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Zywa Jul 2019
Within the banks of the law
everything belongs to everyone
Duties are imposed
rights you have to take

I see myself small
from the high towers
where ministers wait in silence
for orders from above

The plans are ready
the dice roll
over the finely combed cloth
to Grand House or Southern Wind

The adjutant signs
the cautiously prepared move
of yet another new law
for people and country

Statistics are the weapons
They prove who fails
they prove the profit
for everyone
Collection “Mosaic virus”

Sent to My Husband
by Huang E
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The wild geese never fly beyond Hengyang ...
how then can my brocaded words reach Yongchang?

Like wilted willow flowers I am ill-fated indeed;
in that far-off foreign land you feel similar despair.

“Oh, to go home, to go home!” you implore the calendar.
“Oh, if only it would rain, if only it would rain!” I complain to the heavens.

One hears hopeful rumors that you might soon be freed ...
but when will the Golden **** rise in Yelang?

A star called the Golden **** was a symbol of amnesty to the ancient Chinese. Yongchang was a hot, humid region of Yunnan to the south of Hengyang, and was presumably too hot and too far to the south for geese to fly there.

Luo Jiang's Second Complaint
by Huang E
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The green hills vanished,
pedestrians passed by
disappearing beyond curves.

The geese grew silent, the horseshoes timid.

Winter is the most annoying season!

A lone goose vanished into the heavens,
the trees whispered conspiracies in Pingwu,
and people huddling behind buildings shivered.

Bitter Rain, an Aria of the Yellow Oriole
by Huang E
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

These ceaseless rains make the spring shiver:
even the flowers and trees look cold!

The roads turn to mud;
the river's eyes are tired and weep into in a few bays;
the mountain clouds accumulate like ***** dishes,
and the end of the world seems imminent, if jejune.

I find it impossible to send books:
the geese are ruthless and refuse to fly south to Yunnan!

Broken-Hearted Poem
by Huang E
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My tears cascade into the inkwell;
my broken heart remains at a loss for words;
ever since we held hands and said farewell,
I have been too listless to paint my eyebrows;
no medicine can cure my night-sweats,
no wealth repurchase our lost youth;
and how can I persuade that ****** bird singing in the far hills
to tell a traveler south of the Yangtze to return home?

These are my modern English translations of poems by the Chinese poet Huang E (1498–1569), also known as Huang Xiumei. She has been called the most outstanding female poet of the Ming Dynasty, and her husband its most outstanding male poet. Were they poetry’s first power couple? Her father Huang Ke was a high-ranking official of the Ming court and she married Yang Shen, the prominent son of Grand Secretary Yang Tinghe. Unfortunately for the young power couple, Yang Shen was exiled by the emperor early in their marriage and they lived largely apart for 30 years. During their long separations they would send each other poems which may belong to a genre of Chinese poetry I have dubbed "sorrows of the wild geese."

Springtime Prayer
by Michael R. Burch

They’ll have to grow like crazy,
the springtime baby geese,
if they’re to fly to balmier climes
when autumn dismembers the leaves ...

And so I toss them loaves of bread,
then whisper an urgent prayer:
“Watch over these, my Angels,
if there’s anyone kind, up there.”

Originally published by Borderless Journal (Singapore)

The Mallard
by Michael R. Burch

The mallard is a fellow
whose lips are long and yellow
with which he, honking, kisses
his *****, boisterous mistress:
my pond’s their loud bordello!

Kindred (II)
by Michael R. Burch

Rise, pale disastrous moon!
What is love, but a heightened effect
of time, light and distance?

Did you burn once,
before you became
so remote, so detached,

so coldly, inhumanly lustrous,
before you were able to assume
the very pallor of love itself?

What is the dawn now, to you or to me?
We are as one,
out of favor with the sun.

We would exhume
the white corpse of love
for a last dance,

and yet we will not.
We will let her be,
let her abide,

for she is nothing now,
to you
or to me.

by Michael R. Burch

We forget that, before we were born,
our parents had “lives” of their own,
ran drunk in the streets, or half-******.

Yes, our parents had lives of their own
until we were born; then, undone,
they were buying their parents gravestones

and finding gray hairs of their own
(because we were born lacking some
of their curious habits, but soon

would certainly get them). Half-******,
we watched them dig graves of their own.
Their lives would be over too soon

for their curious habits to bloom
in us (though our children were born
nine months from that night on the town

when, punch-drunk in the streets or half-******,
we first proved we had lives of our own).

by Michael R. Burch

I did it out of pity.
I did it out of love.
I did it not to break the heart of a tender, wounded dove.

But gods without compassion
ordained: Frail things must break!
Now what can I do for her shattered psyche’s sake?

I did it not to push.
I did it not to shove.
I did it to assist the flight of indiscriminate Love.

But gods, all mad as hatters,
who legislate in all such matters,
ordained that everything irreplaceable shatters.

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.

Like Angels, Winged
by Michael R. Burch

Like angels—winged,
shimmering, misunderstood—
they flit beyond our understanding
being neither evil, nor good.

They are as they are ...
and we are their lovers, their prey;
they seek us out when the moon is full
and dream of us by day.

Their eyes—hypnotic, alluring—
trap ours with their strange appeal
till like flame-drawn moths, we gather ...
to see, to touch, to feel.

Held in their arms, enchanted,
we feel their lips, so old!,
till with their gorging kisses
we warm them, growing cold.

Update of "A Litany in Time of Plague"
by Michael R. Burch

THE PLAGUE has come again
To darken lives of men
and women, girls and boys;
Death proves their bodies toys
Too frail to even cry.
I am sick, I must die.

Lord, have mercy on us!
Tycoons, what use is wealth?
You cannot buy good health!
Physicians cannot heal
Themselves, to Death must kneel.
Nuns’ prayers mount to the sky.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

Beauty’s brightest flower?
Devoured in an hour.
Kings, Queens and Presidents
Are fearful residents
Of manors boarded high.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

We have no means to save
Our children from the grave.
Though cure-alls line our shelves,
We cannot save ourselves.
"Come, come!" the sad bells cry.
I am sick, I must die.
Lord, have mercy on us!

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.


The Cosmological Constant
by Michael R. Burch

Einstein the frizzy-haired
claimed E equals MC squared.
Thus all mass decreases
as activity ceases?
Not my mass, my *** declared!

by Michael R. Burch

Relativity, the theorists’ creed,
claims mass increases with speed.
My (m)*** grows when I sit it.
Mr. Einstein, get with it;
equate its deflation, I plead!

The Hair Flap
by Michael R. Burch aka "The Loyal Opposition"

The hair flap was truly a scare:
Trump’s bald as a billiard back there!
The whole nation laughed
At the state of his graft;
Now the man’s wigging out, so beware!

Salvation of a Formalist, an Ode to Entropy
by Michael R. Burch

God's universal decree
That I get to be
My erstwhile boxed-in verse is free?

Keywords/Tags: Chinese poetry, China, sorrow, sorrows, geese, rain, heavens, hills, winter, trees, rivers, mountains, books, birds, spring, springtime, baby, babies, pray, prayer, angels
These are modern English translations of poems by the Chinese poet Huang E, , also known as Huang Xiumei.
Àŧùl Apr 7
And he had said,
"Ladakh is a barren piece of land,
Let the Chinese have it,
Nothing grows over there,
And it's a useless piece of territory,
The lesser the liabilities for my government,
The better."

And the Chinese still sit in Aksai Chin,
That part he called barren,
It's our lost land that China usurped,
Yes, the expansionist China,
And how shamelessly he escaped his duty,
His responsibility to maintain the integrity,
Of our nation he ought've known the nitty-gritty.

But now we face an uphill task,
That Hindi-Cheeni Bhai-Bhai,
It's now a laughing stock,
Yes, sir, people laugh at it,
Albeit less than they do at your scion,
The same scion who has nil experience,
And simply a negative IQ, perhaps.

But that was just one of your mistakes, sir,
How can we forget your ambition to be the Prime,
Even at the cost of the national integrity,
You let them unleash a rein of terror,
Both the sides suffered civilian casualties,
Not just the dead I refer to,
I also refer to the ***** and mutilated.

You behaved so power-hungry,
So irresponsible and immature,
So ignorant and inexperienced,
So unwise and unintelligent,
Of that post, oh sir,
That position that you won by your clout,
You knew that Bhai made a better choice.

Yet you felt entitled to the post,
By the mere virtue of your birth,
Born with a silver spoon in your mouth,
Linen sheets underneath your body,
Much like your dumb scion,
Yes, the very same one who fumbles.

He fumbles in his speech,
And in his lack of preparation,
The Grand Old Party, it trembles,
Trembling under the unwanted burden,
Voices of dissent grow louder,
The Party you usurped is slipping away,
Drifting further everyday.
My HP Poem #1962
©Atul Kaushal
Anais Vionet Mar 2
(a story in senryu stanzas)

I get migraines.
- lucky me - glare can set me
off within seconds.

I always have a
pair of dark, polarized shades
with me - it’s a quirk.

When I was fourteen,
we lived in Shenzhen, China
very near Macau.

Macau, China, the
“Las Vegas” of Asia, is
the home of glare.

The Ritz-Carlton, has
a glittering galaxy
of bright chandeliers.

Those chandeliers move,
their silhouettes change shape - just
stab me with a spork.

Did I mention the
Mirrors? Every wall served to
magnify the light.

“You look awful,” my
mom said - our two week booking
became ten minutes.

“I just need sunnies,
those would work,” then I gasped
“I’ll look glamorous!”

We changed hotels, but
what a small world - my roommate
Leong grew up there.

We could have passed in
the yè shì as teenagers
and now we're roommates.
sunnies = sunglasses (UK slang)
yè shì = night market (simplified Chinese)
BLT Marriam Webster word of the day challenge: Quirk: an unusual habit or way of behaving
MetaVerse Apr 2023
The ssa sdrawkcab & ǝpᴉsdn uʍop
Transpansexual king (King Clown),
The reprobate-minded ice cream ****
Who's reprobate unto every good work,
Whose middle name is Robinette,
Is President Xi's personal pet.
calypso Jan 2022
warriors did not build
there barriers to be broken
made with a brave stone  
no push could penetrate

were an army of 86
to pull its length,
its fall would cause eruptions.
the land would be calm
never to experience destruction

where did they come from?
why do they build blocks?
how does an army dare
to divide the great wall?
my walls are my study block. i cant get myself to study for anything and I have my exams coming up. nice poem I got out of it.
der kuss Nov 2021
china white suits you best
on some strange day, you’re stranded in a desert
and i’m proud, you're brave and tall, you in that shirt

neither of us is a believer,
but i put my faith in you

we both know:
god is in the branch of trees, god is in your flimsy blue veins
a tiny silver speck in the blue yonder, and there i'll be
i'll have my eye on you

you’re fighting aliens again, sweetheart,
like in starcraft, they're somber and green and gray,
isn’t it strange that we might share the same dream,
despite being miles away?
you’re stout-hearted, but i think

you don’t have to be there
right back there christopher ray
you don't have to be there
nick armbrister Oct 2021
Fried Turtles
The little dog chews on the blue wire
His sharp teeth need blunting
So he picked this bomb wire to gnaw
He likes biting and such like
One of his main interests
His master’s fingers and boots
Car tires on parked cars
And his Holy toys
The gold cross from the church
That’s totally ******
Just like the blue wire he has
Look it’s now severed
And the bomb will explode
Killing ten million Chinese
Flattening central Shanghai
Good job the dog and wire
Are ten miles away
He’ll still get a tan
And ten million turtles
Will be totally ******* fried
It was a Taiwanese bomb…
from LIZARD SNAIL 124K Nick Armbrister and other writers OUT LATE 2021/EARLY 22
GaryFairy Oct 2021
Please don't cancel my culture
it's all I have got
it wasn't my choice to be born now
to be born here

sometimes I wish I had been born in another time
in another place
Some of those places are just history now
and not clear history

another time is history

history is hindsight, and without hindsight

we lose foresight
I come to post my razzle dazzle rhymes, and this ******* comes ******* good fertilizer?
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