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Michael R Burch May 2020
Song from Ælla: Under the Willow Tree, or, Minstrel's Song
by Thomas Chatterton, age 17 or younger
Modernization/Translation by Michael R. Burch

MYNSTRELLES SONGE ("MINSTREL'S SONG")

O! sing unto my roundelay,
O! drop the briny tear with me,
Dance no more at holy-day,
Like a running river be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

Black his crown as the winter night,
White his flesh as the summer snow
Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below:
My love is dead,  
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
      
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,                      
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O! he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven ***** his wing
In the briar'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares, as they go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud:
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud:
My love is dead,  
Gone to his death-bed          
All under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true-love's grave      
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid:
My love is dead,  
Gone to his death-bed          
All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll frame the briars
Round his holy corpse to grow:
Elf and fairy, light your fires,
Here my body, stilled, shall go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed          
All under the willow-tree.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's red blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day:
My love is dead,  
Gone to his death-bed          
All under the willow-tree.
          
Water witches, crowned with plaits,
Bear me to your lethal tide.
I die; I come; my true love waits.
Thus the damsel spoke, and died.

The song above is, in my opinion, competitive with Shakespeare's songs in his plays, and may be the best of Thomas Chatterton's Rowley poems. It seems rather obvious that this song was written in modern English, then "backdated." One wonders whether Chatterton wrote it in response to Shakespeare's "Under the Greenwood Tree." The greenwood tree or evergreen is a symbol of immortality. The "weeping willow" is a symbol of sorrow, and the greatest human sorrow is that of mortality and the separations caused by death. If Chatterton wrote his song as a refutation of Shakespeare's, I think he did a **** good job. But it's a splendid song in its own right.

William Blake is often considered to be the first English Romantic. Blake is the elder of the so-called “big six” of Blake, William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley and John Keats. I would add the great Scottish poet Robert Burns, making it a big seven. However, I believe Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley and Keats actually nominated an earlier poet as the first of their tribe: Thomas Chatterton. Unfortunately, Chatterton committed suicide in his teens, after being accused of literary fraud. What he did as a boy was astounding.

On this page, I prove that Thomas Chatterton could not possibly be guilty of the crime he was accused of:
(http://www.thehypertexts.com/Thomas%20Chatterton%20Modern%20English%20Translations%20Moderniza­tions%20Burch.htm)

Keywords/Tags: Chatterton, Romantic, Rowley, fraud, forger, forgery, roundelay, minstrel, song, Aella, willow
NAL May 2020
You soothed my raw skin with lotion,
but I know underneath your heart meant war;
so here's to the selfish, demimonde ******-
to the ones who'd **** up their own lives,
including yours.
They can talk all they want,
but at the end of the day, face-to-face,
they would kiss my *** and greet me with praise.

N.A.L
rig Mar 2020
unable to reach
incredible imageries
and be innocent.
fraudelle Feb 2020
Last year
I created a sea
By my tears

Dryness
Turn my sea
Not into dessert
But Into salt

That is why
I am so  attractive

Vengeance...
M Solav Dec 2019
So we may be taken — there
  without further adieu,
As the morning sun — shines
  on the morning dew.

  Irremediably
    connecting two dots,
  In immediacy,
    what we have lost!

Among the lunatic — and
  the natural fraud,
We stand unprepared — so
  ready to applaud.

  Irremediably
    connecting two dots,
  In immediacy,
    what we have lost!
Written in July 2017.


— Copyright © M. Solav —
This work may not be used in entirety or in part without the prior approval of its author. Please contact marsolav@outlook.com for usage requests. Thank you.
__________
jake aller Oct 2019
The Deep fake era is upon us


Every thing is fake these days

Everything is a fraud 
Prepare for the deep fake world
Fakery, fraud, and falsehoods abound
All artfully done
Killing the last shred of human decency left
Everything is a deep fake
these days
from my fake things poems see my web page for more fake poems https://theworldaccordingtocosmos.com
Randy Johnson Aug 2019
I stole one of Donald Trump's credit cards five years ago.
I spent ten million dollars and prison was where I had to go.
I bought a lot of expensive things, including a Ferrari.
I committed credit card fraud and I'm not at all sorry.
I hid everything I bought really well so that it can't be retrieved.
Trump has tried to find it but it's something he hasn't achieved.
Trump said he wouldn't press charges if I would give the merchandise back.
I gave him the finger and he spat on me so I had to give him a hard smack.
I slapped the taste out of the President's mouth and he started crying.
Even though Trump hasn't found the merchandise, he won't stop trying.
Yesterday, my sister planted a few of the stolen items in Hillary Clinton's house.
The police hauled Hillary away in handcuffs and they also arrested her spouse.
But Bill resisted arrest so the police had to use tear gas.
They also beat him with their billy clubs and kicked his ***.
The cops believe that Bill and Hillary were accomplices to my crime.
And that almost makes up for me having to do hard time.
Em MacKenzie Aug 2019
I’m breaking down along with our economy
and all around they only want more from me.
The end of my rope but I’ve been tethering,
searching out hope but it’s straining and weathering.
Who cares? There’s nothing good to find,
the never ending stairs within my mind,
I’ve kept going, without knowing,
and there’s no result showing.

If you ask me what I’ve wanted the most,
it’s to destroy this parasite; I’m not much of a host.
I’m just waiting, debating
and operating almost like a robot.
I walk alone, I have no home.

I think I’ll crash if I continue going at this rate,
or maybe just break down; it’s still up for debate.
It seems like everyone in the world is ******* me
except for the select few who I wouldn’t mind *******.
Wouldn’t it be exciting for our system to start igniting?
But you know we’d foot the bill
‘cause we’re paying them still.
They crave our money and vote but don’t care to hear us speak,
so my sincerest thanks for letting me work to barely eat.

If you ask me what I’ve wanted the most,
it’s to have an outside life; this routine’s made me a ghost.
It’s been draining, to be maintaining
this training to become a robot.

If you were to ask what our Country needed the most,
it’s lower taxes and more production from East to West coast.
We’re all slaving, and behaving
for laboursaving just like a robot.
I’m not alone, I notice each clone.
pa3que Aug 2019
Marie, took some fresh baked goods,
set her sail through blood-curdling  woods,
in search of a one who hearts can alter.
her heart broke a man,
and so with sedan,
she seeked the one who’d scrap her falter.

to prevail over cold,
she took some gold,
to pay the one who hearts can alter.
she traveled sad,
but reached a nomad,
who claimed “i’m the one who hearts can alter.”

he was a fraud,
very sharp-clawed,
he stole her gold and then he paltered.
took his leave,
with a thieve,
after saying “Marie, your heart is altered.”

“Oh, Marie naive,
do you still grieve?”
the nomad was actually a salter,
see in this ground,
there’s not around,
a single soul that hearts can alter.
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