#arthur - Hello Poetry

#arthur

Emerging from the darkness Where treasures of poetic genius are dug, Devouring indifference whose Inferno fire is hellishly young. Where hymns of oblivion are sung, Morose temperaments cling— Demon whining on each wing. Where Beelzebub skeletons hung. Where the death buzz nags and drags the soul to the valley of pangs. Emerging from the darkness, with an offering: A still Life of dry bones and Tormenting specters in a sarcophagus— Embalmed in all of us.

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Apr 20

Apr 20, 2026 at 3:41 PM UTC

A Still Life of Dry Bones

Emerging from the darkness Where treasures of poetic genius are dug, Devouring indifference whose Inferno fire is hellishly young. Where hymns of oblivion are sung, Morose temperaments cling— Demon whining on each wing. Where Beelzebub skeletons hung. Where the death buzz nags and drags the soul to the valley of pangs. Emerging from the darkness, with an offering: A still Life of dry bones and Tormenting specters in a sarcophagus— Embalmed in all of us.

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“The Dinosaurs went extinct because they did not have a space program.” Arthur. C. Clarke. I stand here at the checkout line “Paper or plastic?” the young Clerk states Unthinking and so innocent! (No knowledge of the bag’s long fate). They were big and wondrous Birds With flashing feathers, wild and free! The World was theirs. Forever so From Hill to Dale, and Swamp to Sea! For Sixty-Million-Dragon years! They danced and fought and sexed and loved! Knew nothing of dark, deadly rocks Hurled from the sizzling skies above! To them it was forever NOW; Tended their Young and won the skies. The few who saw the bad thing fall Gazed calmly with unknowing eyes. How suddenly their chirps were lost! One moment live, the next all gone! In but a blink the Birds were dead! We Mammals lived and carried on! Flash forward back ten million years. Big Boxes are our Planet’s fads. Big Bird’s goo, just auto food! Just gas and oil and plastic bags!

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Oct 3, 2025

Oct 3, 2025 at 7:01 PM UTC

elizabethhensley

“The Dinosaurs went extinct because they did not have a space program.” Arthur. C. Clarke. I stand here at the checkout line “Paper or plastic?” the young Clerk states Unthinking and so innocent! (No knowledge of the bag’s long fate). They were big and wondrous Birds With flashing feathers, wild and free! The World was theirs. Forever so From Hill to Dale, and Swamp to Sea! For Sixty-Million-Dragon years! They danced and fought and sexed and loved! Knew nothing of dark, deadly rocks Hurled from the sizzling skies above! To them it was forever NOW; Tended their Young and won the skies. The few who saw the bad thing fall Gazed calmly with unknowing eyes. How suddenly their chirps were lost! One moment live, the next all gone! In but a blink the Birds were dead! We Mammals lived and carried on! Flash forward back ten million years. Big Boxes are our Planet’s fads. Big Bird’s goo, just auto food! Just gas and oil and plastic bags!

Continue reading...

These are my English translations of French poems by Arthur Rimbaud... Ophélie (“Ophelia”), an Excerpt by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch On pitiless black waves unsinking stars abide ... while pale Ophelia, a lethargic lily, drifts by ... Here, tangled in her veils, she floats on the tide ... Far-off, in the woods, we hear the strident bugle’s cry. For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia, This albescent phantom, has rocked here, to and fro. For a thousand years, or more, in her gentle folly, Ophelia has rocked here when the night breezes blow. For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia, Has passed, an albescent phantom, down this long black river. For a thousand years, or more, in her sweet madness Ophelia has made this river shiver. *** Le Bateau ivre (“The Drunken Boat”), an Excerpt by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The impassive river carried me downstream as howling warriors slashed the bargemen's throats, then nailed them, naked, to their former posts, while I observed all idly, in a dream. What did I care about the slaughtered crew, the Flemish barley or the English freight? The river had taught me how to navigate, but otherwise? It seemed so much “ado.” *** Drunken Morning, or, Morning of Drunkenness by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Oh, my Beautiful! Oh, my Good! Hideous fanfare wherein I won’t stumble! Oh, rack of splendid enchantments! Huzzah for the virginal! Huzzah for the immaculate work! For the marvelous body! It began amid children’s mirth; where too it must end. This poison? ’Twill remain in our veins till the fanfare subsides, when we return to our former discord. May we, so deserving of these agonies, may we now recreate ourselves after our body’s and soul’s superhuman promise— that promise, that madness! Elegance, senescence, violence! They promised to bury knowledge in the shadows—the tree of good and evil— to deport despotic respectability so that we might effloresce pure-petaled love. It began with hellish disgust but ended —because we weren’t able to grasp eternity immediately— in a panicked riot of perfumes. Children’s laughter, slaves’ discretion, the austerity of virgins, loathsome temporal faces and objects— all hallowed by the sacredness of this vigil! Although it began with loutish boorishness, behold! it ends among angels of ice and flame. My little drunken vigil, so holy, so blessed! My little lost eve of drunkenness! Praise for the mask you provided us! Method, we affirm you! Let us never forget that yesterday you glorified our emergence, then each of our subsequent ages. We have faith in your poison. We give you our lives completely, every day. Behold, the assassin's hour! *** L'Eternité (“ Eternity”) by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Where does Eternity dwell? In the sea, run beyond the setting sun. Implacable Sentinel, murmuring the soul’s confessions of night’s barrenness and days ablaze. Inhuman votary! Free of human impulses and penitence, you flee accordingly. Since the beginning of time you have stood alone, amid shimmering embers, exuding voicelessly: “There is no hope, no logical orientation, no future revelation of patient science, only the inhuman torture.” Where does Eternity dwell? In the sea, run beyond the setting sun. *** Les Illuminations II: Enfance (“Childhood”) by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch II. The little girl lies dead, behind the rosebushes. – The young mother, deceased, descends the steps. – The cousin’s carriage squeaks through sand. – The little brother (he’s in India!) lies facing the sunset in a meadow of carnations. – The old ones are buried upright in ramparts overgrown with wallflowers. Swarms of golden leaves surround the General’s house. They’re in the south. – Follow the red road to arrive at the empty inn. The chateau’s for sale; its shutters flap. – The priest’s taken the key to the church. – The keepers’ cottages are tenantless, the fences so high only rustling treetops are visible. Oh well, there’s nothing much to be seen, besides. The meadows rise to hamlets without roosters, without anvils. The sluice gate is raised, the waters rise. O the wilderness’s crosses and windmills, its islands and millstones! Magic flowers buzzed. Embankments cradled him. Creatures of fabulous elegance encircled him. Clouds accumulating over open seas unleashed an eternity of warm tears. IV. I am the saint praying on the portico, watching docile beasts graze down to Palestine’s sea. I am the scholar in the dark armchair as whipping branches and rain hurl themselves at the library’s shutters. I am the pedestrian on the path through stunted woods; the ****** of clicking locks anticipates my steps. For a long time I pause to ponder the sunset’s melancholy golden demise. I am the child abandoned on the jetty jutting out toward the high seas, the small valet whose forehead brushes the sky as he navigates an alley. The trails are rough, their mounds haired with broom. The air is so still, so silent! How distant, the birds and the rills! The end of the world must lie ahead. *** Illuminations VIII: Départ (“Departure”) by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I’ve seen enough: the same vision encountered under all skies. I’ve had enough: the rumors of cities, by night and by day, the same light, always. I’ve known enough: life’s tedious decrees, its rumors and visions! It’s time for departure into new affections, new noises! *** Sensation by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch On blue summer evenings, I’ll stroll the paths, Pricked by the wheat, tickled by the grass; Dreamily, I’ll feel the freshness at my feet, Breathe the wind, then sigh, complete. I will not speak, nor think, nor muse at all, Yet boundless love will surge within my soul. And I will wander far away, like a gypsy, As happy with Nature as any woman’s company. *** Antico (“Ancient” or “Antique”) by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Graceful son of Pan! Around your brow, crowned with flowers and berries, your eyes, lustrous spheres, revolve. Your cheeks, stained with wine sediments, seem hollow. Your white fangs gleam. Your lyre-like chest! Chords pour from your blonde arms! Strong heartbeats resound in the abdomen where the double *** sleeps! You stalk the night, gently moving first this thigh, then the other, then the left leg. *** Song of the Highest Tower by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Let it come, let it come, The day when all hearts love as one. I’ve endured so long That I’d even forgotten The pain and the terror. I’ve visited heaven, And yet a morbid thirst Still darkens my veins. Let it come, let it come, The day when all hearts love as one. Thus the neglected meadow Given over to oblivion Flowered, overgrown With weeds and incense As hordes of filthy flies Buzzed nearby. Let it come, let it come, The day when all hearts love as one. *** Rêvé Pour l'hiver (“Winter Dream”) by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Come winter, we’ll leave in a little pink carriage With blue cushions. We’ll be comfortable, snuggled in our nest of crazy kisses. You’ll close your eyes, preferring not to see, through the darkening glass, The evening’s shadows leering. Those snarling monstrosities, that pandemonium of black demons and black wolves. Then you’ll feel your cheek scratched... A little kiss, like a crazed spider, will tickle your neck... And you’ll say to me: "Get it!" as you tilt your head back, and we’ll take a long time to find the crafty creature, the way it gets around... *** Dawn by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I embraced the august dawn. Nothing stirred the palaces. The water lay dead still. Battalions of shadows still shrouded the forest paths. I walked briskly, dreaming the gemlike stones watched as wings soared soundlessly. My first adventure, on a path now faintly aglow with glitterings, was a flower who whispered her name. I laughed at the silver waterfall teasing me nakedly through pines; then on her summit, I recognized the goddess. One by one, I lifted her veils, in that tree-lined lane, waving my arms across the plain, as I notified the **** Back to the city, she fled among the roofs and the steeples; scrambling like a beggar down the marble quays, I chased her. Above the road near a laurel thicket, I caught her in gathered veils and felt her immense body. Dawn and the child collapsed together at the edge of the wood. When I awoke, it was noon.

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Feb 22, 2025

Feb 22, 2025 at 7:11 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Arthur Rimbaud English Translations by Michael R. Burch

These are my English translations of French poems by Arthur Rimbaud... Ophélie (“Ophelia”), an Excerpt by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch On pitiless black waves unsinking stars abide ... while pale Ophelia, a lethargic lily, drifts by ... Here, tangled in her veils, she floats on the tide ... Far-off, in the woods, we hear the strident bugle’s cry. For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia, This albescent phantom, has rocked here, to and fro. For a thousand years, or more, in her gentle folly, Ophelia has rocked here when the night breezes blow. For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia, Has passed, an albescent phantom, down this long black river. For a thousand years, or more, in her sweet madness Ophelia has made this river shiver. *** Le Bateau ivre (“The Drunken Boat”), an Excerpt by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The impassive river carried me downstream as howling warriors slashed the bargemen's throats, then nailed them, naked, to their former posts, while I observed all idly, in a dream. What did I care about the slaughtered crew, the Flemish barley or the English freight? The river had taught me how to navigate, but otherwise? It seemed so much “ado.” *** Drunken Morning, or, Morning of Drunkenness by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Oh, my Beautiful! Oh, my Good! Hideous fanfare wherein I won’t stumble! Oh, rack of splendid enchantments! Huzzah for the virginal! Huzzah for the immaculate work! For the marvelous body! It began amid children’s mirth; where too it must end. This poison? ’Twill remain in our veins till the fanfare subsides, when we return to our former discord. May we, so deserving of these agonies, may we now recreate ourselves after our body’s and soul’s superhuman promise— that promise, that madness! Elegance, senescence, violence! They promised to bury knowledge in the shadows—the tree of good and evil— to deport despotic respectability so that we might effloresce pure-petaled love. It began with hellish disgust but ended —because we weren’t able to grasp eternity immediately— in a panicked riot of perfumes. Children’s laughter, slaves’ discretion, the austerity of virgins, loathsome temporal faces and objects— all hallowed by the sacredness of this vigil! Although it began with loutish boorishness, behold! it ends among angels of ice and flame. My little drunken vigil, so holy, so blessed! My little lost eve of drunkenness! Praise for the mask you provided us! Method, we affirm you! Let us never forget that yesterday you glorified our emergence, then each of our subsequent ages. We have faith in your poison. We give you our lives completely, every day. Behold, the assassin's hour! *** L'Eternité (“ Eternity”) by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Where does Eternity dwell? In the sea, run beyond the setting sun. Implacable Sentinel, murmuring the soul’s confessions of night’s barrenness and days ablaze. Inhuman votary! Free of human impulses and penitence, you flee accordingly. Since the beginning of time you have stood alone, amid shimmering embers, exuding voicelessly: “There is no hope, no logical orientation, no future revelation of patient science, only the inhuman torture.” Where does Eternity dwell? In the sea, run beyond the setting sun. *** Les Illuminations II: Enfance (“Childhood”) by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch II. The little girl lies dead, behind the rosebushes. – The young mother, deceased, descends the steps. – The cousin’s carriage squeaks through sand. – The little brother (he’s in India!) lies facing the sunset in a meadow of carnations. – The old ones are buried upright in ramparts overgrown with wallflowers. Swarms of golden leaves surround the General’s house. They’re in the south. – Follow the red road to arrive at the empty inn. The chateau’s for sale; its shutters flap. – The priest’s taken the key to the church. – The keepers’ cottages are tenantless, the fences so high only rustling treetops are visible. Oh well, there’s nothing much to be seen, besides. The meadows rise to hamlets without roosters, without anvils. The sluice gate is raised, the waters rise. O the wilderness’s crosses and windmills, its islands and millstones! Magic flowers buzzed. Embankments cradled him. Creatures of fabulous elegance encircled him. Clouds accumulating over open seas unleashed an eternity of warm tears. IV. I am the saint praying on the portico, watching docile beasts graze down to Palestine’s sea. I am the scholar in the dark armchair as whipping branches and rain hurl themselves at the library’s shutters. I am the pedestrian on the path through stunted woods; the ****** of clicking locks anticipates my steps. For a long time I pause to ponder the sunset’s melancholy golden demise. I am the child abandoned on the jetty jutting out toward the high seas, the small valet whose forehead brushes the sky as he navigates an alley. The trails are rough, their mounds haired with broom. The air is so still, so silent! How distant, the birds and the rills! The end of the world must lie ahead. *** Illuminations VIII: Départ (“Departure”) by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I’ve seen enough: the same vision encountered under all skies. I’ve had enough: the rumors of cities, by night and by day, the same light, always. I’ve known enough: life’s tedious decrees, its rumors and visions! It’s time for departure into new affections, new noises! *** Sensation by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch On blue summer evenings, I’ll stroll the paths, Pricked by the wheat, tickled by the grass; Dreamily, I’ll feel the freshness at my feet, Breathe the wind, then sigh, complete. I will not speak, nor think, nor muse at all, Yet boundless love will surge within my soul. And I will wander far away, like a gypsy, As happy with Nature as any woman’s company. *** Antico (“Ancient” or “Antique”) by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Graceful son of Pan! Around your brow, crowned with flowers and berries, your eyes, lustrous spheres, revolve. Your cheeks, stained with wine sediments, seem hollow. Your white fangs gleam. Your lyre-like chest! Chords pour from your blonde arms! Strong heartbeats resound in the abdomen where the double *** sleeps! You stalk the night, gently moving first this thigh, then the other, then the left leg. *** Song of the Highest Tower by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Let it come, let it come, The day when all hearts love as one. I’ve endured so long That I’d even forgotten The pain and the terror. I’ve visited heaven, And yet a morbid thirst Still darkens my veins. Let it come, let it come, The day when all hearts love as one. Thus the neglected meadow Given over to oblivion Flowered, overgrown With weeds and incense As hordes of filthy flies Buzzed nearby. Let it come, let it come, The day when all hearts love as one. *** Rêvé Pour l'hiver (“Winter Dream”) by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Come winter, we’ll leave in a little pink carriage With blue cushions. We’ll be comfortable, snuggled in our nest of crazy kisses. You’ll close your eyes, preferring not to see, through the darkening glass, The evening’s shadows leering. Those snarling monstrosities, that pandemonium of black demons and black wolves. Then you’ll feel your cheek scratched... A little kiss, like a crazed spider, will tickle your neck... And you’ll say to me: "Get it!" as you tilt your head back, and we’ll take a long time to find the crafty creature, the way it gets around... *** Dawn by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I embraced the august dawn. Nothing stirred the palaces. The water lay dead still. Battalions of shadows still shrouded the forest paths. I walked briskly, dreaming the gemlike stones watched as wings soared soundlessly. My first adventure, on a path now faintly aglow with glitterings, was a flower who whispered her name. I laughed at the silver waterfall teasing me nakedly through pines; then on her summit, I recognized the goddess. One by one, I lifted her veils, in that tree-lined lane, waving my arms across the plain, as I notified the **** Back to the city, she fled among the roofs and the steeples; scrambling like a beggar down the marble quays, I chased her. Above the road near a laurel thicket, I caught her in gathered veils and felt her immense body. Dawn and the child collapsed together at the edge of the wood. When I awoke, it was noon.

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When you were bold Sir Lancelot and I was a lady fair we cast our fortune to the wind and love was free as air When you were old Sir Lancelot and I was a lady fair I never thought there would come a time when you would not be there When you were gone Sir Lancelot I missed you being near you left a sad and grieving maid your lonely Guinevere

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Apr 2, 2023

Apr 2, 2023 at 12:47 PM UTC

When you were bold Sir Lancelot and I was a lady fair we cast our fortune to the wind and love was free as air When you were old Sir Lancelot and I was a lady fair I never thought there would come a time when you would not be there When you were gone Sir Lancelot I missed you being near you left a sad and grieving maid your lonely Guinevere

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For two years, I wondered. Where were you? How are you? What happened? For two years, I searched. Every hint, sign, detail, "Is there something I've missed?" I recalled. For two years, I tried. To forgive, to move forward, to set you free. Yes, I think I did. For two years, I hoped. That you also wondered, searched, recalled, and maybe tried. For two years, I prayed. To keep you safe, happy, successful, and well-loved. Two years later, you answered. You remembered, you allowed yourself to be found. You tried, I believe you did. Two years later, I still pray. To keep you safe, happy and successful in my open arms. That for the next two years to stay, I may love you just well-enough.

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Aug 3, 2022

Aug 3, 2022 at 3:15 AM UTC

Two Years (Arthur - Part 3)

For two years, I wondered. Where were you? How are you? What happened? For two years, I searched. Every hint, sign, detail, "Is there something I've missed?" I recalled. For two years, I tried. To forgive, to move forward, to set you free. Yes, I think I did. For two years, I hoped. That you also wondered, searched, recalled, and maybe tried. For two years, I prayed. To keep you safe, happy, successful, and well-loved. Two years later, you answered. You remembered, you allowed yourself to be found. You tried, I believe you did. Two years later, I still pray. To keep you safe, happy and successful in my open arms. That for the next two years to stay, I may love you just well-enough.

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Kiriaki Olivia Eleni Mada-lozi from Piraeus Greece Billy ugly Marcia, Sherry Shriki, Darni, Judy Gim, Alb- tch, Jeff Albr.. Henry Robert W Impotent ejaculator precosē. Charles manson's advocates; Henry Robert narcissistic your sociopath psychopath nurse from hell in LA CA. You aren't above the law Poisoners sterile hainas Susan WRat no. **** human predators human traficants to hell with you all- ratas inmundas! Emilia Velazquez thief IHSS should put you in jail And immigration take your green card stealing my savings and stimulus money cashed. Shame on you rata inmunda ladrona. Filthy rats Creeping animals **** of life Shoddy monstrosity. Subhuman Spectres of Hell **** vermins How much damaged you've done to me and my daughter's Poisoning them with hallucinogenic metamphetamins psychotropics without them knowing Then, blackmailing them to give up their parental rights to sterile haenas jealous medeas Add insult to injury to my family forcing psychiatric pill intake to hide your ancient crimes Your hate crime is now public susan ra-t-ano hell ***** You bought my grown daughter from the human predators I had escaped from 1982. Coward filthy **** ***** Vermin word raitano Poisonous serpent Waste of life I hate you and despise you. Two-legged rats I'm talking to you all because creeping creatures, even being the most cursed, compared to your evildoers vermin human predators, a creeping snake stands taller than you all. **** leeches **** cockraoches you who infects with bites, who hurts and who kills. Slanders trashing whoever is holy good and precious You Vermin Poisonous serpents Waste of life I hate you and despise you. I bind to you all my motherly pain I curse you in every life time. Two-legged filthy rats, I'm talking to you! because a creeping creature, even being the most cursed and ugly, in hell, on Earth unwelcome in heaven, compared to you **** brains. stands much taller. You're listening to me useless Hyena of Hell How much I hate you and despise you! **** leech **** cockraoch you who infects with bites, who hurts and who kills. Vermin Poisonous serpents In everyone's paradise. Waste of life I hate you and despise you. Two-legged my filthy rats I'm talking to you too ***** donors madalozi charms.bos henry welonek. because a creeping creature, even being the most cursed compared to you You stand even smaller. ~~~~~~~ Repost. By Paquita del Barrio And Karijinbba. 1976-present All Rights.

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Mar 8, 2021

Mar 8, 2021 at 9:35 PM UTC

Henry R W. ElizabethWG Susan W Rat no Arthur R

Kiriaki Olivia Eleni Mada-lozi from Piraeus Greece Billy ugly Marcia, Sherry Shriki, Darni, Judy Gim, Alb- tch, Jeff Albr.. Henry Robert W Impotent ejaculator precosē. Charles manson's advocates; Henry Robert narcissistic your sociopath psychopath nurse from hell in LA CA. You aren't above the law Poisoners sterile hainas Susan WRat no. **** human predators human traficants to hell with you all- ratas inmundas! Emilia Velazquez thief IHSS should put you in jail And immigration take your green card stealing my savings and stimulus money cashed. Shame on you rata inmunda ladrona. Filthy rats Creeping animals **** of life Shoddy monstrosity. Subhuman Spectres of Hell **** vermins How much damaged you've done to me and my daughter's Poisoning them with hallucinogenic metamphetamins psychotropics without them knowing Then, blackmailing them to give up their parental rights to sterile haenas jealous medeas Add insult to injury to my family forcing psychiatric pill intake to hide your ancient crimes Your hate crime is now public susan ra-t-ano hell ***** You bought my grown daughter from the human predators I had escaped from 1982. Coward filthy **** ***** Vermin word raitano Poisonous serpent Waste of life I hate you and despise you. Two-legged rats I'm talking to you all because creeping creatures, even being the most cursed, compared to your evildoers vermin human predators, a creeping snake stands taller than you all. **** leeches **** cockraoches you who infects with bites, who hurts and who kills. Slanders trashing whoever is holy good and precious You Vermin Poisonous serpents Waste of life I hate you and despise you. I bind to you all my motherly pain I curse you in every life time. Two-legged filthy rats, I'm talking to you! because a creeping creature, even being the most cursed and ugly, in hell, on Earth unwelcome in heaven, compared to you **** brains. stands much taller. You're listening to me useless Hyena of Hell How much I hate you and despise you! **** leech **** cockraoch you who infects with bites, who hurts and who kills. Vermin Poisonous serpents In everyone's paradise. Waste of life I hate you and despise you. Two-legged my filthy rats I'm talking to you too ***** donors madalozi charms.bos henry welonek. because a creeping creature, even being the most cursed compared to you You stand even smaller. ~~~~~~~ Repost. By Paquita del Barrio And Karijinbba. 1976-present All Rights.

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One of you continues to **** my head E-mailing from HP covertly unprovoqued. Your hateful angry senseless defecated words are your property not me. "My roses aren't planted in your dark nasty places for your misery and pain" You aren't the center of my Universe come out from your dark cloud stop your pooping rain on me find another victim. Satan doesn't want you in hell and God won't let you in heaven. ~~~ By: karijinbba, 2020.

0

Feb 20, 2021

Feb 20, 2021 at 11:46 PM UTC

Cease and desist.

One of you continues to **** my head E-mailing from HP covertly unprovoqued. Your hateful angry senseless defecated words are your property not me. "My roses aren't planted in your dark nasty places for your misery and pain" You aren't the center of my Universe come out from your dark cloud stop your pooping rain on me find another victim. Satan doesn't want you in hell and God won't let you in heaven. ~~~ By: karijinbba, 2020.

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You left, and that was it. What happened to the beautiful days? We were still alright when the sun rose, What happened when the sun sets? I’ve been grateful for every day with you, How can I be grateful now that you’re gone? You were once my peace, Now I can’t be at peace. So many questions left unanswered, Not a single word, not a chance for goodbye. I opened my eyes, and that was it. I didn’t know, but I wish I did. On my Nadir, I am now to be found. Regrets, tell me, which one? Where to go? How to continue? Today, I bleed and grieve, And I guess, this is just it.

0

Jul 10, 2020

Jul 10, 2020 at 3:19 AM UTC

Nadir (Arthur - Part 2)

You left, and that was it. What happened to the beautiful days? We were still alright when the sun rose, What happened when the sun sets? I’ve been grateful for every day with you, How can I be grateful now that you’re gone? You were once my peace, Now I can’t be at peace. So many questions left unanswered, Not a single word, not a chance for goodbye. I opened my eyes, and that was it. I didn’t know, but I wish I did. On my Nadir, I am now to be found. Regrets, tell me, which one? Where to go? How to continue? Today, I bleed and grieve, And I guess, this is just it.

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Truces by Michael R. Burch Artur took Cabal, his hound, and Carwennan, his knife, and his sword forged by Wayland and Merlyn, his falcon, and, saying goodbye to his sons and his wife, he strode to the Table Rounde. “Here is my spear, Rhongomyniad, and here is Wygar that I wear, and ready for war, an oath I foreswore to fight for all that is righteous and fair from Wales to the towers of Gilead!” But none could be found to contest him, for Lancelot had slewn them, forsooth, so he hastened back home, for to rest him, till his wife bade him, “Thatch up the roof!” We must sometimes wonder if all the fighting related to King Arthur and his knights was really necessary. In particular, it seems that Lancelot fought and either captured or killed a fairly large percentage of the population of England. Could it be that Arthur preferred to fight than stay at home and do domestic chores? And, honestly now, if he and his knights were such incredible warriors, who would have been silly enough to do battle with them? Wygar was the name of Arthur’s hauberk, or armored tunic, which was supposedly fashioned by one Witege or Widia, possibly the son of Wayland Smith. Legends suggest that Excalibur was forged upon the anvil of the smith-god Wayland, who was also known as Volund, which sounds suspiciously like Vulcan. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, armor, sword, Excalibur, spear, Lancelot, wife, domestic chores, war, peace, homework

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Apr 18, 2020

Apr 18, 2020 at 1:17 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Truces by Michael R. Burch Artur took Cabal, his hound, and Carwennan, his knife, and his sword forged by Wayland and Merlyn, his falcon, and, saying goodbye to his sons and his wife, he strode to the Table Rounde. “Here is my spear, Rhongomyniad, and here is Wygar that I wear, and ready for war, an oath I foreswore to fight for all that is righteous and fair from Wales to the towers of Gilead!” But none could be found to contest him, for Lancelot had slewn them, forsooth, so he hastened back home, for to rest him, till his wife bade him, “Thatch up the roof!” We must sometimes wonder if all the fighting related to King Arthur and his knights was really necessary. In particular, it seems that Lancelot fought and either captured or killed a fairly large percentage of the population of England. Could it be that Arthur preferred to fight than stay at home and do domestic chores? And, honestly now, if he and his knights were such incredible warriors, who would have been silly enough to do battle with them? Wygar was the name of Arthur’s hauberk, or armored tunic, which was supposedly fashioned by one Witege or Widia, possibly the son of Wayland Smith. Legends suggest that Excalibur was forged upon the anvil of the smith-god Wayland, who was also known as Volund, which sounds suspiciously like Vulcan. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, armor, sword, Excalibur, spear, Lancelot, wife, domestic chores, war, peace, homework

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Small Tales by Michael R. Burch When Artur and Cai and Bedwyr were but scrawny lads they had many a ***** adventure in the still glades of Gwynedd. When the sun beat down like an oven upon the kiln-hot hills and the scorched shores of Carmarthen, they went searching and found Manawydan, the son of Llyr. They fought a day and a night with Cath Pulag (or a screeching kitten), rousted Pen Palach, then drank a beer and told quite a talltale or two, "till thems wasn’t so shore which’un’s tails wus true." And these have been passed down to me, and to you. According to legend, Arthur and Kay grew up together in Ector’s court, Kay being a few years older than Arthur. Borrowing from Mary Stewart, I am assuming that Bedwyr (later Anglicized to Bedivere) might have befriended Arthur at an early age. By some accounts, Bedwyr was the original Lancelot. In any case, imagine the adventures these young heroes might have pursued (or dreamed up, to excuse tardiness or “lost” homework assignments). Manawydan and Llyr were ancient Welsh gods. Cath Pulag was a monstrous, clawing cat. (“Sorry teach! My theme paper on Homer was torn up by a cat bigger than a dragon! And meaner, too!”) Pen Palach is more or less a mystery, or perhaps just another old drinking buddy with a few good beery-bleary tales of his own. This poem assumes that many of the more outlandish Arthurian legends began more or less as “small tales,” little white lies which simply got larger and larger with each retelling. It also assumes that most of these tales came about just as the lads reached that age when boys fancy themselves men, and spend much of their free time drinking and puking! Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, boy, boyhood, ***** drinking, beer, ale, tall tales, Wales

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Apr 18, 2020

Apr 18, 2020 at 12:50 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Small Tales by Michael R. Burch When Artur and Cai and Bedwyr were but scrawny lads they had many a ***** adventure in the still glades of Gwynedd. When the sun beat down like an oven upon the kiln-hot hills and the scorched shores of Carmarthen, they went searching and found Manawydan, the son of Llyr. They fought a day and a night with Cath Pulag (or a screeching kitten), rousted Pen Palach, then drank a beer and told quite a talltale or two, "till thems wasn’t so shore which’un’s tails wus true." And these have been passed down to me, and to you. According to legend, Arthur and Kay grew up together in Ector’s court, Kay being a few years older than Arthur. Borrowing from Mary Stewart, I am assuming that Bedwyr (later Anglicized to Bedivere) might have befriended Arthur at an early age. By some accounts, Bedwyr was the original Lancelot. In any case, imagine the adventures these young heroes might have pursued (or dreamed up, to excuse tardiness or “lost” homework assignments). Manawydan and Llyr were ancient Welsh gods. Cath Pulag was a monstrous, clawing cat. (“Sorry teach! My theme paper on Homer was torn up by a cat bigger than a dragon! And meaner, too!”) Pen Palach is more or less a mystery, or perhaps just another old drinking buddy with a few good beery-bleary tales of his own. This poem assumes that many of the more outlandish Arthurian legends began more or less as “small tales,” little white lies which simply got larger and larger with each retelling. It also assumes that most of these tales came about just as the lads reached that age when boys fancy themselves men, and spend much of their free time drinking and puking! Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, boy, boyhood, ***** drinking, beer, ale, tall tales, Wales

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The Wild Hunt by Michael R. Burch Near Devon, the hunters appear in the sky with Artur and Bedwyr sounding the call; and the others, laughing, go dashing by. They only appear when the moon is full: Valerin, the King of the Tangled Wood, and Valynt, the goodly King of Wales, Gawain and Owain and the hearty men who live on in many minstrels’ tales. They seek the white stag on a moonlit moor, or Torc Triath, the fabled boar, or Ysgithyrwyn, or Twrch Trwyth, the other mighty boars of myth. They appear, sometimes, on Halloween to chase the moon across the green, then fade into the shadowed hills where memory alone prevails. Published by Celtic Twilight, Celtic Lifestyles, Boston Poetry and Auldwicce. Few legends have inspired more poetry than those of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. These legends have their roots in a far older Celtic mythology than many realize. Here the names are ancient and compelling. Arthur becomes Artur or Artos, “the bear.” Bedivere becomes Bedwyr. Lancelot is Llenlleawc, Llwch Lleminiawg or Lluch Llauynnauc. Merlin is Myrddin. And there is an curious intermingling of Welsh and Irish names within these legends, indicating that some tales (and the names of the heroes and villains) were in all probability “borrowed” by one Celtic tribe from another. For instance, in the Welsh poem “Pa gur,” the Welsh Manawydan son of Llyr is clearly equivalent to the Irish Mannanan mac Lir. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, wild hunt, Halloween, Artur, Bedwyr, Valerin, Valynt, Gawain, Owain, Devon, Wales

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Apr 18, 2020

Apr 18, 2020 at 12:18 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

The Wild Hunt by Michael R. Burch Near Devon, the hunters appear in the sky with Artur and Bedwyr sounding the call; and the others, laughing, go dashing by. They only appear when the moon is full: Valerin, the King of the Tangled Wood, and Valynt, the goodly King of Wales, Gawain and Owain and the hearty men who live on in many minstrels’ tales. They seek the white stag on a moonlit moor, or Torc Triath, the fabled boar, or Ysgithyrwyn, or Twrch Trwyth, the other mighty boars of myth. They appear, sometimes, on Halloween to chase the moon across the green, then fade into the shadowed hills where memory alone prevails. Published by Celtic Twilight, Celtic Lifestyles, Boston Poetry and Auldwicce. Few legends have inspired more poetry than those of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. These legends have their roots in a far older Celtic mythology than many realize. Here the names are ancient and compelling. Arthur becomes Artur or Artos, “the bear.” Bedivere becomes Bedwyr. Lancelot is Llenlleawc, Llwch Lleminiawg or Lluch Llauynnauc. Merlin is Myrddin. And there is an curious intermingling of Welsh and Irish names within these legends, indicating that some tales (and the names of the heroes and villains) were in all probability “borrowed” by one Celtic tribe from another. For instance, in the Welsh poem “Pa gur,” the Welsh Manawydan son of Llyr is clearly equivalent to the Irish Mannanan mac Lir. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, wild hunt, Halloween, Artur, Bedwyr, Valerin, Valynt, Gawain, Owain, Devon, Wales

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The Last Enchantment by Michael R. Burch Oh, Lancelot, my truest friend, how time has thinned your ragged mane and pinched your features; still you seem though, much, much changed—somehow unchanged. Your sword hand is, as ever, ready, although the time for swords has passed. Your eyes are fierce, and yet so steady meeting mine ... you must not ask. The time is not, nor ever shall be, for Merlyn’s words were only words; and now his last enchantment wanes, and we must put aside our swords ... Originally published by Trinacria. Keywords/Tags: Lancelot, King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, sword, swords, England, stone, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, loyalty, friendship, magic, prophecy, Once and Future King, Celtic, Anglo-Saxon Northern Flight: Lancelot's Last Love Letter to Guinevere by Michael R. Burch "Get thee to a nunnery..." Now that the days have lengthened, I assume the shadows also lengthen where you pause to watch the sun and comprehend its laws, or just to shiver in the deepening gloom. But nothing in your antiquarian eyes nor anything beyond your failing vision repeals the night. Religion's circumcision has left us worlds apart, but who's more wise? I think I know you better now than then— and love you all the more, because you are ... so distant. I can love you from afar, forgiving your flight north, far from brute men, because your fear's well-founded: God, forbid, was bound to fail you here, as mortals did. Originally published by Rotary Dial These Arthurian poems by Michael R. Burch are based on mysterious ancient Celtic myths that predate by centuries the Christianized legends most readers are familiar with. At Tintagel by Michael R. Burch That night, at Tintagel, there was darkness such as man had never seen... darkness and treachery, and the unholy thundering of the sea... In his arms, who is to say how much she knew? And if he whispered her name... "Ygraine" could she tell above the howling wind and rain? Could she tell, or did she care, by the length of his hair or the heat of his flesh,... that her faceless companion was Uther, the dragon, and Gorlois lay dead? Originally published by Songs of Innocence, then subsequently by Celtic Twilight, Fables, Fickle Muses and Poetry Life & Times Isolde's Song by Michael R. Burch Through our long years of dreaming to be one we grew toward an enigmatic light that gently warmed our tendrils. Was it sun? We had no eyes to tell; we loved despite the lack of all sensation—all but one: we felt the night's deep chill, the air so bright at dawn we quivered limply, overcome. To touch was all we knew, and how to bask. We knew to touch; we grew to touch; we felt spring's urgency, midsummer's heat, fall's lash, wild winter's ice and thaw and fervent melt. We felt returning light and could not ask its meaning, or if something was withheld more glorious. To touch seemed life's great task. At last the petal of me learned: unfold and you were there, surrounding me. We touched. The curious golden pollens! Ah, we touched, and learned to cling and, finally, to hold. Originally published by The Raintown Review, where it was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. The Wild Hunt by Michael R. Burch Near Devon, the hunters appear in the sky with Artur and Bedwyr sounding the call; and the others, laughing, go dashing by. They only appear when the moon is full: Valerin, the King of the Tangled Wood, and Valynt, the goodly King of Wales, Gawain and Owain and the hearty men who live on in many minstrels' tales. They seek the white stag on a moonlit moor, or Torc Triath, the fabled boar, or Ysgithyrwyn, or Twrch Trwyth, the other mighty boars of myth. They appear, sometimes, on Halloween to chase the moon across the green, then fade into the shadowed hills where memory alone prevails. Originally published by Celtic Twilight, then by Celtic Lifestyles and Auldwicce Morgause's Song by Michael R. Burch Before he was my brother, he was my lover, though certainly not the best. I found no joy in that addled boy, nor he at my breast. Why him? Why him? The years grow dim. Now it's harder and harder to say... Perhaps girls and boys are the god's toys when the skies are gray. Originally published by Celtic Twilight as "The First Time" Pellinore's Fancy by Michael R. Burch What do you do when your wife is a nag and has sworn you to hunt neither fish, fowl, nor stag? When the land is at peace, but at home you have none, Is that, perchance, when... the Questing Beasts run? Lance-Lot by Michael R. Burch Preposterous bird! Inelegant! Absurd! Until the great & mighty heron brandishes his fearsome sword. Truces by Michael R. Burch We must sometimes wonder if all the fighting related to King Arthur and his knights was really necessary. In particular, it seems that Lancelot fought and either captured or killed a fairly large percentage of the population of England. Could it be that Arthur preferred to fight than stay at home and do domestic chores? And, honestly now, if he and his knights were such incredible warriors, who would have been silly enough to do battle with them? Wygar was the name of Arthur's hauberk, or armored tunic, which was supposedly fashioned by one Witege or Widia, quite possibly the son of Wayland Smith. The legends suggest that Excalibur was forged upon the anvil of the smith-god Wayland, who was also known as Volund, which sounds suspiciously like Vulcan... Artur took Cabal, his hound, and Carwennan, his knife, and his sword forged by Wayland and Merlyn, his falcon, and, saying goodbye to his sons and his wife, he strode to the Table Rounde. "Here is my spear, Rhongomyniad, and here is Wygar that I wear, and ready for war, an oath I foreswore to fight for all that is righteous and fair from Wales to the towers of Gilead." But none could be found to contest him, for Lancelot had slewn them, forsooth, so he hastened back home, for to rest him, till his wife bade him, "Thatch up the roof! " Originally published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, then by Celtic Twilight Midsummer-Eve by Michael R. Burch What happened to the mysterious Tuatha De Danann, to the Ban Shee (from which we get the term "banshee") and, eventually, to the druids? One might assume that with the passing of Merlyn, Morgause and their ilk, the time of myths and magic ended. This poem is an epitaph of sorts. In the ruins of the dreams and the schemes of men; when the moon begets the tide and the wide sea sighs; when a star appears in heaven and the raven cries; we will dance and we will revel in the devil's fen... if nevermore again. Originally published by Penny Dreadful The Pictish Faeries by Michael R. Burch Smaller and darker than their closest kin, the faeries learned only too well never to dwell close to the villages of larger men. Only to dance in the starlight when the moon was full and men were afraid. Only to worship in the farthest glade, ever heeding the raven and the gull. The Kiss of Ceridwen by Michael R. Burch The kiss of Ceridwen I have felt upon my brow, and the past and the future have appeared, as though a vapor, mingling with the here and now. And Morrigan, the Raven, the messenger, has come, to tell me that the gods, unsung, will not last long when the druids' harps grow dumb. Merlyn, on His Birth by Michael R. Burch Legend has it that Zephyr was an ancestor of Merlin. In this poem, I suggest that Merlin was an albino, which might have led to claims that he had no father, due to radical physical differences between father and son. This would have also added to his appearance as a mystical figure. The reference to Ursa Major, the bear, ties the birth of Merlin to the future birth of Arthur, whose Welsh name ("Artos" or "Artur") means "bear." Morydd is another possible ancestor of Merlin's. In Welsh names "dd" is pronounced "th." I was born in Gwynedd, or not born, as some men claim, and the Zephyr of Caer Myrrdin gave me my name. My father was Madog Morfeyn but our eyes were never the same, nor our skin, nor our hair; for his were dark, dark —as our people's are— and mine were fairer than fair. The night of my birth, the Zephyr carved of white stone a rune; and the ringed stars of Ursa Major outshone the cool pale moon; and my grandfather, Morydd, the seer saw wheeling, a-gyre in the sky, a falcon with terrible yellow-gold eyes when falcons never fly. Merlyn's First Prophecy by Michael R. Burch Vortigern commanded a tower to be built upon Snowden, but the earth would churn and within an hour its walls would cave in. Then his druid said only the virginal blood of a fatherless son, recently shed, would ever hold the foundation. "There is, in Caer Myrrdin, a faery lad, a son with no father; his name is Merlyn, and with his blood you would have your tower." So Vortigern had them bring the boy, the child of the demon, and, taciturn and without joy, looked out over Snowden. "To **** a child brings little praise, but many tears." Then the mountain slopes rang with the brays of Merlyn's jeers. "Pure poppycock! You fumble and bumble and heed a fool. At the base of the rock the foundations crumble into a pool! " When they drained the pool, two dragons arose, one white and one red, and since the old druid was blowing his nose, young Merlyn said: "Vortigern is the white, Ambrosius the red; now, watch, indeed." Then the former died as the latter fed and Vortigern peed. Published by Celtic Twilight It Is Not the Sword! by Michael R. Burch This poem illustrates the strong correlation between the names that appear in Welsh and Irish mythology. Much of this lore predates the Arthurian legends, and was assimilated as Arthur's fame (and hyperbole)grew. Caladbolg is the name of a mythical Irish sword, while Caladvwlch is its Welsh equivalent. Caliburn and Excalibur are later variants. "It is not the sword, but the man, " said Merlyn. But the people demanded a sign— the sword of Macsen Wledig, Caladbolg, the "lightning-shard." "It is not the sword, but the words men follow." Still, he set it in the stone —Caladvwlch, the sword of kings— and many a man did strive, and swore, and many a man did moan. But none could budge it from the stone. "It is not the sword or the strength, " said Merlyn, "that makes a man a king, but the truth and the conviction that ring in his iron word." "It is NOT the sword! " cried Merlyn, crowd-jostled, marveling as Arthur drew forth Caliburn with never a gasp, with never a word, and so became their king. Uther's Last Battle by Michael R. Burch When Uther, the High King, unable to walk, borne upon a litter went to fight Colgrim, the Saxon King, his legs were weak, and his visage bitter. "Where is Merlyn, the sage? For today I truly feel my age." All day long the battle raged and the dragon banner was sorely pressed, but the courage of Uther never waned till the sun hung low upon the west. "Oh, where is Merlyn to speak my doom, for truly I feel the chill of the tomb." Then, with the battle almost lost and the king besieged on every side, a prince appeared, clad all in white, and threw himself against the tide. "Oh, where is Merlyn, who stole my son? For, truly, now my life is done." Then Merlyn came unto the king as the Saxons fled before a sword that flashed like lightning in the hand of a prince that day become a lord. "Oh, Merlyn, speak not, for I see my son has truly come to me. And today I need no prophecy to see how bright his days will be." So Uther, then, the valiant king met his son, and kissed him twice— the one, the first, the one, the last— and smiled, and then his time was past. Small Tales by Michael R. Burch According to legend, Arthur and Kay grew up together in Ector's court, Kay being a few years older than Arthur. Borrowing from Mary Stewart, I am assuming that Bedwyr (later Anglicized to Bedivere)might have befriended Arthur at an early age. By some accounts, Bedwyr was the original Lancelot. In any case, imagine the adventures these young heroes might have pursued (or dreamed up, to excuse tardiness or "lost" homework assignments). Manawydan and Llyr were ancient Welsh gods. Cath Pulag was a monstrous, clawing cat. ("Sorry teach! My theme paper on Homer was torn up by a cat bigger than a dragon! And meaner, too! ")Pen Palach is more or less a mystery, or perhaps just another old drinking buddy with a few good beery-bleary tales of his own. This poem assumes that many of the more outlandish Arthurian legends began more or less as "small tales, " little white lies which simply got larger and larger with each retelling. It also assumes that most of these tales came about just as the lads reached that age when boys fancy themselves men, and spend most of their free time drinking and puking... When Artur and Cai and Bedwyr were but scrawny lads they had many a ***** adventure in the still glades of Gwynedd. When the sun beat down like an oven upon the kiln-hot hills and the scorched shores of Carmarthen, they went searching and found Manawydan, the son of Llyr. They fought a day and a night with Cath Pulag (or a screeching kitten), rousted Pen Palach, then drank a beer and told quite a talltale or two, till thems wasn't so shore which'un's tails wus true. And these have been passed down to me, and to you. The Song of Amergin by Michael R. Burch Amergin is, in the words of Morgan Llywelyn, "the oldest known western European poet." Robert Graves said: "English poetic education should, really, begin not with The Canterbury Tales, not with the Odyssey, not even with Genesis, but with the Song of Amergin." Amergin was one of the Milesians, or sons of Mil: Gaels who invaded Ireland and defeated the mysterious Tuatha De Danann, thereby establishing a Celtic beachhead, not only on the shores of the Emerald Isle, but also in the annals of Time and Poetry. He was our first bard and we feel in his dim-remembered words the moment when Time blurs... and he and the Sons of Mil heave oars as the breakers mill till at last Ierne—green, brooding—nears, while Some implore seas cold, fell, dark to climb and swamp their flimsy bark ... and Time here also spumes, careers... while the Ban Shee shriek in awed dismay to see him still the sea, this day, then seek the dolmen and the gloam. Stonehenge by Michael R. Burch Here where the wind imbues life within stone, I once stood and watched as the tempest made monuments groan as though blood boiled within them. Here where the Druids stood charting the stars I can tell they longed for the heavens... perhaps because hell boiled beneath them? The Celtic Cross at Île Grosse by Michael R. Burch "I actually visited the island and walked across those mass graves of 30, 000 Irish men, women and children, and I played a little tune on me whistle. I found it very peaceful, and there was relief there." - Paddy Maloney of The Chieftans There was relief there, and release, on Île Grosse in the spreading gorse and the cry of the wild geese... There was relief there, without remorse when the tin whistle lifted its voice in a tune of artless grief, piping achingly high and longingly of an island veiled in myth. And the Celtic cross that stands here tells us, not of their grief, but of their faith and belief— like the last soft breath of evening lifting a fallen leaf. When ravenous famine set all her demons loose, driving men to the seas like lemmings, they sought here the clemency of a better life, or death, and their belief in God gave them hope, a sense of peace. These were proud men with only their lives to owe, who sought the liberation of a strange new land. Now they lie here, ragged row on ragged row, with only the shadows of their loved ones close at hand. And each cross, their ancient burden and their glory, reflects the death of sunlight on their story. And their tale is sad—but, O, their faith was grand! At Cædmon's Grave by Michael R. Burch "Cædmon's Hymn, " composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. According to legend, Cædmon, an illiterate Anglo-Saxon cowherd, received the gift of poetic composition from an angel; he subsequently founded a school of Christian poets. Unfortunately, only nine lines of Cædmon's verse survive, in the writings of the Venerable Bede. Whitby, tiny as it is, reappears later in the history of English literature, having been visited, in diametric contrast, by Lewis Carroll and Bram Stoker's ghoulish yet evocative Dracula. At the monastery of Whitby, on a day when the sun sank through the sea, and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free, while the wind and time blew all around, I paced those dusk-enamored grounds and thought I heard the steps resound of Carroll, Stoker and of Bede who walked there, too, their spirits freed —perhaps by God, perhaps by need— to write, and with each line, remember the glorious light of Cædmon's ember, scorched tongues of flame words still engender. Here, as darkness falls, at last we meet. I lay this pale garland of words at his feet. Originally published by The Lyric Sun Poem by Michael R. Burch I have suffused myself in poetry as a lizard basks, soaking up sun, scales nakedly glinting; its glorious light he understands—when it comes, it comes. A flood of light leaches down to his bones, his feral eye blinks—bold, curious, bright. Now night and soon winter lie brooding, damp, chilling; here shadows foretell the great darkness ahead. Yet he stretches in rapture, his hot blood thrilling, simple yet fierce on his hard stone bed, his tongue flicking rhythms, the sun—throbbing, spilling.

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Apr 17, 2020

Apr 17, 2020 at 1:32 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

The Last Enchantment

The Last Enchantment by Michael R. Burch Oh, Lancelot, my truest friend, how time has thinned your ragged mane and pinched your features; still you seem though, much, much changed—somehow unchanged. Your sword hand is, as ever, ready, although the time for swords has passed. Your eyes are fierce, and yet so steady meeting mine ... you must not ask. The time is not, nor ever shall be, for Merlyn’s words were only words; and now his last enchantment wanes, and we must put aside our swords ... Originally published by Trinacria. Keywords/Tags: Lancelot, King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, sword, swords, England, stone, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, loyalty, friendship, magic, prophecy, Once and Future King, Celtic, Anglo-Saxon Northern Flight: Lancelot's Last Love Letter to Guinevere by Michael R. Burch "Get thee to a nunnery..." Now that the days have lengthened, I assume the shadows also lengthen where you pause to watch the sun and comprehend its laws, or just to shiver in the deepening gloom. But nothing in your antiquarian eyes nor anything beyond your failing vision repeals the night. Religion's circumcision has left us worlds apart, but who's more wise? I think I know you better now than then— and love you all the more, because you are ... so distant. I can love you from afar, forgiving your flight north, far from brute men, because your fear's well-founded: God, forbid, was bound to fail you here, as mortals did. Originally published by Rotary Dial These Arthurian poems by Michael R. Burch are based on mysterious ancient Celtic myths that predate by centuries the Christianized legends most readers are familiar with. At Tintagel by Michael R. Burch That night, at Tintagel, there was darkness such as man had never seen... darkness and treachery, and the unholy thundering of the sea... In his arms, who is to say how much she knew? And if he whispered her name... "Ygraine" could she tell above the howling wind and rain? Could she tell, or did she care, by the length of his hair or the heat of his flesh,... that her faceless companion was Uther, the dragon, and Gorlois lay dead? Originally published by Songs of Innocence, then subsequently by Celtic Twilight, Fables, Fickle Muses and Poetry Life & Times Isolde's Song by Michael R. Burch Through our long years of dreaming to be one we grew toward an enigmatic light that gently warmed our tendrils. Was it sun? We had no eyes to tell; we loved despite the lack of all sensation—all but one: we felt the night's deep chill, the air so bright at dawn we quivered limply, overcome. To touch was all we knew, and how to bask. We knew to touch; we grew to touch; we felt spring's urgency, midsummer's heat, fall's lash, wild winter's ice and thaw and fervent melt. We felt returning light and could not ask its meaning, or if something was withheld more glorious. To touch seemed life's great task. At last the petal of me learned: unfold and you were there, surrounding me. We touched. The curious golden pollens! Ah, we touched, and learned to cling and, finally, to hold. Originally published by The Raintown Review, where it was nominated for the Pushcart Prize. The Wild Hunt by Michael R. Burch Near Devon, the hunters appear in the sky with Artur and Bedwyr sounding the call; and the others, laughing, go dashing by. They only appear when the moon is full: Valerin, the King of the Tangled Wood, and Valynt, the goodly King of Wales, Gawain and Owain and the hearty men who live on in many minstrels' tales. They seek the white stag on a moonlit moor, or Torc Triath, the fabled boar, or Ysgithyrwyn, or Twrch Trwyth, the other mighty boars of myth. They appear, sometimes, on Halloween to chase the moon across the green, then fade into the shadowed hills where memory alone prevails. Originally published by Celtic Twilight, then by Celtic Lifestyles and Auldwicce Morgause's Song by Michael R. Burch Before he was my brother, he was my lover, though certainly not the best. I found no joy in that addled boy, nor he at my breast. Why him? Why him? The years grow dim. Now it's harder and harder to say... Perhaps girls and boys are the god's toys when the skies are gray. Originally published by Celtic Twilight as "The First Time" Pellinore's Fancy by Michael R. Burch What do you do when your wife is a nag and has sworn you to hunt neither fish, fowl, nor stag? When the land is at peace, but at home you have none, Is that, perchance, when... the Questing Beasts run? Lance-Lot by Michael R. Burch Preposterous bird! Inelegant! Absurd! Until the great & mighty heron brandishes his fearsome sword. Truces by Michael R. Burch We must sometimes wonder if all the fighting related to King Arthur and his knights was really necessary. In particular, it seems that Lancelot fought and either captured or killed a fairly large percentage of the population of England. Could it be that Arthur preferred to fight than stay at home and do domestic chores? And, honestly now, if he and his knights were such incredible warriors, who would have been silly enough to do battle with them? Wygar was the name of Arthur's hauberk, or armored tunic, which was supposedly fashioned by one Witege or Widia, quite possibly the son of Wayland Smith. The legends suggest that Excalibur was forged upon the anvil of the smith-god Wayland, who was also known as Volund, which sounds suspiciously like Vulcan... Artur took Cabal, his hound, and Carwennan, his knife, and his sword forged by Wayland and Merlyn, his falcon, and, saying goodbye to his sons and his wife, he strode to the Table Rounde. "Here is my spear, Rhongomyniad, and here is Wygar that I wear, and ready for war, an oath I foreswore to fight for all that is righteous and fair from Wales to the towers of Gilead." But none could be found to contest him, for Lancelot had slewn them, forsooth, so he hastened back home, for to rest him, till his wife bade him, "Thatch up the roof! " Originally published by Neovictorian/Cochlea, then by Celtic Twilight Midsummer-Eve by Michael R. Burch What happened to the mysterious Tuatha De Danann, to the Ban Shee (from which we get the term "banshee") and, eventually, to the druids? One might assume that with the passing of Merlyn, Morgause and their ilk, the time of myths and magic ended. This poem is an epitaph of sorts. In the ruins of the dreams and the schemes of men; when the moon begets the tide and the wide sea sighs; when a star appears in heaven and the raven cries; we will dance and we will revel in the devil's fen... if nevermore again. Originally published by Penny Dreadful The Pictish Faeries by Michael R. Burch Smaller and darker than their closest kin, the faeries learned only too well never to dwell close to the villages of larger men. Only to dance in the starlight when the moon was full and men were afraid. Only to worship in the farthest glade, ever heeding the raven and the gull. The Kiss of Ceridwen by Michael R. Burch The kiss of Ceridwen I have felt upon my brow, and the past and the future have appeared, as though a vapor, mingling with the here and now. And Morrigan, the Raven, the messenger, has come, to tell me that the gods, unsung, will not last long when the druids' harps grow dumb. Merlyn, on His Birth by Michael R. Burch Legend has it that Zephyr was an ancestor of Merlin. In this poem, I suggest that Merlin was an albino, which might have led to claims that he had no father, due to radical physical differences between father and son. This would have also added to his appearance as a mystical figure. The reference to Ursa Major, the bear, ties the birth of Merlin to the future birth of Arthur, whose Welsh name ("Artos" or "Artur") means "bear." Morydd is another possible ancestor of Merlin's. In Welsh names "dd" is pronounced "th." I was born in Gwynedd, or not born, as some men claim, and the Zephyr of Caer Myrrdin gave me my name. My father was Madog Morfeyn but our eyes were never the same, nor our skin, nor our hair; for his were dark, dark —as our people's are— and mine were fairer than fair. The night of my birth, the Zephyr carved of white stone a rune; and the ringed stars of Ursa Major outshone the cool pale moon; and my grandfather, Morydd, the seer saw wheeling, a-gyre in the sky, a falcon with terrible yellow-gold eyes when falcons never fly. Merlyn's First Prophecy by Michael R. Burch Vortigern commanded a tower to be built upon Snowden, but the earth would churn and within an hour its walls would cave in. Then his druid said only the virginal blood of a fatherless son, recently shed, would ever hold the foundation. "There is, in Caer Myrrdin, a faery lad, a son with no father; his name is Merlyn, and with his blood you would have your tower." So Vortigern had them bring the boy, the child of the demon, and, taciturn and without joy, looked out over Snowden. "To **** a child brings little praise, but many tears." Then the mountain slopes rang with the brays of Merlyn's jeers. "Pure poppycock! You fumble and bumble and heed a fool. At the base of the rock the foundations crumble into a pool! " When they drained the pool, two dragons arose, one white and one red, and since the old druid was blowing his nose, young Merlyn said: "Vortigern is the white, Ambrosius the red; now, watch, indeed." Then the former died as the latter fed and Vortigern peed. Published by Celtic Twilight It Is Not the Sword! by Michael R. Burch This poem illustrates the strong correlation between the names that appear in Welsh and Irish mythology. Much of this lore predates the Arthurian legends, and was assimilated as Arthur's fame (and hyperbole)grew. Caladbolg is the name of a mythical Irish sword, while Caladvwlch is its Welsh equivalent. Caliburn and Excalibur are later variants. "It is not the sword, but the man, " said Merlyn. But the people demanded a sign— the sword of Macsen Wledig, Caladbolg, the "lightning-shard." "It is not the sword, but the words men follow." Still, he set it in the stone —Caladvwlch, the sword of kings— and many a man did strive, and swore, and many a man did moan. But none could budge it from the stone. "It is not the sword or the strength, " said Merlyn, "that makes a man a king, but the truth and the conviction that ring in his iron word." "It is NOT the sword! " cried Merlyn, crowd-jostled, marveling as Arthur drew forth Caliburn with never a gasp, with never a word, and so became their king. Uther's Last Battle by Michael R. Burch When Uther, the High King, unable to walk, borne upon a litter went to fight Colgrim, the Saxon King, his legs were weak, and his visage bitter. "Where is Merlyn, the sage? For today I truly feel my age." All day long the battle raged and the dragon banner was sorely pressed, but the courage of Uther never waned till the sun hung low upon the west. "Oh, where is Merlyn to speak my doom, for truly I feel the chill of the tomb." Then, with the battle almost lost and the king besieged on every side, a prince appeared, clad all in white, and threw himself against the tide. "Oh, where is Merlyn, who stole my son? For, truly, now my life is done." Then Merlyn came unto the king as the Saxons fled before a sword that flashed like lightning in the hand of a prince that day become a lord. "Oh, Merlyn, speak not, for I see my son has truly come to me. And today I need no prophecy to see how bright his days will be." So Uther, then, the valiant king met his son, and kissed him twice— the one, the first, the one, the last— and smiled, and then his time was past. Small Tales by Michael R. Burch According to legend, Arthur and Kay grew up together in Ector's court, Kay being a few years older than Arthur. Borrowing from Mary Stewart, I am assuming that Bedwyr (later Anglicized to Bedivere)might have befriended Arthur at an early age. By some accounts, Bedwyr was the original Lancelot. In any case, imagine the adventures these young heroes might have pursued (or dreamed up, to excuse tardiness or "lost" homework assignments). Manawydan and Llyr were ancient Welsh gods. Cath Pulag was a monstrous, clawing cat. ("Sorry teach! My theme paper on Homer was torn up by a cat bigger than a dragon! And meaner, too! ")Pen Palach is more or less a mystery, or perhaps just another old drinking buddy with a few good beery-bleary tales of his own. This poem assumes that many of the more outlandish Arthurian legends began more or less as "small tales, " little white lies which simply got larger and larger with each retelling. It also assumes that most of these tales came about just as the lads reached that age when boys fancy themselves men, and spend most of their free time drinking and puking... When Artur and Cai and Bedwyr were but scrawny lads they had many a ***** adventure in the still glades of Gwynedd. When the sun beat down like an oven upon the kiln-hot hills and the scorched shores of Carmarthen, they went searching and found Manawydan, the son of Llyr. They fought a day and a night with Cath Pulag (or a screeching kitten), rousted Pen Palach, then drank a beer and told quite a talltale or two, till thems wasn't so shore which'un's tails wus true. And these have been passed down to me, and to you. The Song of Amergin by Michael R. Burch Amergin is, in the words of Morgan Llywelyn, "the oldest known western European poet." Robert Graves said: "English poetic education should, really, begin not with The Canterbury Tales, not with the Odyssey, not even with Genesis, but with the Song of Amergin." Amergin was one of the Milesians, or sons of Mil: Gaels who invaded Ireland and defeated the mysterious Tuatha De Danann, thereby establishing a Celtic beachhead, not only on the shores of the Emerald Isle, but also in the annals of Time and Poetry. He was our first bard and we feel in his dim-remembered words the moment when Time blurs... and he and the Sons of Mil heave oars as the breakers mill till at last Ierne—green, brooding—nears, while Some implore seas cold, fell, dark to climb and swamp their flimsy bark ... and Time here also spumes, careers... while the Ban Shee shriek in awed dismay to see him still the sea, this day, then seek the dolmen and the gloam. Stonehenge by Michael R. Burch Here where the wind imbues life within stone, I once stood and watched as the tempest made monuments groan as though blood boiled within them. Here where the Druids stood charting the stars I can tell they longed for the heavens... perhaps because hell boiled beneath them? The Celtic Cross at Île Grosse by Michael R. Burch "I actually visited the island and walked across those mass graves of 30, 000 Irish men, women and children, and I played a little tune on me whistle. I found it very peaceful, and there was relief there." - Paddy Maloney of The Chieftans There was relief there, and release, on Île Grosse in the spreading gorse and the cry of the wild geese... There was relief there, without remorse when the tin whistle lifted its voice in a tune of artless grief, piping achingly high and longingly of an island veiled in myth. And the Celtic cross that stands here tells us, not of their grief, but of their faith and belief— like the last soft breath of evening lifting a fallen leaf. When ravenous famine set all her demons loose, driving men to the seas like lemmings, they sought here the clemency of a better life, or death, and their belief in God gave them hope, a sense of peace. These were proud men with only their lives to owe, who sought the liberation of a strange new land. Now they lie here, ragged row on ragged row, with only the shadows of their loved ones close at hand. And each cross, their ancient burden and their glory, reflects the death of sunlight on their story. And their tale is sad—but, O, their faith was grand! At Cædmon's Grave by Michael R. Burch "Cædmon's Hymn, " composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. According to legend, Cædmon, an illiterate Anglo-Saxon cowherd, received the gift of poetic composition from an angel; he subsequently founded a school of Christian poets. Unfortunately, only nine lines of Cædmon's verse survive, in the writings of the Venerable Bede. Whitby, tiny as it is, reappears later in the history of English literature, having been visited, in diametric contrast, by Lewis Carroll and Bram Stoker's ghoulish yet evocative Dracula. At the monastery of Whitby, on a day when the sun sank through the sea, and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free, while the wind and time blew all around, I paced those dusk-enamored grounds and thought I heard the steps resound of Carroll, Stoker and of Bede who walked there, too, their spirits freed —perhaps by God, perhaps by need— to write, and with each line, remember the glorious light of Cædmon's ember, scorched tongues of flame words still engender. Here, as darkness falls, at last we meet. I lay this pale garland of words at his feet. Originally published by The Lyric Sun Poem by Michael R. Burch I have suffused myself in poetry as a lizard basks, soaking up sun, scales nakedly glinting; its glorious light he understands—when it comes, it comes. A flood of light leaches down to his bones, his feral eye blinks—bold, curious, bright. Now night and soon winter lie brooding, damp, chilling; here shadows foretell the great darkness ahead. Yet he stretches in rapture, his hot blood thrilling, simple yet fierce on his hard stone bed, his tongue flicking rhythms, the sun—throbbing, spilling.

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The Pictish Faeries by Michael R. Burch Smaller and darker than their closest kin, the faeries learned only too well never to dwell close to the villages of larger men. Only to dance in the starlight when the moon was full and men were afraid. Only to worship in the farthest glade, ever heeding the raven and the gull. The invincible Roman legions were never able to subdue the Scottish Picts, and eventually built Hadrian’s Wall to protect themselves! Did the Picts give rise to our myths of fairies, elves and leprechauns? Keywords/Tags: Picts, Scots, Scottish, fairies, glade, raven, gull, King Arthur, Arthurian, Morgause, Merlin, round table, knights, England, stone, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Saxon

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Apr 16, 2020

Apr 16, 2020 at 9:59 PM UTC

michael-r-burch

The Pictish Faeries

The Pictish Faeries by Michael R. Burch Smaller and darker than their closest kin, the faeries learned only too well never to dwell close to the villages of larger men. Only to dance in the starlight when the moon was full and men were afraid. Only to worship in the farthest glade, ever heeding the raven and the gull. The invincible Roman legions were never able to subdue the Scottish Picts, and eventually built Hadrian’s Wall to protect themselves! Did the Picts give rise to our myths of fairies, elves and leprechauns? Keywords/Tags: Picts, Scots, Scottish, fairies, glade, raven, gull, King Arthur, Arthurian, Morgause, Merlin, round table, knights, England, stone, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Saxon

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Morgause’s Song by Michael R. Burch Before he was my brother, he was my lover, though certainly not the best. I found no joy in that addled boy, nor he at my breast. Why him? Why him? The years grow dim. Now it’s harder and harder to say ... Perhaps girls and boys are the god’s toys when the skies are gray. Published by Celtic Twilight Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Morgause, Merlin, round table, knights, England, stone, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Uther Pendragon, Colgrim, Saxon

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Apr 16, 2020

Apr 16, 2020 at 9:13 PM UTC

michael-r-burch

Morgause’s Song

Morgause’s Song by Michael R. Burch Before he was my brother, he was my lover, though certainly not the best. I found no joy in that addled boy, nor he at my breast. Why him? Why him? The years grow dim. Now it’s harder and harder to say ... Perhaps girls and boys are the god’s toys when the skies are gray. Published by Celtic Twilight Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Morgause, Merlin, round table, knights, England, stone, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Uther Pendragon, Colgrim, Saxon

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It Is Not the Sword! by Michael R. Burch This poem illustrates the strong correlation between the names that appear in Welsh and Irish mythology. Much of this lore predates the Arthurian legends, and was assimilated as Arthur’s fame (and hyperbole) grew. Caladbolg is the name of a mythical Irish sword, while Caladvwlch is its Welsh equivalent. Caliburn and Excalibur are later variants. “It is not the sword, but the man,” said Merlyn. But the people demanded a sign— the sword of Macsen Wledig, Caladbolg, the “lightning-shard.” “It is not the sword, but the words men follow.” Still, he set it in the stone —Caladvwlch, the sword of kings— and many a man did strive, and swore, and many a man did moan. But none could budge it from the stone. “It is not the sword or the strength,” said Merlyn, “that makes a man a king, but the truth and the conviction that ring in his iron word.” “It is NOT the sword!” cried Merlyn, crowd-jostled, marveling as Arthur drew forth Caliburn with never a gasp, with never a word, and so became their king. Published by Songs of Innocence, Neovictorian/Cochlea, Romantics Quarterly and Celtic Twilight. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, stone, sword, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Uther Pendragon, England

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Apr 16, 2020

Apr 16, 2020 at 7:43 PM UTC

michael-r-burch

It Is Not the Sword!

It Is Not the Sword! by Michael R. Burch This poem illustrates the strong correlation between the names that appear in Welsh and Irish mythology. Much of this lore predates the Arthurian legends, and was assimilated as Arthur’s fame (and hyperbole) grew. Caladbolg is the name of a mythical Irish sword, while Caladvwlch is its Welsh equivalent. Caliburn and Excalibur are later variants. “It is not the sword, but the man,” said Merlyn. But the people demanded a sign— the sword of Macsen Wledig, Caladbolg, the “lightning-shard.” “It is not the sword, but the words men follow.” Still, he set it in the stone —Caladvwlch, the sword of kings— and many a man did strive, and swore, and many a man did moan. But none could budge it from the stone. “It is not the sword or the strength,” said Merlyn, “that makes a man a king, but the truth and the conviction that ring in his iron word.” “It is NOT the sword!” cried Merlyn, crowd-jostled, marveling as Arthur drew forth Caliburn with never a gasp, with never a word, and so became their king. Published by Songs of Innocence, Neovictorian/Cochlea, Romantics Quarterly and Celtic Twilight. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, stone, sword, Excalibur, chivalry, Camelot, Uther Pendragon, England

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Uther’s Last Battle by Michael R. Burch When Uther, the High King, unable to walk, borne upon a litter went to fight Colgrim, the Saxon King, his legs were weak, and his visage bitter. “Where is Merlyn, the sage? For today I truly feel my age.” All day long the battle raged and the dragon banner was sorely pressed, but the courage of Uther never waned till the sun hung low upon the west. “Oh, where is Merlyn to speak my doom, for truly I feel the chill of the tomb.” Then, with the battle almost lost and the king besieged on every side, a prince appeared, clad all in white, and threw himself against the tide. “Oh, where is Merlyn, who stole my son? For, truly, now my life is done.” Then Merlyn came unto the king as the Saxons fled before a sword that flashed like lightning in the hand of a prince that day become a lord. “Oh, Merlyn, speak not, for I see my son has truly come to me. And today I need no prophecy to see how bright his days will be.” So Uther, then, the valiant king met his son, and kissed him twice— the one, the first, the one, the last— and smiled, and then his time was past. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, Uther Pendragon, Colgrim, Saxon, round table, knights, England, chivalry, Camelot

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Apr 16, 2020

Apr 16, 2020 at 7:31 PM UTC

michael-r-burch

Uther’s Last Battle

Uther’s Last Battle by Michael R. Burch When Uther, the High King, unable to walk, borne upon a litter went to fight Colgrim, the Saxon King, his legs were weak, and his visage bitter. “Where is Merlyn, the sage? For today I truly feel my age.” All day long the battle raged and the dragon banner was sorely pressed, but the courage of Uther never waned till the sun hung low upon the west. “Oh, where is Merlyn to speak my doom, for truly I feel the chill of the tomb.” Then, with the battle almost lost and the king besieged on every side, a prince appeared, clad all in white, and threw himself against the tide. “Oh, where is Merlyn, who stole my son? For, truly, now my life is done.” Then Merlyn came unto the king as the Saxons fled before a sword that flashed like lightning in the hand of a prince that day become a lord. “Oh, Merlyn, speak not, for I see my son has truly come to me. And today I need no prophecy to see how bright his days will be.” So Uther, then, the valiant king met his son, and kissed him twice— the one, the first, the one, the last— and smiled, and then his time was past. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, Uther Pendragon, Colgrim, Saxon, round table, knights, England, chivalry, Camelot

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Uther’s Last Battle by Michael R. Burch When Uther, the High King, unable to walk, borne upon a litter went to fight Colgrim, the Saxon King, his legs were weak, and his visage bitter. “Where is Merlyn, the sage? For today I truly feel my age.” All day long the battle raged and the dragon banner was sorely pressed, but the courage of Uther never waned till the sun hung low upon the west. “Oh, where is Merlyn to speak my doom, for truly I feel the chill of the tomb.” Then, with the battle almost lost and the king besieged on every side, a prince appeared, clad all in white, and threw himself against the tide. “Oh, where is Merlyn, who stole my son? For, truly, now my life is done.” Then Merlyn came unto the king as the Saxons fled before a sword that flashed like lightning in the hand of a prince that day become a lord. “Oh, Merlyn, speak not, for I see my son has truly come to me. And today I need no prophecy to see how bright his days will be.” So Uther, then, the valiant king met his son, and kissed him twice— the one, the first, the one, the last— and smiled, and then his time was past. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, England, Uther Pendragon

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Apr 16, 2020

Apr 16, 2020 at 5:18 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Uther’s Last Battle

Uther’s Last Battle by Michael R. Burch When Uther, the High King, unable to walk, borne upon a litter went to fight Colgrim, the Saxon King, his legs were weak, and his visage bitter. “Where is Merlyn, the sage? For today I truly feel my age.” All day long the battle raged and the dragon banner was sorely pressed, but the courage of Uther never waned till the sun hung low upon the west. “Oh, where is Merlyn to speak my doom, for truly I feel the chill of the tomb.” Then, with the battle almost lost and the king besieged on every side, a prince appeared, clad all in white, and threw himself against the tide. “Oh, where is Merlyn, who stole my son? For, truly, now my life is done.” Then Merlyn came unto the king as the Saxons fled before a sword that flashed like lightning in the hand of a prince that day become a lord. “Oh, Merlyn, speak not, for I see my son has truly come to me. And today I need no prophecy to see how bright his days will be.” So Uther, then, the valiant king met his son, and kissed him twice— the one, the first, the one, the last— and smiled, and then his time was past. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, England, Uther Pendragon

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Merlyn’s First Prophecy by Michael R. Burch Vortigern commanded a tower to be built upon Snowden, but the earth would churn and within an hour its walls would cave in. Then his druid said only the virginal blood of a fatherless son, recently shed, would ever hold the foundation. “There is, in Caer Myrrdin, a faery lad, a son with no father; his name is Merlyn, and with his blood you would have your tower.” So Vortigern had them bring the boy, the child of the demon, and, taciturn and without joy, looked out over Snowden. “To **** a child brings little praise, but many tears.” Then the mountain slopes rang with the brays of Merlyn’s jeers. “Pure poppycock! You fumble and bumble and heed a fool. At the base of the rock the foundations crumble into a pool!” When they drained the pool, two dragons arose, one white and one red, and since the old druid was blowing his nose, young Merlyn said: “Vortigern is the white, Ambrosius the red; now, watch, indeed.” Then the former died as the latter fed and Vortigern peed. Originally published by Celtic Twilight Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, Ambrosius, Vortigern, dragons

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Apr 16, 2020

Apr 16, 2020 at 5:13 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Merlyn’s First Prophecy

Merlyn’s First Prophecy by Michael R. Burch Vortigern commanded a tower to be built upon Snowden, but the earth would churn and within an hour its walls would cave in. Then his druid said only the virginal blood of a fatherless son, recently shed, would ever hold the foundation. “There is, in Caer Myrrdin, a faery lad, a son with no father; his name is Merlyn, and with his blood you would have your tower.” So Vortigern had them bring the boy, the child of the demon, and, taciturn and without joy, looked out over Snowden. “To **** a child brings little praise, but many tears.” Then the mountain slopes rang with the brays of Merlyn’s jeers. “Pure poppycock! You fumble and bumble and heed a fool. At the base of the rock the foundations crumble into a pool!” When they drained the pool, two dragons arose, one white and one red, and since the old druid was blowing his nose, young Merlyn said: “Vortigern is the white, Ambrosius the red; now, watch, indeed.” Then the former died as the latter fed and Vortigern peed. Originally published by Celtic Twilight Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, Ambrosius, Vortigern, dragons

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Merlyn, on His Birth by Michael R. Burch I was born in Gwynedd, or not born, as men may claim, and the Zephyr of Caer Myrrdin gave me my name. My father was Madog Morfeyn but our eyes were never the same, nor our skin, nor our hair; for his were dark, dark —as our people’s are— and mine were fairer than fair. The night of my birth, the Zephyr carved of white stone a rune; and the ringed stars of Ursa Major outshone the cool pale moon; and my grandfather, Morydd, the seer saw wheeling, a-gyre in the sky, a falcon with terrible yellow-gold eyes when falcons never fly. Legend has it that Zephyr was an ancestor of Merlin. In this poem, I suggest that Merlin may have been an albino, which might have led to seemingly outlandish claims that he had no father, due to radical physical differences between father and son. This would have also added to his appearance as a mystical figure. The reference to Ursa Major, the bear, ties the birth of Merlin to the future birth of Arthur, whose Welsh name (“Artos” or “Artur”) means “bear.” Morydd is a another possible ancestor of Merlin’s. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, England, chivalry, Camelot

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Apr 16, 2020

Apr 16, 2020 at 5:04 AM UTC

michael-r-burch

Merlyn, on His Birth

Merlyn, on His Birth by Michael R. Burch I was born in Gwynedd, or not born, as men may claim, and the Zephyr of Caer Myrrdin gave me my name. My father was Madog Morfeyn but our eyes were never the same, nor our skin, nor our hair; for his were dark, dark —as our people’s are— and mine were fairer than fair. The night of my birth, the Zephyr carved of white stone a rune; and the ringed stars of Ursa Major outshone the cool pale moon; and my grandfather, Morydd, the seer saw wheeling, a-gyre in the sky, a falcon with terrible yellow-gold eyes when falcons never fly. Legend has it that Zephyr was an ancestor of Merlin. In this poem, I suggest that Merlin may have been an albino, which might have led to seemingly outlandish claims that he had no father, due to radical physical differences between father and son. This would have also added to his appearance as a mystical figure. The reference to Ursa Major, the bear, ties the birth of Merlin to the future birth of Arthur, whose Welsh name (“Artos” or “Artur”) means “bear.” Morydd is a another possible ancestor of Merlin’s. Keywords/Tags: King Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, round table, knights, England, chivalry, Camelot

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Lance-Lot by Michael R. Burch Preposterous bird! Inelegant! Absurd! Until the great & mighty heron brandishes his fearsome sword. I wrote this poem for a great blue heron who visits a pond that I pass on my daily walks — a truly majestic bird and the ultimate spear-fisher.

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Mar 28, 2020

Mar 28, 2020 at 7:40 PM UTC

michael-r-burch

Lance-Lot by Michael R. Burch Preposterous bird! Inelegant! Absurd! Until the great & mighty heron brandishes his fearsome sword. I wrote this poem for a great blue heron who visits a pond that I pass on my daily walks — a truly majestic bird and the ultimate spear-fisher.

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At Tintagel by Michael R. Burch That night, at Tintagel, there was darkness such as man had never seen . . . darkness and treachery, and the unholy thundering of the sea . . . In his arms, who is to say how much she knew? And if he whispered her name . . . “Ygraine” could she tell above the howling wind and rain? Could she tell, or did she care, by the length of his hair or the heat of his flesh, . . . that her faceless companion was Uther, the dragon, and Gorlois lay dead? Published by Songs of Innocence, Celtic Twilight, Fables, Fickle Muses and Poetry Life & Times. The legend of what happened on a stormy night at Tintagel is endlessly intriguing. Supposedly, Merlin transformed Uther Pendragon to look like Gorlois so that he could sleep with Ygraine, the lovely wife of the unlucky duke. While Uther was enjoying Ygraine’s ********** Gorlois was off getting himself killed. The question is: did Igraine suspect that her lover was not her husband? Regardless, Arthur was the child conceived out of this supernatural (?) encounter. Keywords/Tags: Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, Tintagel, Uther, dragon, Pendragon, Ygraine, Igraine, Gorlois, duke, identity, switch, transformation

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Mar 28, 2020

Mar 28, 2020 at 4:10 AM UTC

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At Tintagel by Michael R. Burch That night, at Tintagel, there was darkness such as man had never seen . . . darkness and treachery, and the unholy thundering of the sea . . . In his arms, who is to say how much she knew? And if he whispered her name . . . “Ygraine” could she tell above the howling wind and rain? Could she tell, or did she care, by the length of his hair or the heat of his flesh, . . . that her faceless companion was Uther, the dragon, and Gorlois lay dead? Published by Songs of Innocence, Celtic Twilight, Fables, Fickle Muses and Poetry Life & Times. The legend of what happened on a stormy night at Tintagel is endlessly intriguing. Supposedly, Merlin transformed Uther Pendragon to look like Gorlois so that he could sleep with Ygraine, the lovely wife of the unlucky duke. While Uther was enjoying Ygraine’s ********** Gorlois was off getting himself killed. The question is: did Igraine suspect that her lover was not her husband? Regardless, Arthur was the child conceived out of this supernatural (?) encounter. Keywords/Tags: Arthur, Arthurian, Merlin, Tintagel, Uther, dragon, Pendragon, Ygraine, Igraine, Gorlois, duke, identity, switch, transformation

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You used to be my subject every angle, you're the object inspires me to do more works and ended up with great artwork. I can be your Edgar Allan Poe In a midst o critical world Could be profound just to be my Annabelle lee Rather be your William Shakespeare timeless age for your soul endless love bringeth whole even though just a buccaneer but ended being Arthur Conan Doyle You see but you do not observe The mystery of my love for you Single glimpse from you can't resolve Every verse was a reflection of every inch of you But you keep on ignoring And only received a rejection You prefer to be just a prose Catatonic yet simple In my imaginative elated world where our story remains untold

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Feb 21, 2020

Feb 21, 2020 at 12:28 PM UTC

Prose, Not Poetry

You used to be my subject every angle, you're the object inspires me to do more works and ended up with great artwork. I can be your Edgar Allan Poe In a midst o critical world Could be profound just to be my Annabelle lee Rather be your William Shakespeare timeless age for your soul endless love bringeth whole even though just a buccaneer but ended being Arthur Conan Doyle You see but you do not observe The mystery of my love for you Single glimpse from you can't resolve Every verse was a reflection of every inch of you But you keep on ignoring And only received a rejection You prefer to be just a prose Catatonic yet simple In my imaginative elated world where our story remains untold

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On the day he died King Arthur ordered his knights told them to prepare to fight and maybe even die; He was brave and so was Mordred who put a sword through his father, the once and future tyrant. At Camlann, the day was hot, yet so cold; the air was misty and the sea boiled; The trees tilted away looking scared and ashamed; The prophets were quiet, tight lipped, they sat up high, chain-smoking on the peace pipe. Mordred's head was pins-and-needles. He clawed at his sword in stress, looking at the opposite camp. He thought of his mother at Avalon, wondering if she'll bury him there or his father. What will he do upon arriving with heavy steps on the fields of Camlann? He feels lost. King Arthur was brandishing Excalibur, lost in thoughts of murderous sons and treacherous friends and cheating wives. He was reminiscing of his sister and the ***** secret that lay, all his shame, out in the open. “'Tis long overdue.” He pondered. Then came the hour, the minute, the second; On the plains of Camlann an ordinary soldier saw the heavens through the clouds, while the great knights were busy with bloodbath and sacrifice. He screamed with joy and terror as the swords clashed with each other. In the midst of the bloodthirsty, confused horde was Mordred, a ****** smile on his face and his ragged blade tore a gaping hole in his father's abdomen. As soon as he hit the floor, Lancelot came from beyond. He was too late; his king dead, his queen devastated, banished; she fled unwilling, but obediently. There was only one thing left to do; Lancelot knew well. So King Arthur met his end at Camlann and died with his son, Mordred. That was the day their lives ended; The lake Avalon took them in and swallowed their bodies whole; Lancelot watched the fire burn away. Nimue, at the bottom of the lake, broke the sword in half and wailed. The world got quiet and moved on, carrying the weight of forever lost Camelot.

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Feb 7, 2020

Feb 7, 2020 at 4:34 AM UTC

The End Days of Camelot

On the day he died King Arthur ordered his knights told them to prepare to fight and maybe even die; He was brave and so was Mordred who put a sword through his father, the once and future tyrant. At Camlann, the day was hot, yet so cold; the air was misty and the sea boiled; The trees tilted away looking scared and ashamed; The prophets were quiet, tight lipped, they sat up high, chain-smoking on the peace pipe. Mordred's head was pins-and-needles. He clawed at his sword in stress, looking at the opposite camp. He thought of his mother at Avalon, wondering if she'll bury him there or his father. What will he do upon arriving with heavy steps on the fields of Camlann? He feels lost. King Arthur was brandishing Excalibur, lost in thoughts of murderous sons and treacherous friends and cheating wives. He was reminiscing of his sister and the ***** secret that lay, all his shame, out in the open. “'Tis long overdue.” He pondered. Then came the hour, the minute, the second; On the plains of Camlann an ordinary soldier saw the heavens through the clouds, while the great knights were busy with bloodbath and sacrifice. He screamed with joy and terror as the swords clashed with each other. In the midst of the bloodthirsty, confused horde was Mordred, a ****** smile on his face and his ragged blade tore a gaping hole in his father's abdomen. As soon as he hit the floor, Lancelot came from beyond. He was too late; his king dead, his queen devastated, banished; she fled unwilling, but obediently. There was only one thing left to do; Lancelot knew well. So King Arthur met his end at Camlann and died with his son, Mordred. That was the day their lives ended; The lake Avalon took them in and swallowed their bodies whole; Lancelot watched the fire burn away. Nimue, at the bottom of the lake, broke the sword in half and wailed. The world got quiet and moved on, carrying the weight of forever lost Camelot.

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