#charles
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.
Apr 20
Apr 20, 2026 at 3:41 PM UTC
In the tomb, it reeked of rot, of mold, of cold—
a crypt where time gnawed silent, slow, and sure.
Through years of thirst and famine’s cruel hold,
my flesh dissolved, my bones lay bare and poor.
The glass turned black with filth, with creeping blight,
rust ate the chains—one snapped, its strength undone.
The dwarves, who forged them, never reckoned right
how time kills everything and everyone.
The cave breathed hush. Just water’s hollow chime,
drop after drop, on stones no light could warm.
There, at the threshold, steeped in grime and time,
a sleeper waited for the spell to swarm.
Then came the knight—a bride in steel, in flame—
her shadow pooled where no light dared to tread.
She knelt, her lips a breath away from mine,
her voice a spark to raise me from the dead:
Then kiss me, Snow White. Let the curse be cleft—
I’ll rise the third dawn, under Pilate’s hand,
or Charles’, or any other power left,
that rules this land.
Apr 3, 2025
Apr 3, 2025 at 10:35 AM UTC
Gustav Wolfgang
600 S. Graves St.
McKinney 69, Texas
The Damnation of Non-Invisibility
the damnation of non-invisibility:
this is where even
brilliance
fails-
and all that heart,
and where she came from
that horrible thing-
bends you down
to the highest bidder;
the ***** she said
you weren’t.
boys, i’m here to tell you
it’s a ******* crucible.
getting where you need to go
never getting anywhere
or anything;
but finding resting
***** face,
every single place you go-
be easy,
once your little hands find earth,
there’s no going back;
remember what you mean to carve
into those dank ****** walls
and know;
that the gods that put you here
once were good to us;
and that it is not the act you watch right now
that defines a thing;
most especially,
not you.
Oct 11, 2023
Oct 11, 2023 at 7:19 PM UTC
I want, to be able pure poems to write,
To sleep near the sky like star gazers at night,
To dream near the belfries, enchanted and filled
By their solemn anthems diffused by the wind.
With chin cupped in hands from my attic to see
The workshop which chatters and sings and feels free;
The chimneys, the steeples, these masts of the town,
The skies making people in fancy to drown.
How nice is to see through the mists a star bright
And a lamp at the window, burning still in the night,
The rivers of coal rising up in the air,
The moon pouring down its pale charm everywhere.
The summers and autumns will quietly go;
When winter arrives with its white and dull snow
I'll close all the doors and pull down the blind
And build lofty castles at night in my mind.
I'll dream all the time of blue distant horizons,
Alabaster small fountains which weep in the gardens,
And kisses, and birds, chirping loudly and rife,
The pure love affairs we cherish in life.
The bustle, enticing, at the window will drum,
With my head on the desk, I shall sit still and numb,
For I'll dive in the sea of exquisite delight
Of evoking the spring with my will and my might,
Of bringing the sun near my heart and create
Of my fiery dreams an abode warm and great.
May 4, 2022
May 4, 2022 at 1:54 AM UTC
"don't come inside"
usually, in fact, almost always
I would pull out
with a split second to spare
and ******* all over her
turning her navel in to
some sort of overflow cum-gutter
proceed to roll over
panting like an old dog in the sun
roll a cigarette whilst she
wipes us both down with some nearby
toilet roll and suggest
we watch something on her laptop
this time was different though
I pulled out and she lays there
and starts tugging me off
entirely unnecessarily
as though both of our lives
depended on it
and I'm glad she did
I started spraying hot **** everywhere
and I think to myself
"I'm painting the ******* walls!"
it was nothing short of sensational
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 2:46 PM UTC
I wondered while young
how I'll treat my son
I wont be as cruel of course
His snarling face
an emotionless traits
Evil always lives long.
I try, I try
I've tried I will say
echoing years to dawn
Dare I say
with a grin on his face
father still lives on
I'll play games
and laugh everyday
I won't be as cruel of course
That towering crow
That shivers shadows
Lingers like skin to bone
The deeper I thought
The darker I grew
eclipsing all that I see
I lost my sight of sun
He lost his sight of me
The only warmth I had
The only evil he seen
Do ruins have no end
pain I've absorbed my share.
I lost sight of my son
his grave I couldn't bare.
Of what age have I become
To what love do I belong
lost in my hatred of father
And still I live on.
Nov 3, 2020
Nov 3, 2020 at 3:37 PM UTC
Should I
let summer smiles
invade shades to the window
that shields me from the world.
Laugh with the wind
that tickles tree leaves
giggling with birds
whistling rummers
they heard
And breathe for awhile
Open up i dare say
Let the world illuminate your face
and smile for a little while longer
Go be free I dare say
I should dare myself more today
And giggle with the dares I think of.
And smile for a while
And breathe for a little while longer.
Nov 1, 2020
Nov 1, 2020 at 6:51 PM UTC
reading his work always puts me in a good mood
reminds me
of how simple words
can bear
complex meanings
how insignificant
ambitions
in the grand
yet not
scheme of things
mean nothing
the endless cycle
repeating
mistake after mistake
until the lesson
eradicates itself
making excuses
telling lies
self medicating
as though
vitality depends on it
/it doesn’t/
leaving
infectious afterthoughts
before you can draw conclusions
but not after
you have already submitted
to the beautiful mind
that made you wonder
why nobody listened
not enough, anyway.
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 11:50 AM UTC
Le temps a laissé son manteau ("The season has cast its coat aside")
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
The season has cast its coat aside
of wind and cold and rain,
to dress in embroidered light again:
bright sunlight, fit for a bride!
There isn't a bird or beast astride
that fails to sing this sweet refrain:
"The season has cast its coat aside!"
Now rivers, fountains, springs and tides
dressed in their summer best
with silver beads impressed
in a fine display now glide:
the season has cast its coat aside!
The year lays down his mantle cold
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
The year lays down his mantle cold
of wind, chill rain and bitter air,
and now goes clad in clothes of gold
of smiling suns and seasons fair,
while birds and beasts of wood and fold
now with each cry and song declare:
“The year lays down his mantle cold!”
All brooks, springs, rivers, seaward rolled,
now pleasant summer livery wear
with silver beads embroidered where
the world puts off its raiment old.
The year lays down his mantle cold.
Winter has cast his cloak away
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Winter has cast his cloak away
of wind and cold and chilling rain
to dress in embroidered light again:
the light of day—bright, festive, gay!
Each bird and beast, without delay,
in its own tongue, sings this refrain:
“Winter has cast his cloak away!”
Brooks, fountains, rivers, streams at play,
wear, with their summer livery,
bright beads of silver jewelry.
All the Earth has a new and fresh display:
Winter has cast his cloak away!
Note: This rondeau was set to music by Debussy in his “Trois chansons de France.”
The original French rondeau:
Le temps a laissé son manteau
De vent, de froidure et de pluie,
Et s’est vêtu de broderie,
De soleil luisant, clair et beau.
Il n’y a bête, ni oiseau
Qu’en son jargon ne chante ou crie :
"Le temps a laissé son manteau."
Rivière, fontaine et ruisseau
Portent en livrée jolie,
Gouttes d’argent d’orfèvrerie,
Chacun s’habille de nouveau :
Le temps a laissé son manteau.
Le Primtemps (“Spring” or “Springtime”)
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Young lovers,
greeting the spring
fling themselves downhill,
making cobblestones ring
with their wild leaps and arcs,
like ecstatic sparks
drawn from coal.
What is their brazen goal?
They grab at whatever passes,
so we can only hazard guesses.
But they rear like prancing steeds
raked by brilliant spurs of need,
Young lovers.
The original French poem:
Jeunes amoureux nouveaulx
En la nouvelle saison,
Par les rues, sans raison,
Chevauchent, faisans les saulx.
Et font saillir des carreaulx
Le feu, comme de cherbon,
Jeunes amoureux nouveaulx.
Je ne sçay se leurs travaulx
Ilz emploient bien ou non,
Mais piqués de l’esperon
Sont autant que leurs chevaulx
Jeunes amoureux nouveaulx.
Ballade: Oft in My Thought
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
So often in my busy mind I sought,
Around the advent of the fledgling year,
For something pretty that I really ought
To give my lady dear;
But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear,
Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay
And robbed the world of all that's precious here—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
For me to keep my manner and my thought
Acceptable, as suits my age's hour?
While proving that I never once forgot
Her worth? It tests my power!
I serve her now with masses and with prayer;
For it would be a shame for me to stray
Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost
and the cost of everything became so dear;
Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host,
Take my good deeds, as many as there are,
And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere,
As heaven's truest maid! And may I say:
Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
When I praise her, or hear her praises raised,
I recall how recently she brought me pleasure;
Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay
And makes me wish to dress for my own bier—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains,
Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain,
Your little feet—please, what more can I say?
It is my fetish when you’re far away
To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain—
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains.
So would I beg you, if I only may,
To see such sights as I before have seen,
Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene?
I’ll be obsessed until my dying day
By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains!
The original Middle English text:
Rondel: The Smiling Mouth
The smiling mouth and laughing eyen gray
The breastes round and long small armes twain,
The handes smooth, the sides straight and plain,
Your feetes lit —what should I further say?
It is my craft when ye are far away
To muse thereon in stinting of my pain— (stinting=soothing)
The smiling mouth and laughing eyen gray,
The breastes round and long small armes twain.
So would I pray you, if I durst or may,
The sight to see as I have seen,
For why that craft me is most fain, (For why=because/fain=pleasing)
And will be to the hour in which I day—(day=die)
The smiling mouth and laughing eyen gray,
The breastes round and long small armes twain.
Confession of a Stolen Kiss
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My ghostly father, I confess,
First to God and then to you,
That at a window (you know how)
I stole a kiss of great sweetness,
Which was done out of avidness—
But it is done, not undone, now.
My ghostly father, I confess,
First to God and then to you.
But I shall restore it, doubtless,
Again, if it may be that I know how;
And thus to God I make a vow,
And always I ask forgiveness.
My ghostly father, I confess,
First to God and then to you.
Translator note: By "ghostly father" I take Charles d’Orleans to be confessing to a priest. If so, it's ironic that the kiss was "stolen" at a window and the confession is being made at the window of a confession booth. But it also seems possible that Charles could be confessing to his human father, murdered in his youth and now a ghost. There is wicked humor in the poem, as Charles is apparently vowing to keep asking for forgiveness because he intends to keep stealing kisses at every opportunity!
Original Middle English text:
My ghostly fader, I me confess,
First to God and then to you,
That at a window, wot ye how,
I stale a kosse of gret swetness,
Which don was out avisiness
But it is doon, not undoon, now.
My ghostly fader, I me confess,
First to God and then to you.
But I restore it shall, doutless,
Agein, if so be that I mow;
And that to God I make a vow,
And elles I axe foryefness.
My ghostly fader, I me confesse,
First to God and then to you.
Charles d’Orleans has been credited with writing the first Valentine card, in the form of a poem for his wife. He wrote the poem in 1415 at age 21, in the first year of his captivity while being held prisoner in the Tower of London after having been captured by the British at the Battle of Agincourt. The Battle of Agincourt was the centerpiece of William Shakespeare’s historical play Henry V, in which Charles appears as a character.
At age 16, Charles had married the 11-year-old Bonne of Armagnac in a political alliance, which explains the age difference he mentions in his poem. (Coincidentally, I share his wife’s birthday, the 19th of February.) Unfortunately, Charles would be held prisoner for a quarter century and would never see his wife again, as she died before he was released.
Why did Charles call his wife “Valentine”? Well, his mother’s name was Valentina Visconti ...
My Very Gentle Valentine
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My very gentle Valentine,
Alas, for me you were born too soon,
As I was born too late for you!
May God forgive my jailer
Who has kept me from you this entire year.
I am sick without your love, my dear,
My very gentle Valentine.
In My Imagined Book
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In my imagined Book
my heart endeavored to explain
its history of grief, and pain,
illuminated by the tears
that welled to blur those well-loved years
of former happiness's gains,
in my imagined Book.
Alas, where should the reader look
beyond these drops of sweat, their stains,
all the effort & pain it took
& which I recorded night and day
in my imagined Book?
The original French poem:
Dedens mon Livre de Pensee,
J'ay trouvé escripvant mon cueur
La vraye histoire de douleur
De larmes toute enluminee,
En deffassant la tresamée
Ymage de plaisant doulceur,
Dedens mon Livre de Pensee.
Hélas! ou l'a mon cueur trouvee?
Les grosses gouttes de sueur
Lui saillent, de peinne et labeur
Qu'il y prent, et nuit et journee,
Dedens mon Livre de Pensee.
Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465) was a French royal born into an aristocratic family: his grandfather was Charles V of France and his uncle was Charles VI. His father, Louis I, Duke of Orleans, was a patron of poets and artists. The poet Christine de Pizan dedicated poems to his mother, Valentina Visconti. He became the Duke of Orleans at age 13 after his father was murdered by John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy. He was captured at age 21 in the battle of Agincourt and taken to England, where he remained a prisoner for the next quarter century. While imprisoned there he learned English and wrote poetry of a high order in his second language. A master of poetic forms, he wrote primarily ballades, chansons, complaints and rondeaux. He has been called the “father of French lyric poetry” and has also been credited with writing the first Valentine’s Day poem.
Keywords/Tags: France, French, translation, Charles, Orleans, Duke, first Valentine, rondeau, chanson, rondel, roundel, ballade, ballad, lyric, Middle English, Medieval English, rondeaus, rondeaux, rondels, roundels, ballades, ballads, chansons, royal, noble, prisoner, hostage, ransom, season, seasons, winter, cold, snow, rain, summer, light, clothes, embroidered, embroidery, birds, beasts, sing, singing, song, refrain, rivers, springs, brooks, fountains, silver, beads
Feb 28, 2020
Feb 28, 2020 at 12:25 AM UTC
Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains,
Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain,
Your little feet—please, what more can I say?
It is my fetish when you’re far away
To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain—
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains.
So would I beg you, if I only may,
To see such sights as I before have seen,
Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene?
I’ll be obsessed until my dying day
By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains!
The First Valentine Poem
Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465), a French royal, the grandchild of Charles V, and the Duke of Orleans, has been credited with writing the first Valentine card, in the form of a poem for his wife. Charles wrote the poem in 1415 at age 21, in the first year of his captivity while being held prisoner in the Tower of London after having been captured by the British at the Battle of Agincourt.
My Very Gentle Valentine
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My very gentle Valentine,
Alas, for me you were born too soon,
As I was born too late for you!
May God forgive my jailer
Who has kept me from you this entire year.
I am sick without your love, my dear,
My very gentle Valentine.
Le Primtemps (“Spring” or “Springtime”)
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Young lovers,
greeting the spring
fling themselves downhill,
making cobblestones ring
with their wild leaps and arcs,
like ecstatic sparks
drawn from coal.
What is their brazen goal?
They grab at whatever passes,
so we can only hazard guesses.
But they rear like prancing steeds
raked by brilliant spurs of need,
Young lovers.
The original French poem:
Jeunes amoureux nouveaulx
En la nouvelle saison,
Par les rues, sans raison,
Chevauchent, faisans les saulx.
Et font saillir des carreaulx
Le feu, comme de cherbon,
Jeunes amoureux nouveaulx.
Je ne sçay se leurs travaulx
Ilz emploient bien ou non,
Mais piqués de l’esperon
Sont autant que leurs chevaulx
Jeunes amoureux nouveaulx.
Ballade: Oft in My Thought
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
So often in my busy mind I sought,
Around the advent of the fledgling year,
For something pretty that I really ought
To give my lady dear;
But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear,
Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay
And robbed the world of all that's precious here—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
For me to keep my manner and my thought
Acceptable, as suits my age's hour?
While proving that I never once forgot
Her worth? It tests my power!
I serve her now with masses and with prayer;
For it would be a shame for me to stray
Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost
and the cost of everything became so dear;
Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host,
Take my good deeds, as many as there are,
And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere,
As heaven's truest maid! And may I say:
Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
When I praise her, or hear her praises raised,
I recall how recently she brought me pleasure;
Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay
And makes me wish to dress for my own bier—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
Confession of a Stolen Kiss
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My ghostly father, I confess,
First to God and then to you,
That at a window (you know how)
I stole a kiss of great sweetness,
Which was done out of avidness—
But it is done, not undone, now.
My ghostly father, I confess,
First to God and then to you.
But I shall restore it, doubtless,
Again, if it may be that I know how;
And thus to God I make a vow,
And always I ask forgiveness.
My ghostly father, I confess,
First to God and then to you.
Translator note: By "ghostly father" I take Charles d’Orleans to be confessing to a priest. If so, it's ironic that the kiss was "stolen" at a window and the confession is being made at the window of a confession booth. But it also seems possible that Charles could be confessing to his human father, murdered in his youth and now a ghost. There is wicked humor in the poem, as Charles is apparently vowing to keep asking for forgiveness because he intends to keep stealing kisses at every opportunity!
Original Middle English text:
My ghostly fader, I me confess,
First to God and then to you,
That at a window, wot ye how,
I stale a kosse of gret swetness,
Which don was out avisiness
But it is doon, not undoon, now.
My ghostly fader, I me confess,
First to God and then to you.
But I restore it shall, doutless,
Agein, if so be that I mow;
And that to God I make a vow,
And elles I axe foryefness.
My ghostly fader, I me confesse,
First to God and then to you.
In My Imagined Book
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In my imagined Book
my heart endeavored to explain
its history of grief, and pain,
illuminated by the tears
that welled to blur those well-loved years
of former happiness's gains,
in my imagined Book.
Alas, where should the reader look
beyond these drops of sweat, their stains,
all the effort & pain it took
& which I recorded night and day
in my imagined Book?
The original French poem:
Dedens mon Livre de Pensee,
J'ay trouvé escripvant mon cueur
La vraye histoire de douleur
De larmes toute enluminee,
En deffassant la tresamée
Ymage de plaisant doulceur,
Dedens mon Livre de Pensee.
Hélas! ou l'a mon cueur trouvee?
Les grosses gouttes de sueur
Lui saillent, de peinne et labeur
Qu'il y prent, et nuit et journee,
Dedens mon Livre de Pensee.
Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465) was a French royal born into an aristocratic family: his grandfather was Charles V of France and his uncle was Charles VI. His father, Louis I, Duke of Orleans, was a patron of poets and artists. The poet Christine de Pizan dedicated poems to his mother, Valentina Visconti. He became the Duke of Orleans at age 13 after his father was murdered by John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy. He was captured at age 21 in the battle of Agincourt and taken to England, where he remained a prisoner for the next quarter century. While imprisoned there he learned English and wrote poetry of a high order in his second language. A master of poetic forms, he wrote primarily ballades, chansons, complaints and rondeaux. He has been called the “father of French lyric poetry” and has also been credited with writing the first Valentine’s Day poem.
Keywords/Tags: France, French, translation, Charles, Orleans, Duke, first Valentine, rondeau, chanson, rondel, roundel, ballade, ballad, lyric, Middle English, Medieval English, rondeaus, rondeaux, rondels, roundels, ballades, ballads, chansons, royal, noble, prisoner, hostage, ransom, mouth, eyes, arms, ******* hands, feet, foot, fetish, obscene, *** desire, lust, Valentine
Feb 28, 2020
Feb 28, 2020 at 12:11 AM UTC
Oft in My Thought
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
So often in my busy mind I sought,
Around the advent of the fledgling year,
For something pretty that I really ought
To give my lady dear;
But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear,
Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay
And robbed the world of all that's precious here—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
For me to keep my manner and my thought
Acceptable, as suits my age's hour?
While proving that I never once forgot
Her worth? It tests my power!
I serve her now with masses and with prayer;
For it would be a shame for me to stray
Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost
and the cost of everything became so dear;
Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host,
Take my good deeds, as many as there are,
And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere,
As heaven's truest maid! And may I say:
Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
When I praise her, or hear her praises raised,
I recall how recently she brought me pleasure;
Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay
And makes me wish to dress for my own bier—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
Le Primtemps (“Spring” or “Springtime”)
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Young lovers,
greeting the spring
fling themselves downhill,
making cobblestones ring
with their wild leaps and arcs,
like ecstatic sparks
struck from coal.
What is their brazen goal?
They grab at whatever passes,
so we can only hazard guesses.
But they rear like prancing steeds
raked by brilliant spurs of need,
Young lovers.
Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains,
Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain,
Your little feet—please, what more can I say?
It is my fetish when you’re far away
To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain—
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains.
So would I beg you, if I only may,
To see such sights as I before have seen,
Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene?
I’ll be obsessed until my dying day
By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains!
In My Imagined Book
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In my imagined Book
my heart endeavored to explain
its history of grief, and pain,
illuminated by the tears
that welled to blur those well-loved years
of former happiness's gains,
in my imagined Book.
Alas, where should the reader look
beyond these drops of sweat, their stains,
all the effort & pain it took
& which I recorded night and day
in my imagined Book?
The next three poems are interpretations of "Le temps a laissé son manteau" ("The season has cast off his mantle"). This famous rondeau was set to music by Debussy in his Trois chansons de France.
The season has cast its coat aside
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
The season has cast its coat aside
of wind and cold and rain,
to dress in embroidered light again:
bright sunlight, fit for a bride!
There isn't a bird or beast astride
that fails to sing this sweet refrain:
"The season has cast its coat aside!"
Now rivers, fountains, springs and tides
dressed in their summer best
with silver beads impressed
in a fine display now glide:
the season has cast its coat aside!
Winter has cast his cloak away
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Winter has cast his cloak away
of wind and cold and chilling rain
to dress in embroidered light again:
the light of day—bright, festive, gay!
Each bird and beast, without delay,
in its own tongue, sings this refrain:
"Winter has cast his cloak away!"
Brooks, fountains, rivers, streams at play,
wear, with their summer livery,
bright beads of silver jewelry.
All the Earth has a new and fresh display:
Winter has cast his cloak away!
The year lays down his mantle cold
by Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
The year lays down his mantle cold
of wind, chill rain and bitter air,
and now goes clad in clothes of gold
of smiling suns and seasons fair,
while birds and beasts of wood and fold
now with each cry and song declare:
"The year lays down his mantle cold!"
All brooks, springs, rivers, seaward rolled,
now pleasant summer livery wear
with silver beads embroidered where
the world puts off its raiment old.
The year lays down his mantle cold.
Confession of a Stolen Kiss
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
My ghostly father, I confess,
First to God and then to you,
That at a window (you know how)
I stole a kiss of great sweetness,
Which was done out of avidness—
But it is done, not undone, now.
My ghostly father, I confess,
First to God and then to you.
But I shall restore it, doubtless,
Again, if it may be that I know how;
And thus to God I make a vow,
And always I ask forgiveness.
My ghostly father, I confess,
First to God and then to you.
Fair Lady Without Peer
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Fair Lady, without peer, my plea,
Is that your grace will pardon me,
Since I implore, on bended knee.
No longer can I, privately,
Keep this from you: my deep distress,
When only you can comfort me,
For I consider you my only mistress.
This powerful love demands, I fear,
That I confess things openly,
Since to your service I came here
And my helpless eyes were forced to see
Such beauty gods and angels cheer,
Which brought me joy in such excess
That I became your servant, gladly,
For I consider you my only mistress.
Please grant me this great gift most dear:
to be your vassal, willingly.
May it please you that, now, year by year,
I shall serve you as my only Liege.
I bend the knee here—true, sincere—
Unfit to beg one royal kiss,
Although none other offers cheer,
For I consider you my only mistress.
Chanson: Let Him Refrain from Loving, Who Can
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let him refrain from loving, who can.
I can no longer hover.
I must become a lover.
What will become of me, I know not.
Although I’ve heard the distant thought
that those who love all suffer,
I must become a lover.
I can no longer refrain.
My heart must risk almost certain pain
and trust in Beauty, however distraught.
For if a man does not love, then what?
Let him refrain from loving, who can.
Chanson: The Summer's Heralds
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers
And carpet fields once brown and sere
With lush green grasses and fresh flowers.
Now over gleaming lawns appear
The bright sun-dappled lengthening hours.
The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers.
Faint hearts once chained by sullen fear
No longer shiver, tremble, cower.
North winds no longer storm and glower.
For winter has no business here.
Her Beauty
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Her beauty, to the world so plain,
Still intimately held my heart in thrall
And so established her sole reign:
She was, of Good, the cascading fountain.
Thus of my Love, lost recently,
I say, while weeping bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”
In ages past when angels fell
The world grew darker with the stain
Of their dear blood, then became hell
While poets wept a tearful strain.
Yet, to his dark and drear domain
Death took his victims, piteously,
So that we bards write bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”
Death comes to claim our angels, all,
as well we know, and spares no pain.
Over our pleasures, Death casts his pall,
Then without joy we “living” remain.
Death treats all Love with such disdain!
What use is this world? For it seems to me,
It has neither Love, nor Pity.
Thus, “We cleave to this strange world in vain.”
Traitorous Eye
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do you have in view?
Without civil warning, you spy,
And no one ever knows why!
Who understands anything you do?
You’re rash and crass in your boldness too,
And your lewdness is hard to subdue.
Change your crude ways, can’t you?
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
You should be beaten through and through
With a stripling birch strap or two.
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do have you in view?
The First Valentine Poem
Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465), a French royal, the grandchild of Charles V, and the Duke of Orleans, has been credited with writing the first Valentine card, in the form of a poem for his wife. Charles wrote the poem in 1415 at age 21, in the first year of his captivity while being held prisoner in the Tower of London after having been captured by the British at the Battle of Agincourt.
My Very Gentle Valentine
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My very gentle Valentine,
Alas, for me you were born too soon,
As I was born too late for you!
May God forgive my jailer
Who has kept me from you this entire year.
I am sick without your love, my dear,
My very gentle Valentine.
BIO: Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465) was a French royal born into an aristocratic family: his grandfather was Charles V of France and his uncle was Charles VI. His father, Louis I, Duke of Orleans, was a patron of poets and artists. The poet Christine de Pizan dedicated poems to his mother, Valentina Visconti. He became the Duke of Orleans at age 13 after his father was murdered by John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy. He was captured at age 21 in the battle of Agincourt and taken to England, where he remained a prisoner for the next quarter century. While imprisoned there he learned English and wrote poetry of a high order in his second language. A master of poetic forms, he wrote primarily ballades, chansons, complaints and rondeaux. He has been called the “father of French lyric poetry” and has also been credited with writing the first Valentine’s Day poem.
Charles d'Orleans Timeline/Chronology
1394 - Charles is born in Paris on Nov. 24, 1394, the first son to survive infancy of Louis of Orleans, the brother of Charles VI, and Valentina Visconti of Milan.
1406 - Charles, age 11, marries his cousin Isabelle, age 16, the daughter of Charles VI and Queen Isabeau of France, and the widow of Richard II of England.
1407 - The day before Charles's 13th birthday his father Louis d'Orleans is assassinated in Paris by Burgundians under John the Fearless, on Nov. 23, 1407.
1408 - Charles's mother dies at Blois at age 38 on December 4, 1408; Charles becomes Duke of Orleans at age 14.
1409 - Isabelle bears Charles a daughter, Jeanne, but dies within a few days on Sept. 13, 1409; Charles turns 15 the next month.
1410 - Charles marries Bonne, age 11, the daughter of Bernard, count of Armagnac, and niece of the duke of Berry, on August 15, 1410.
1412 - Charles sends his brother Jean, age 12, to England as a hostage in the custody of the duke of Clarence, on November 14, 1412.
1415 - Charles is captured at the battle of Agincourt on Oct. 25, 1415 and is taken prisoner to England, just in time for his 21st birthday.
1416 - Charles is initially held in the Tower of London.
1417 - In June Charles is sent to Pontefract (Yorks), in custody of Robert Waterton.
1427 - Joan of Arc, supported by Charles's brother Jean, the Count of Dunois, takes up the cause of freeing France from English control.
1429 - Henry VI of England is crowned at age eight.
1431 - Henry VI is crowned king of France in the cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris; Joan of Arc is burned at the stake.
1432 - Charles's daughter Jeanne dies at age 23; his wife Bonne dies sometime between 1430 and 1435.
1440 - Charles is formally released from captivity on October 28, 1440. Charles, now 46, marries Marie of Cleves, niece of Isabelle and duchess of Burgundy, age 14.
1445 - Charles's brother, Jean of Angouleme, is released from English captivity after 33 years.
1457 - After 17 years of marriage, Marie of Cleves bears Charles a daughter, Marie. Francois Villon, a guest at Blois, writes a poem to celebrate the birth.
1461 - Charles VII dies; Louis XI ascends the throne.
1462 - Marie bears Charles a son, the future Louis XII, known during his reign as the "Father of his People."
1464 - Marie bears Charles a daughter, Anne.
1465 - Charles of Orleans dies at age 70 on January 4, 1465. His poetry will still be read 500 years later.
Keywords/Tags: France, French, translation, Charles, Orleans, Duke, first Valentine, rondeau, chanson, rondel, roundel, ballade, ballad, lyric, Middle English, Medieval English, rondeaus, rondeaux, rondels, roundels, ballades, ballads, chansons, royal, noble, prisoner, hostage, ransom
Feb 27, 2020
Feb 27, 2020 at 11:44 PM UTC
Le Primtemps (“Spring” or “Springtime”)
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Young lovers,
greeting the spring
fling themselves downhill,
making cobblestones ring
with their wild leaps and arcs,
like ecstatic sparks
drawn from coal.
What is their brazen goal?
They grab at whatever passes,
so we can only hazard guesses.
But they rear like prancing steeds
raked by brilliant spurs of need,
Young lovers.
Original French text:
Jeunes amoureux nouveaulx
En la nouvelle saison,
Par les rues, sans raison,
Chevauchent, faisans les saulx.
Et font saillir des carreaulx
Le feu, comme de cherbon,
Jeunes amoureux nouveaulx.
Je ne sçay se leurs travaulx
Ilz emploient bien ou non,
Mais piqués de l’esperon
Sont autant que leurs chevaulx
Jeunes amoureux nouveaulx.
The First Valentine Poem
Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465), a French royal, the grandchild of Charles V, and the Duke of Orleans, has been credited with writing the first Valentine card, in the form of a poem for his wife. Charles wrote the poem in 1415 at age 21, in the first year of his captivity while being held prisoner in the Tower of London after having been captured by the British at the Battle of Agincourt.
My Very Gentle Valentine
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My very gentle Valentine,
Alas, for me you were born too soon,
As I was born too late for you!
May God forgive my jailer
Who has kept me from you this entire year.
I am sick without your love, my dear,
My very gentle Valentine.
Ballade: Oft in My Thought
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
So often in my busy mind I sought,
Around the advent of the fledgling year,
For something pretty that I really ought
To give my lady dear;
But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear,
Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay
And robbed the world of all that's precious here—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
For me to keep my manner and my thought
Acceptable, as suits my age's hour?
While proving that I never once forgot
Her worth? It tests my power!
I serve her now with masses and with prayer;
For it would be a shame for me to stray
Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost
and the cost of everything became so dear;
Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host,
Take my good deeds, as many as there are,
And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere,
As heaven's truest maid! And may I say:
Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
When I praise her, or hear her praises raised,
I recall how recently she brought me pleasure;
Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay
And makes me wish to dress for my own bier—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains,
Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain,
Your little feet—please, what more can I say?
It is my fetish when you’re far away
To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain—
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains.
So would I beg you, if I only may,
To see such sights as I before have seen,
Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene?
I’ll be obsessed until my dying day
By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains!
Confession of a Stolen Kiss
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My ghostly father, I confess,
First to God and then to you,
That at a window (you know how)
I stole a kiss of great sweetness,
Which was done out of avidness—
But it is done, not undone, now.
My ghostly father, I confess,
First to God and then to you.
But I shall restore it, doubtless,
Again, if it may be that I know how;
And thus to God I make a vow,
And always I ask forgiveness.
My ghostly father, I confess,
First to God and then to you.
Translator note: By "ghostly father" I take Charles d’Orleans to be confessing to a priest. If so, it's ironic that the kiss was "stolen" at a window and the confession is being made at the window of a confession booth. But it also seems possible that Charles could be confessing to his human father, murdered in his youth and now a ghost. There is wicked humor in the poem, as Charles is apparently vowing to keep asking for forgiveness because he intends to keep stealing kisses at every opportunity!
In My Imagined Book
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In my imagined Book
my heart endeavored to explain
its history of grief, and pain,
illuminated by the tears
that welled to blur those well-loved years
of former happiness's gains,
in my imagined Book.
Alas, where should the reader look
beyond these drops of sweat, their stains,
all the effort & pain it took
& which I recorded night and day
in my imagined Book?
The next three poems are interpretations of "Le temps a laissé son manteau" ("The season has cast off his mantle"). This famous rondeau was set to music by Debussy in his Trois chansons de France.
The season has cast its coat aside
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
The season has cast its coat aside
of wind and cold and rain,
to dress in embroidered light again:
bright sunlight, fit for a bride!
There isn't a bird or beast astride
that fails to sing this sweet refrain:
"The season has cast its coat aside!"
Now rivers, fountains, springs and tides
dressed in their summer best
with silver beads impressed
in a fine display now glide:
the season has cast its coat aside!
Winter has cast his cloak away
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Winter has cast his cloak away
of wind and cold and chilling rain
to dress in embroidered light again:
the light of day—bright, festive, gay!
Each bird and beast, without delay,
in its own tongue, sings this refrain:
"Winter has cast his cloak away!"
Brooks, fountains, rivers, streams at play,
wear, with their summer livery,
bright beads of silver jewelry.
All the Earth has a new and fresh display:
Winter has cast his cloak away!
The year lays down his mantle cold
by Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
The year lays down his mantle cold
of wind, chill rain and bitter air,
and now goes clad in clothes of gold
of smiling suns and seasons fair,
while birds and beasts of wood and fold
now with each cry and song declare:
"The year lays down his mantle cold!"
All brooks, springs, rivers, seaward rolled,
now pleasant summer livery wear
with silver beads embroidered where
the world puts off its raiment old.
The year lays down his mantle cold.
Fair Lady Without Peer
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Fair Lady, without peer, my plea,
Is that your grace will pardon me,
Since I implore, on bended knee.
No longer can I, privately,
Keep this from you: my deep distress,
When only you can comfort me,
For I consider you my only mistress.
This powerful love demands, I fear,
That I confess things openly,
Since to your service I came here
And my helpless eyes were forced to see
Such beauty gods and angels cheer,
Which brought me joy in such excess
That I became your servant, gladly,
For I consider you my only mistress.
Please grant me this great gift most dear:
to be your vassal, willingly.
May it please you that, now, year by year,
I shall serve you as my only Liege.
I bend the knee here—true, sincere—
Unfit to beg one royal kiss,
Although none other offers cheer,
For I consider you my only mistress.
Chanson: Let Him Refrain from Loving, Who Can
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let him refrain from loving, who can.
I can no longer hover.
I must become a lover.
What will become of me, I know not.
Although I’ve heard the distant thought
that those who love all suffer,
I must become a lover.
I can no longer refrain.
My heart must risk almost certain pain
and trust in Beauty, however distraught.
For if a man does not love, then what?
Let him refrain from loving, who can.
Chanson: The Summer's Heralds
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers
And carpet fields once brown and sere
With lush green grasses and fresh flowers.
Now over gleaming lawns appear
The bright sun-dappled lengthening hours.
The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers.
Faint hearts once chained by sullen fear
No longer shiver, tremble, cower.
North winds no longer storm and glower.
For winter has no business here.
Her Beauty
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Her beauty, to the world so plain,
Still intimately held my heart in thrall
And so established her sole reign:
She was, of Good, the cascading fountain.
Thus of my Love, lost recently,
I say, while weeping bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”
In ages past when angels fell
The world grew darker with the stain
Of their dear blood, then became hell
While poets wept a tearful strain.
Yet, to his dark and drear domain
Death took his victims, piteously,
So that we bards write bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”
Death comes to claim our angels, all,
as well we know, and spares no pain.
Over our pleasures, Death casts his pall,
Then without joy we “living” remain.
Death treats all Love with such disdain!
What use is this world? For it seems to me,
It has neither Love, nor Pity.
Thus, “We cleave to this strange world in vain.”
Traitorous Eye
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do you have in view?
Without civil warning, you spy,
And no one ever knows why!
Who understands anything you do?
You’re rash and crass in your boldness too,
And your lewdness is hard to subdue.
Change your crude ways, can’t you?
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
You should be beaten through and through
With a stripling birch strap or two.
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do have you in view?
Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465) was a French royal born into an aristocratic family: his grandfather was Charles V of France and his uncle was Charles VI. His father, Louis I, Duke of Orleans, was a patron of poets and artists. The poet Christine de Pizan dedicated poems to his mother, Valentina Visconti. He became the Duke of Orleans at age 13 after his father was murdered by John the Fearless, Duke of Burgundy. He was captured at age 21 in the battle of Agincourt and taken to England, where he remained a prisoner for the next quarter century. While imprisoned there he learned English and wrote poetry of a high order in his second language. A master of poetic forms, he wrote primarily ballades, chansons, complaints and rondeaux. He has been called the “father of French lyric poetry” and has also been credited with writing the first Valentine’s Day poem.
Keywords/Tags: France, French, translation, Charles, Orleans, Duke, first Valentine, rondeau, chanson, rondel, roundel, ballade, ballad, lyric, Middle English, Medieval English, rondeaus, rondeaux, rondels, roundels, ballades, ballads, chansons, royal, noble, prisoner, hostage, ransom, Valentine
Feb 27, 2020
Feb 27, 2020 at 11:33 PM UTC
“I have been trying to get laid
So should I try lacing up my suspenders and get my strap on,
for another fifty shades of drinking a Harlem shake to the
piece of cake fairy tale of nagging paper trail just to impress a **** pony tail
at the dark alley bakery, vending her own cookie with a tight shoulder skirt to this lions in search of an empire from a leverage point to cleavage, Torching the alley with a naked thigh just like tossing a coin into a fountain in a circus with clown with umbrella about throw some shade until when the tides go out to, you get to know who’s been swimming naked upon the pleasures that are bitter to swallow to this blood ******* roaches chasing strangers who would spread her legs to the canvas and induce seduction as a color scheme……..
She called me sadist and I called myself a dreamer,
She dreamt of pushing me off the bed and calling me a screamer
She envisioned cutting my throat and playing jazz with my vocal chords
She fantasied sarcastically caressing my cuticles just because last night I came in short of breath
Previously
She would sell her own soul to the syringe of morphine drip
for a denial shot that pain heals in the prefix of an outpatient rehab
now in the bathtub nursing in patient withdrawal ,
She would tie a shoe string around her bicep in search of vein,
so as to squeeze the **** libido version of limbo to oblivion
humiliating the dark clouds begging for a shooting star
to the pages that frustrates the pen unto the novel that prescribes a prenuptial of black bride killing the reader’s digest and buries their heads…………..so……………………
I am becoming a book.
that will induce an ****** with sympathy veil of beggar feeding on their own horses
to the end of the caterpillar misery is **** butterfly confetti to script that syncs the readers perception
Into the ****** abuses of the needle that impregnates the ink and tells the canvas to go get paternity test throughout the history of melting medusa lips
that made a homeless robin without a hood painting a revolution in this concrete jungle
where dreams are made up from silence thought that can
ambush a hive softy through whistling that melts
a bee’s temper in the presence of a queen is a poisonous sting of a artist
dipping his own brush into his own soul with a healing dew that never bruises
the honey in the vein of the garden is the beauty of the wine
From a vine to flower is a grape in the glass is anarchy
From what I am running from
To misery flowing from the river on
That’s why we are here
To profile the lost identity from the art of war that sun Tzu was afraid of losing his head to another thigh!
That’s why we are here
To profile the slit of the dress that curved the sword another napoleon to conquer Soviet Union
That’s why we are here
To profile a love Ballard from contortionist that melted medusa eyes from cold to flexible
Revolution will wear a mini skirt, squat and kiss the lepers hands for the Benjamin’s banking dump jokes...and still hire Johnnie Cochran for second ****** trial of O.J Simpson ……………
That’s why I still want …………………………….
our culture wore a fabric of circus clothes only dance in the arena like a puppet from the strings of the servants chasing a redemption in the den of thrones getting thrown to the game of throne for guilty pleasure as kings daughters were gambling upon gladiators death to the freedom of escaping their own Sobibor that chopped off my foot in the life of Kunta Kinte
Slavery was blushing teeth with a **** moan of a cigarette smoke
Flirting to the horrors of unshaved groins,
from the growing pains in the hands that planted olive trees
to labor and harvest their oil that has become tears of
cowards staining heaven with obscene imagery of their own likeness
holding their insights captive upon the eyes of the ******
Until our backs were a canvas of whips and brutality, we had tattoos
of pain and graffiti of blood as written the book blue skies
claiming the prepare the way the Lord, judging Esther from a supremacy attire of poverty
termed to be isolated from the world where the corner stone fell into the wrong hands and built a
Tower of babel for the Pharisee living in a glass house
Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal to pleasure
the urges out of the Garden of Eden, Adam had to seek leaves to live with eve,
From a mustard seed renouncing the deception ought to praise the womb that gave birth to the blood sweat and tears to the system planting snares pig’s ears and fears ,
with intent to subdue the cat inside the bag from the smell of the rat that has been suffering a broken rib
We used ashes as lotion to conquer the scratching pains of the unhearing wounds eying the staff that turned into a serpent in exodus to the stiff neck of the system after the death of Moses….we had to succumb to victory,
There was a story of how soldiers got hungry
in the battlefield even they started feeding on themselves
Fighting for peace in the pieces of human meat...
upon pawns that have kept chasing the salvation of in the story that was
made by rats that fought all the dogs and killed the cats is like
Judging a fish with its own abilities to climb trees from the a shadow of small boy reflecting an elephant in the room with betrayal that made Julius have a seizure after gambling with another’s man
life with few pieces of silver sealed by a Judas kiss that killed Jesus,
Nov 14, 2019
Nov 14, 2019 at 2:27 AM UTC
at the border and in cages
it’s the worst
in clouds of smog
it’s the worst
in prisons
it’s the worst
in foster care homes
it’s the worst
at the mall
at factories
at fundraisers for the poor
it’s the worst
at parties
at family gatherings
it’s the worst
at city hall meetings
at schools
at movie theaters
it’s the worst
in the morning
in the afternoon
in the evening
it’s he worst
going to bed
yellow balloons
that’s the best
looking at the starts
smelling food
watching the cow escape the slaughter
that’s the best
sparkling water
a bee pollinating a flower
that’s the best
swatting flies
fresh bed sheets
overcoming suffering
that’s the best
apposing the rich
unpopular opinions
fighting for minorities
that’s the best
vintage finds
forgotten promised
happy thoughts
that’s the best
answers
a still mind
understanding
hatred extinguished
that’s the best
for me.
Jun 20, 2019
Jun 20, 2019 at 11:48 AM UTC
Failed again; only this time I lose everything, including my mind.
I plan to wake tomorrow with the intention of trying again.
Your life is your life,
Don't let it be clubbed into dank submission.
I know some "thing" is watching, listening closely.
"It," sends me hope through whispers, whispers only I can hear.
I am scrutinized, ostracized, berated for even paying attention to "that thing."
I am hurt. I want to quit. But I lost everything already, what more do I have to lose?
I act again. I try again. I fail again.
I've given myself the piece of advice to: hold these failures close to my heart. They will pave the way. One stepping stone after another.
You will ride life into perfect laughter.
Aug 15, 2018
Aug 15, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
P.1
The crowd sings a tune
Most dreadful
Malice
It is with steel
Cold retribution
Uneven fire
That he shall die
P.2
Formalities unsecured
Royalty disbanded
Speech said
Hostility silenced
Peace has come
P.3
A hairpiece
Eyes an unnatural shade of blue
Hands reaching for a god
Face unsure
Blade ready
Head severed
P.4
Without God
Tangible mercy
England is set free
Gold to ash
Mind to dirt
Heir to none
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 10:17 PM UTC
(Thy lovely lasses unwittingly
unstintingly unexpectedly
taught me selflessness)
Every Holiday time each year,
a rocketing increase asper
doling out Uriah Heap ping
largesse imposed upon each
citizen banker (coerced, forced,
induced to buy baubles,
bibelot, curios, et cetera striving
to outspend a competing
shopper, which faux grand
handedness, and crass exhibition
generating mega sales (as Tale
of Two Cities, or more)
earns management stripes viz
embracing the Christmas spirit
(via blithely deftly, frenziedly,
et cetera) per avidly boasting,
coarsely displaying, eagerly
flaunting, et cetera prices paid
for the latest curiosity, doodad,
gewgaws (whereby un
avoidable advertisements), flood
mass communication airways,
causeways, driveways, et cetera
to plug reduced priceline sans
gaud dee, knickknacks, gimcracks,
encompass companies blitzkrieg
for those, who disparage being
labeled Scrooge plunk down
every red cent, and empty
their pockets, purses, wallets
to snag the title of topnotch spender
no matter no need exists to ******
every last kickshaw, novelty ornamental
tchotchkes, (which modus operandi,
(visited upon the populace, a tidal wave
vis a vis figurative manifestation,
laceration, inundation, whereby tenet,
maxim, credo, et cetera broadcast
to general public amply expending
page number two:
fistfuls of dollars fulfilling
Great Expectations
(for family, friends, relatives)
buy giving liberally,
via unspoken mandate, and
thence subsequently, when receiving
presents galore, tis incumbent to craft
sincere polite thank you note
(written in calligraphy if possibly)
to evince real or feigned gratitude
despite The Battle of Life travails
and, whenever possibly necessarily
over spending monetary reserves
setting stage for Bleak House
after festivities subside,
whence welcoming return to employ
ment to garner green legal tender
to stave off Hard Times glad to
cease hearing annoying renditions
qua A Christmas Carol, and visiting
countless theaters enduring
legions of young actors and or
actresses portray the saga of Oliver Twist
a disadvantaged indigent boy
(given up by his mum),
and grudgingly accepted in an
Almshouse, where his early existence
mirrored unfair cruelty, whereat
Master of the deprived ladelled
thin gruel only one ration, a worse
perdition than death, this measly diet
lacked minimal nutrition, The Battle of Life.
This American Notes a disproportionate
concentration to reach out to those less fortunate
particularly Thanksgiving and Xmas
which effort laudable, yet a diminution
for succor such as: triumph over adversity
sustenance, accommodations seems
to muffle The Chimes remaining
three hundred and some odd or even days.
Nov 30, 2017
Nov 30, 2017 at 8:14 PM UTC
little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
I won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won't blame you,
instead
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won't use it
yet.
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 4:47 PM UTC
“These birds are the most singular of any in the Galapagos.”
Charles Darwin.
Volcanic up swell,
tick mark,
tiny dot in the middle
of a blue map.
Stationary ship,
belly of the earth
like a backstroke swimmer
in a blue-black sea,
where erratic rains run away
while a Cactus Finch (Scandens) has gone
black to mate, so black that shadows cast
blushes back. So black,
more silhouette
than a black beaked bird
Daphne,
on your barred black belly,
this fine breath’d bird, this
penumbra of feathers and flight;
demonstrating divergence and drift,
so proud he sings aloud
the song of the Ground Finch (Fortis).
O befuddled bird
bereft an opera coach,
sans score of Scandens, the bird song
bindery gone bankrupt, loose leaf
scores littered, learning a neighbor’s
second hand sheet music.
Amid the volcanic dreams
of Finches, and bird shaped voids,
singing atop cacti, amid these small
dark commas set against a bluer
than blue sky, he sings the wrong song
but it's been a good year and she comes,
the star crossed lover, Lady Fortis.
And before the rains return, and they will return,
a small clutch of stars.
And when the rains return,
they will return
with long lost letters from London.
Oct 16, 2017
Oct 16, 2017 at 12:05 PM UTC
This poem is originally written by my favorite poet, Charles Bukowski. .
they're not going to let you
sit at a front table
at some cafe in Europe
in the mid-afternoon sun.
if you do, somebody's going to
drive by and
spray your guts with a
submachine gun.
they're not going to let you
feel good
for very long
anywhere.
the forces aren't going to
let you sit around
fucking-off and
relaxing.
you've got to go
their way.
the unhappy, the bitter and
the vengeful
need their
fix - which is
you or somebody
anybody
in agony, or
better yet
dead, dropped into some
hole.
as long as there are
humans about
there is never going to be
any peace
for any individual
upon this earth or
anywhere else
they might
escape to.
all you can do
is maybe grab
ten lucky minutes
here
or maybe an hour
there.
something
is working toward you
right now, and
I mean you
and nobody but
you.
Oct 9, 2017
Oct 9, 2017 at 7:26 PM UTC
Gallman
Baunan
Leann Taliaferrus?
(promised Tolliver, Taliaferro, i.e.)
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 2:28 PM UTC
I came to agree with Charles Darwin
When my eyes opened wider as I came of age
And I saw how the world worked
Realizing that it was deeper than what people said
About my race in life being unique from my neighbour’s
And what my religion teaches
Coupled with the enormous faith it demanded
Asking me not to question the obscure answers
But life remains what it is and the truth remains the truth
Although it could be heartbreaking if misunderstood
Life has always been a cryptic puzzle
Destined to be deciphered step by step
To be understood little by little across generations
One continuing where the previous stopped
This was the birth of philosophy and science
Bodies of rebellion that seek
To answer the questions and question the answers
Why in the track of life, evil travelled faster than good
I came to agree with Charles Darwin
When I looked at life and saw that it was indeed
A ring where only the fittest survived
So what hope was there for the weak?
what hope …………..for the weak?
And a voice answered saying
Faith! They will believe and hold on to their belief
Their prayers and belief may or may not become
But they will be comforted by their belief
In the things they can feel but do not see
This life too is full of malpractice
And the righteous are at a disadvantage
The world is also full of unkindness
That when the kind bends to help a fallen one
Get back on his feet, he gets kicked
On the head by the same person he elated
And he would look back to a cruel memory seeing
That his kindness was a ladder
With which he elevated his Judas
The world is a place where one becomes pragmatic
even with kindness
To avoid being kicked in the head
The journey to our heart desires is a race
The world is racing away with everything good
Only the strong and opportune wrestle enough from her
In this continuous race that never ends
Some people fall off by the road side
And kindness could be a weakness to the needed focus
But everyday a miracle happens, people take chances
To uplift others, defying the law of nature
Yet there are casualties
I came to agree with Charles Darwin when I saw it
That life was this programmed race track
That thrived on the principle of survival of the fittest
And evolving into this state of mind,
I have seen that evolution
Is not only what I see in my biology textbooks
But it was the principle that guided life.
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 8:42 AM UTC
“You wanna go to the crystal shop with me?
Maybe some coffee?”
First things we said
Buying matching bullhorns
for later
I’ll show you how to wrap sage
leaves
You can show me how to build
a fire
Lucky
Blessed
Charmed
Happy
We didn’t have to wait
long
We’ll make a pact
We’ll promise to grow old
Side by side
We know we’re already
Dead
This was the first time
We understood
Oui
© Christopher F. Brown 2017
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 12:17 AM UTC
it's so strange afterwards
when it's finished
when it has been finished for some
time--
she sat on her bed in her bedroom
and I sat in a chair
and I had to tell her how strange it
was--
"nothing against you
but when I look at you now
I can't understand how you ever made a
madman out of me,
how you got hold of my feelings..."
she just sat there and smiled,
her body the same,
her red hair as long as ever.
she had never loved me.
it only mattered a little to her
that I had gotten away.
she was working on other prey.
she sat there and told me about him.
I listened.
when I left I didn't kiss her goodbye.
I got into my car and drove away.
after driving 4 or 5 blocks
I was no longer
thinking about her.
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 1:03 PM UTC