanted, and the stairs ... ... that led up to the Fortress in the trees will not support our weight, but on our knees ... ... we still might fit inside those splendid hours of damsels in distress, of rustic towers ... ... of voices heard in wolves’ tormented howls that died, and live in dreams’ soft, windy vowels ... 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! Everlasting by Michael R. Burch Where the wind goes when the storm dies, there my spirit lives though I close my eyes. Do not weep for me; I am never far. Whisper my name to the last star ... then let me sleep, think of me no more. Still ... By denying death its terminal sting, in my words I remain everlasting. I have the most childlike heart ... —Sappho, fragment 120, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Awed by the moon’s splendor, stars covered their undistinguished faces. Even so, we. —Sappho, fragment 34, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Those I most charm do me the most harm. —Sappho, fragment 12, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Even as their hearts froze, their feathers molted. —Sappho, fragment 42, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Your voice beguiles me. Your laughter lifts my heart’s wings. If I listen to you, even for a moment, I am left speechless. —Sappho, fragment 31, loose translation by Michael R. Burch Sappho, fragment 138, loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch 1. Darling, let me see your face; unleash your eyes' grace. 2. Turn to me, favor me with your eyes' indulgence. 3. Look me in the face, smile, reveal your eyes' grace ... 4. Turn to me, favor me with your eyes’ acceptance. Sappho, fragment 52 (Voigt 168B / Diehl 94 / Cox 48) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 1a. Midnight. The hours drone on as I moan here, alone. 1b. Midnight. The hours drone. I moan, alone. 2. The moon has long since set; the Pleiades are gone; now half the night is spent and yet here I lie—alone. Sappho, fragment 24, loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch 1a. Dear, don't you remember how, in days long gone, we did such things, being young? 1b. Dear, don't you remember, in days long gone, how we did such things, being young? 2. Don't you remember, in days bygone, how we did such things, being young? 3. Remember? In our youth we too did such reckless things. Sappho, fragment 154, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 1. The moon rose and we women thronged it like an altar. 2. Maidens throng at the altar of Love all night long. Once again I dive into this fathomless ocean, intoxicated by lust. —Sappho, after Anacreon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Did the epigram above perhaps inspire the legend that Sappho leapt into the sea to her doom, over her despair for her love for the ferryman Phaon? See the following poem ... The Legend of Sappho and Phaon, after Menander loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Some say Sappho was an ardent maiden goaded by wild emotion to fling herself from the white-frothed rocks of Leukas into this raging ocean for love of Phaon ... but others reject that premise and say it was Aphrodite, for love of Adonis. In Menander's play The Leukadia he refers to a legend that Sappho flung herself from the White Rock of Leukas in pursuit of Phaon. We owe the preservation of those verses to Strabo, who cited them. Phaon appears in works by Ovid, Lucian and Aelian. He is also mentioned by Plautus in Miles Gloriosus as being one of only two men in the whole world, who "ever had the luck to be so passionately loved by a woman." 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, mon frère. —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 f---ing. —Martial, loose translation 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 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 1. 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 2. 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 happy Elysian glade with her cherished friends, excitedly lispingly 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 Martial wrote this touching elegy for a little slave girl, Erotion, who died six days before her sixth birthday. The poem has been nominated as Martial’s masterpiece by L. J. Lloyd and others. Erotion means “little love” and may correspond to our term “love child.” It has been suggested that Erotion may have been Martial’s child by a female slave. That could explain why Martial is asking his parents’ spirits to welcome, guide and watch over her spirit. Martial uses the terms patronos (patrons) and commendo (commend); in Rome a freed slave would be commended to a patron. A girl freed from slavery by death might need patrons as protectors on the “other side,” according to Roman views of the afterlife, since the afterworld houses evil shades and is guarded by a monstrous three-headed dog, Cerberus. Martial is apparently asking his parents to guide the girl’s spirit away from Cerberus and the dark spirits to the heavenly Elysian fields where she can play and laugh without fear. If I am correct, Martial’s poem is not just an elegy, but a prayer-poem for protection, perhaps of his own daughter. Albert A. Bell supports this hypothesis with the following arguments: (1) Martial had Erotion cremated, a practice preferred by the upper classes, (2) “he buried her with the full rites befitting the child of a Roman citizen,” (3) he entrusted her [poetically] to his parents, and (4) he maintained her grave for years. Catullus I (“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 and acing the course. Therefore, this little book is yours, whatever it is, which, O patron Maiden, I pray will last more than my lifetime! Catullus LXXXV: “Odi et Amo” loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 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 is 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 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. 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 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 I must admit I’m partial to Martial. — Michael R. Burch Did Sappho write the world's first "make love, not war" poem, more than 2,500 years ago? This poem has been variously titled “The Anactoria Poem,” “Helen’s Eidolon” and “Some People Say.” Some Say Sappho, fragment 16 (Lobel-Page 16) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Warriors on rearing chargers, columns of infantry, fleets of warships: some call these the dark earth's redeeming visions. But I say— the one I desire. And this makes sense because she who so vastly surpassed all other mortals in beauty —Helen— seduced by Aphrodite, led astray by desire, lightly set sail for distant Troy, abandoning her celebrated husband, leaving behind her parents and child! Her story reminds me of Anactoria, who has also departed, and whose lively dancing and lovely face I would rather see than all the horsemen and war-chariots of the Lydians, or all their infantry parading in flashing armor.

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