Kajal Ahmad "The Lonely Earth" translation

The Lonely Earth by Kajal Ahmad, a Kurdish poet 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. Keywords/Tags: Kajal Ahmad, Kurd, Kurdish, lonely, Earth, stars, moon, sun, rays, lodgers, tenants, boarders, renters, mrbch 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. Kurds are Birds by Kajal Ahmad, a Kurdish poet 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 for 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. Bi Havre (“Together”) possibly the oldest Kurdish poem loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I want us to be together: we would eat together, climb the mountain together, sing songs together, songs of love, songs from the heart, sung from above. I want us to have one heart, together. Many words in this ancient poem are in doubt, so I have excerpted what I grok to be the central meaning. 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! 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 anthology is to teach students about human rights through poetry. 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 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 Death Fugue by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. We’re digging a grave like a hole in the sky; there’s sufficient room to lie there. The man of the house plays with vipers; he writes in the Teutonic darkness, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He composes by starlight, whistles hounds to stand by, whistles Jews to dig graves, where together they’ll lie. He commands us to strike up bright tunes for the dance! Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come dawn, come midday, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house plays with serpents; he writes... he writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” We are digging dark graves where there’s more room, on high. His screams, “Hey you, dig there!” and “Hey you, sing and dance!” He grabs his black nightstick, his eyes pallid blue, screaming, “Hey you―dig deeper! You others―sing, dance!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come dusk; we drink you come midday, come morning, come night; we drink you and drink you. The man of the house writes, “Your golden hair Margarete... Your ashen hair Shulamith...” as he cultivates snakes. He screams, “Play Death more sweetly! Death’s the master of Germany!” He cries, “Scrape those dark strings, soon like black smoke you’ll rise to your graves in the skies; there’s sufficient room for Jews there!” Black milk of daybreak, we drink you come midnight; we drink you come midday; Death’s the master of Germany! We drink you come dusk; we drink you and drink you... He’s a master of Death, his pale eyes deathly blue. He fires leaden slugs, his aim level and true. He writes as the night falls, “Your golden hair Margarete...” He unleashes his hounds, grants us graves in the skies. He plays with his serpents; Death’s the master of Germany... “Your golden hair Margarete... your ashen hair Shulamith...” O, Little Root of a Dream by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O, little root of a dream you enmire me here; I’m undermined by blood― made invisible, death's possession. Touch the curve of my face, that there may yet be an earthly language of ardor, that someone else’s eyes may somehow still see me, though I’m blind, here where you deny me voice. You Were My Death by Paul Celan loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You were my death; I could hold you when everything abandoned me― even breath. Wulf and Eadwacer ancient Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 960 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch My clan's curs pursue him like crippled game; they'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack. It is otherwise with us. Wulf's on one island; we're on another. His island's a fortress, fastened by fens. Here, bloodthirsty curs howl for carnage. They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack. It is otherwise with us. My heart pursued Wulf like a panting hound, but whenever it rained—how I wept! — the boldest cur grasped me in its paws: good feelings for him, but for me loathsome! Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you has made me sick; your seldom-comings have left me famished, deprived of real meat. Have you heard, Eadwacer? Watchdog! A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods! One can easily sever what never was one: our song together. Keywords/Tags: Anglo-Saxon, Old English, England, translation, scop, female, women, rape, raping, sex, sexual abuse, incest, lament, complaint, tribalism, tribe, clan, pack, chauvinism, war, wolf, wolves, dog, dogs, hound, hounds, cur, curs, whelp, baby, offspring, island 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! The Love Song Of Shu-Sin (the earth's oldest love poem, Sumerian, circa 2,000 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Darling of my heart, my belovéd, your enticements are sweet, far sweeter than honey. Darling of my heart, my belovéd, your enticements are sweet, far sweeter than honey. You have captivated me; I stand trembling before you. Darling, lead me swiftly into the bedroom! You have captivated me; I stand trembling before you. Darling, lead me swiftly into the bedroom! Sweetheart, let me do the sweetest things to you! My precocious caress is far sweeter than honey! In the bedchamber, dripping love's honey, let us enjoy life's sweetest thing. Sweetheart, let me do the sweetest things to you! My precocious caress is far sweeter than honey! Bridegroom, you will have your pleasure with me! Speak to my mother and she will reward you; speak to my father and he will award you gifts. I know how to give your body pleasure— then sleep, my darling, till the sun rises. To prove that you love me, give me your caresses, my Lord God, my guardian Angel and protector, my Shu-Sin, who gladdens Enlil's heart, give me your caresses! My place like sticky honey, touch it with your hand! Place your hand over it like a honey-pot lid! Cup your hand over it like a honey cup! This is a balbale-song of Inanna. This may be earth's oldest love poem. It may have been written around 2000 BC, long before the Bible's "Song of Solomon, " which had been considered to be the oldest extant love poem by some experts. Shu-Sin was a Mesopotamian king who ruled over the land of Sumer close to four thousand years ago. The poem seems to be part of a rite, probably performed each year, known as the "sacred marriage" or "divine marriage, " in which the king would symbolically marry the goddess Inanna, mate with her, and so ensure fertility and prosperity for the coming year. The king would accomplish this amazing feat by marrying and/or having sex with a priestess or votary of Inanna, the Sumerian goddess of love, fertility and war. Her Akkadian name was Istar/Ishtar, and she was also known as Astarte. 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 Elegy for a little girl, lost by Michael R. Burch . . . 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 . . . 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. 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 Vulgate Latin Bible (circa 385 AD). 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! 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! Fadwa Tuqan has been called the Grand Dame of Palestinian letters and The Poet of Palestine. These are my translations of Fadwa Tuqan poems originally written in Arabic. 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. My translation follows one by Azfar Hussain and borrows a word here, a phrase there. 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. Sunset by Michael R. Burch for my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr. Between the prophecies of morning and twilight’s revelations of wonder, the sky is ripped asunder. The moon lurks in the clouds, waiting, as if to plunder the dusk of its lilac iridescence, and in the bright-tentacled sunset we imagine a presence full of the fury of lost innocence. What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame, brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim, we recognize at once, but cannot name. 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 Winter Thoughts of Ann Rutledge Ann Rutledge was apparently Abraham Lincoln’s first love interest. Unfortunately, she was engaged to another man when they met, then died with typhoid fever at age 22. According to a friend, Isaac Cogdal, when asked if he had loved her, Lincoln replied: “It is true―true indeed, I did. I loved the woman dearly and soundly: She was a handsome girl―would have made a good, loving wife … I did honestly and truly love the girl and think often, often of her now.” Winter Thoughts of Ann Rutledge by Michael R. Burch Winter was not easy, nor would the spring return. I knew you by your absence, as men are wont to burn with strange indwelling fire― such longings you inspire! But winter was not easy, nor would the sun relent from sculpting virgin images and how could I repent? I left quaint offerings in the snow, more maiden than I care to know. Ann Rutledge’s Irregular Quilt by Michael R. Burch based on “Lincoln the Unknown” by Dale Carnegie I. Her fingers “plied the needle” with “unusual swiftness and art” till Abe knelt down beside her: then her demoralized heart set Eros’s dart a-quiver; thus a crazy quilt emerged: strange stitches all a-kilter, all patterns lost. (Her host kept her vicarious laughter barely submerged.) II. Years later she’d show off the quilt with its uncertain stitches as evidence love undermines men’s plans and unevens women’s strictures (and a plethora of scriptures.) III. But O the sacred tenderness Ann’s reckless stitch contains and all the world’s felicities: rich cloth, for love’s fine gains, for sweethearts’ tremulous fingers and their bright, uncertain vows and all love’s blithe, erratic hopes (like now’s). IV. Years later on a pilgrimage, by tenderness obsessed, Dale Carnegie, drawn to her grave, found weeds in her place of rest and mowed them back, revealing the spot of Lincoln’s joy and grief (and his hope and his disbelief). V. Yes, such is the tenderness of love, and such are its disappointments. Love is a book of rhapsodic poems. Love is an grab bag of ointments. Love is the finger poised, the smile, the Question ― perhaps ― and the Answer? Love is the pain of betrayal, the two left feet of the dancer. VI. There were ladies of ill repute in his past. Or so he thought. Was it true? And yet he loved them, Ann (sweet Ann!), as tenderly as he loved you. Keywords/Tags: Abraham Lincoln, Ann Rutledge, history, president, love, lover, mistress, paramour, romance, romantic, quilt, Dale Carnegie evol-u-shun by Michael R. Burch does GOD adore the Tyger while it’s ripping ur lamb apart? does GOD applaud the Plague while it’s eating u à la carte? does GOD admire ur intelligence while u pray that IT has a heart? does GOD endorse the Bible you blue-lighted at k-mart? 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 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 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 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. escape! by michael r. burch 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. Escape!! by Michael R. Burch You are too beautiful, too innocent, too inherently lovely to merely reflect the sun’s splendor ... too full of irresistible candor to remain silent, too delicately fawnlike for a world so violent ... Come, my beautiful Bambi and I will protect you ... but of course you have already been lured away by the dew-laden roses ... 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 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 . . . 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. faith(less) by Michael R. Burch Those who believed and Those who misled lie together at last in the same narrow bed and if god loved Them more for Their strange lack of doubt, he kept it well hidden till he snuffed Them out. ah-men! 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. 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!” Yahya Kemal Beyatli translations Yahya Kemal Beyatli (1884-1958) was a Turkish poet, editor, columnist and historian, as well as a politician and diplomat. Born born Ahmet Âgâh, he wrote under the pen names Agâh Kemal, Esrar, Mehmet Agâh, and Süleyman Sadi. He served as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, Portugal and Pakistan. Sessiz Gemi (“Silent Ship”) by Yahya Kemal Beyatli loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch for the refugees The time to weigh anchor has come; a ship departing harbor slips quietly out into the unknown, cruising noiselessly, its occupants already ghosts. No flourished handkerchiefs acknowledge their departure; the landlocked mourners stand nurturing their grief, scanning the bleak horizon, their eyes blurring... Poor souls! Desperate hearts! But this is hardly the last ship departing! There is always more pain to unload in this sorrowful life! The hesitations of lovers and their belovèds are futile, for they cannot know where the vanished are bound. Many hopes must be quenched by the distant waves, since years must pass, and no one returns from this journey. Full Moon by Yahya Kemal Beyatli loose translation by Nurgül Yayman and Michael R. Burch You are so lovely the full moon just might delight in your rising, as curious and bright, to vanquish night. But what can a mortal man do, dear, but hope? I’ll ponder your mysteries and (hmmmm) try to cope. We both know you have every right to say no. The Music of the Snow by Yahya Kemal Beyatli loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This melody of a night lasting longer than a thousand years! This music of the snow supposed to last for thousand years! Sorrowful as the prayers of a secluded monastery, It rises from a choir of a hundred voices! As the organ’s harmonies resound profoundly, I share the sufferings of Slavic grief. Then my mind drifts far from this city, this era, To the old records of Tanburi Cemil Bey. Now I’m suddenly overjoyed as once again I hear, With the ears of my heart, the purest sounds of Istanbul! Thoughts of the snow and darkness depart me; I keep them at bay all night with my dreams! Translator’s notes: “Slavic grief” because Beyatli wrote this poem while in Warsaw, serving as Turkey’s ambassador to Poland, in 1927. Tanburi Cemil Bey was a Turkish composer. Keywords/Tags: Beyatli, Agah, Kemal, Esrar, Turkish, translation, Turkey, silent, ship, anchor, harbor, ghosts, grief, Istanbul, moon, music, snow 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. To Have Loved by Michael R. Burch "The face that launched a thousand ships ..." Helen, bright accompaniment, accouterment of war as sure as all the polished swords of princes groomed to lie in mausoleums all eternity ... The price of love is not so high as never to have loved once in the dark beyond foreseeing. Now, as dawn gleams pale upon small wind-fanned waves, amid white sails, ... now all that war entails becomes as small, as though receding. Paris in your arms was never yours, nor were you his at all. And should gods call in numberless strange voices, should you hear, still what would be the difference? Men must die to be remembered. Fame, the shrillest cry, leaves all the world dismembered. Hold him, lie, tell many pleasant tales of lips and thighs; enthrall him with your sweetness, till the pall and ash lie cold upon him. Is this all? You saw fear in his eyes, and now they dim with fear’s remembrance. Love, the fiercest cry, becomes gasped sighs in his once-gallant hymn of dreamed “salvation.” Still, you do not care because you have this moment, and no man can touch you as he can ... and when he’s gone there will be other men to look upon your beauty, and have done. Smile―woebegone, pale, haggard. Will the tales paint this―your final portrait? Can the stars find any strange alignments, Zodiacs, to spell, or unspell, what held beauty lacks? Published by The Raintown Review, Triplopia, The Electic Muse, The Chained Muse, The Pennsylvania Review, and in a YouTube recital by David B. Gosselin. This is, of course, a poem about the famous Helen of Troy, whose face "launched a thousand ships." 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! 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 "Kajal Ahmad, Kurdish Poet"

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