Pointed Art
by Michael R. Burch

The point of art is that
there is no point.
(A grinning, quick-dissolving cat
from Cheshire
must have told you that.)

The point of art is this—
the hiss
of Cupid’s bright bolt, should it miss,
is bliss
compared to Truth’s neurotic kiss.

Keywords: art, Cheshire, cat, grin, vanishing, dissolving, Cupid, arrow, truth, kiss, bliss

Meleager translations

Meleager was a Greek poet who lived circa 140-70 BC. Meleager is most famous today for The Garland, an anthology he compiled from epigrammatic poems of his era and earlier. In his preface Meleager assigned each poet the name of a flower, shrub or herb (hence the term "anthology," which means "flower collection"). In his commentary on The Greek Anthology, editor and translator J. H. Merivale said that as a composer of epigrams Meleager was "very far superior" to the authors he included in The Garland.

If I am Syrian, what of it?
Stranger, we all dwell in one world, not its portals.
The same original Chaos gave birth to all mortals.
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Love, how can I call on you;
does Desire dwell next to the dead?
Cupid, that bold boy, never bowed his head to wail.
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Love, I swear,
your quiver holds only empty air,
for all your winged arrows, set free,
are now fixed in me.
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Love, if you incinerate my soul, touché!
For like you she has wings and can fly away!
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

When I see Theron everything’s revealed.
When he’s gone all’s concealed.
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

When I see Theron everything’s defined;
When he’s gone I’m blind.
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

When I see Theron my eyes bug out;
When he’s gone even sight is in doubt.
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Mother-Earth, to all men dear,
Aesigenes was never a burden to you,
thus rest lightly on him here.
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Meleager dedicates this lamp to you, dear Cypris, as a plaything,
since it has been initiated into the mysteries of your nocturnal ceremonies.
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I know you lied, because these ringlets
still dripping scented essences
betray your wantonness.
These also betray you—
your eyes sagging with the lack of sleep,
stray tendrils of your unchaste hair escaping its garlands,
your limbs uncoordinated by the wine.
Away, trollop, they summon you—
the reveling lyre and the clattering castanets rattled by lewd fingers!
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Moon and Stars,
lighting the way for lovers,
and Night,
and you, my mournful Mandolin, my ***** companion ...
when will we see her, the little wanton one, lying awake and moaning to her lamp?
Or does she embrace some other companion?
Then let me hang conciliatory garlands on her door,
wilted by my tears,
and let me inscribe thereon these words:
"For you, Cypris,
the one to whom you revealed the mysteries of your revels,
Meleager,
offers these spoiled tokens of his love."
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Tears, the last gifts of my love,
I send drenching down to you, Heliodora.
Here on your puddling tomb I pour them out—
soul-wrenching tears
in memory of affliction,
in memory of affection.
Piteously, so piteously Meleager mourns you,
you still so precious, so dear to him in death,
paying vain tributes to Acheron.
Alas! Alas! Where is my beautiful one, my heart's desire?
Death has taken her from me, has robbed me of her,
and the lustrous blossom lies trampled in dust.
But Mother-Earth, nurturer of us all ...
Mother, I beseech you, hold her gently to your *****,
the one we all bewail.
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Cupid, the cuddly baby,
safe in his mother's lap,
chucking the dice one day,
gambled my heart away.
—Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cupid/Eros, the god of love, was the son of the love goddess Venus/Aphrodite, so Meleager is humorously complaining, “Like mother, like cherubic son!”

I lie defeated. Set your foot on my neck. Checkmate.
I recognize you by your weight;
Yes, and by the gods, you’re a load to bear.
I am also well aware
of your fiery darts.
But if you seek to ignite human hearts,
******* with your tinders;
mine’s already in cinders.
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Silence!
They must have carried her off!
Who could be so barbaric,
to act with such violence,
to wage war against Love himself?
Quick, prepare the torches!
But wait!
A footfall, Heliodora's!
Get back in my *****, heart!
—Meleager, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Keywords/Tags: Meleager, translation, ancient Greek, epigram, Heliodora, garland, flower, anthology, Cupid, Eros

her wings were pierced.
though cupid never shot her,
she longed for love.

He goes through women like a food critic goes through a restaurant menu, one after another they were all flings and one night stands. But as his loneliness grows evermore, he comes to realize that one day he wouldn't want to give up a woman that fits all of his desires. That one day Cupid will catch up to him and lock the shackles of love to his ankles. He laughs it off as he orders another drink. Then she walks in, and he can feel those shackles close around tighter.

You confuse karate with love.
You punch, kick, and block.
You master the form,
Practice and practice.
You remember the creed.
Karate is not love.
You don’t kickstart the heart,
You can’t block love out,
Or punch it into submission.

I confuse love with poetry.
I read, write, and dream.
I master the edict of the pen,
Recite and recite.
I remember the sonnets.
Poetry is not love.
You don’t stanza the heart,
You can’t make a metaphor out of love,
Or personify it into breathing.

When will we learn?
When will you stop kicking Cupid?
When will I stop serenading him?
When will we stop this silly interpretation of love?

I don’t know,
But I’ll stop if you stop too.