#epitaph
The words engraved on white marble,
with lilies around,
feel almost meaningless.
They miss the lines of the epistle,
burnt
that carried a grief
with no sound left in it.
They miss the dead of night
surrounded by darkness,
alone,
and so afraid of life.
They miss the shaking hands
that tried to hold on
to what could not be held.
The quiet breaking
no one ever heard.
They miss the countless deaths
he died.
They miss the fear of failure
that wounded his life.
They miss the dream he carried as a child.
They miss the pieces of his soul
he buried, part by part,
while still breathing still alive.
They miss
the only part of him
that ever truly lived.
Beneath the earthen quilt,
within the slow rot of flesh and bone,
a dearth of fear and guilt
as if even remorse
had long withdrawn.
And still,
the words engraved on white marble,
with lilies around,
remain beautiful
yet almost meaningless
_______Violetta
Apr 18
Apr 18, 2026 at 1:33 AM UTC
By The Drifter from Heaven
Here lies a King whose crown was made of thorn,
A golden nail that cast a grievous wound for the forlorn,
He traded scepters for a bed of clay,
A throne of decay for a king slain in dismay.
Yet beneath the dust where the shadows lie deep,
A quiet grace wakes while the weary bones sleep.
No longer a prisoner of the thorn and the nail,
He finds a new kingdom where the light shall not fail.
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 9:06 AM UTC
The Destroyer of the division machine1
Had first to run on the Way of the Cross
To have souls over the long lived ruin.
Robben, Pollsmoor and Victor2 caused no loss
In the Staff Heritage of the Thembu3
Rulers, forever loved by their people,
From whom was learnt right fight ain’t to taboo.
Good farmers’ teeth run right through the apple;
Likely after the Hard Walk to Freedom4
The Son of Gadla and Nosekeni5,
When his Soul flies up to the Lord’s Kingdom,
Glass will keep his body, and not any
Stain will sully the Star of the Nation
Whose Light will shine for each generation.
1. The division machine: The Apartheid.
2. Robben, Pollsmoor and Victor: During twenty seven years Mandela was successively jailed at Robben Island, Pollsmoor and Victor Verster prisons.
3. Thembu: The tribe over which ruled Mandela’s ancestors.
4. Hard Walk to Freedom: In September 1953, Andrew Kunene, a co-militant of his, read out Mandela's "No Easy Walk to Freedom" speech at a Transvaal ANC meeting; the title was taken from a quote by Indian independence leader Jawaharlal Nehru, a seminal influence on Mandela's thought. The speech laid out a contingency plan for a scenario in which the ANC was banned.
5. Gadla (Henry Mphakanyiswa): Mandela’s father; Nosekeni ***** His mother.
Boniface
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 8:33 AM UTC
Beneath this stone, a soul now rests,
A life once filled with endless quests.
To find the self, a journey true,
Through art and ink, a path anew.
This body, a canvas for the mind,
Etched with symbols, a story defined.
Tattoos, a testament to the heart,
Expressing truths, never to part.
In youth, a search for identity,
Grasping for answers, a fragility.
But through the brush, the pen, the needle's touch,
A self emerged, no longer in such.
The artist's hand, a guiding light,
Unlocking doors to inner sight.
Colors and lines, a language divine,
Revealing the depths of this soul's design.
Tattoos, a tapestry of life's tale,
Scars and triumphs, never too pale.
A map of experiences, a road well trod,
Etched upon flesh, a testament to the divine.
In this final resting place, a life well-lived,
A journey of self-discovery, freely given.
Through art and ink, a legacy left behind,
A testament to the power of the human mind.
May all who pass by this humble grave,
Be inspired by the life that here did crave.
To find their own path, their own true self,
And let their story be told, not left on a shelf.
For, in the end, it is not the years that matter,
But the mark we leave, the lives we shatter.
This soul, now at peace, has found its way,
A life well-lived, a masterpiece displayed.
Dec 28, 2024
Dec 28, 2024 at 1:04 PM UTC
MICHELANGELO: Modern English Translations
Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564) is considered by many experts to be the greatest artist and sculptor of all time. These are modern English translations of his poems and epigrams by Michael R. Burch.
SONNET: RAVISHED
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ravished, by all our eyes find fine and fair,
yet starved for virtues pure hearts might confess,
my soul can find no Jacobean stair
that leads to heaven, save earth's loveliness.
The stars above emit such rapturous light
our longing hearts ascend on beams of Love
and seek, indeed, Love at its utmost height.
But where on earth does Love suffice to move
a gentle heart, or ever leave it wise,
save for beauty itself and the starlight in her eyes?
SONNET: TO LUIGI DEL RICCIO, AFTER THE DEATH OF CECCHINO BRACCI
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A pena prima.
I had barely seen the beauty of his eyes
Which unto yours were life itself, and light,
When he closed them fast in death's eternal night
To reopen them on God, in Paradise.
In my tardiness, I wept, too late made wise,
Yet the fault not mine: for death's disgusting ploy
Had robbed me of that deep, unfathomable joy
Which in your loving memory never dies.
Therefore, Luigi, since the task is mine
To make our unique friend smile on, in stone,
Forever brightening what dark earth would dim,
And because the Beloved causes love to shine,
And since the artist cannot work alone,
I must carve you, to tell the world of him!
BEAUTY AND THE ARTIST
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Al cor di zolfo.
A heart aflame; alas, the flesh not so;
Bones brittle wood; the soul without a guide
To curb the will’s inferno; the crude pride
Of restless passions’ pulsing surge and flow;
A witless mind that – halt, lame, weak – must go
Blind through entrapments scattered far and wide; ...
Why wonder then, when one small spark applied
To such an assemblage, renders it aglow?
Add beauteous Art, which, Heaven-Promethean,
Must exceed nature – so divine a power
Belongs to those who strive with every nerve.
Created for such Art, from childhood given
As prey for her Infernos to devour,
I blame the Mistress I was born to serve.
SONNET XVI: LOVE AND ART
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sì come nella penna.
Just as with pen and ink,
there is a high, a low, and an in-between style;
and, as marble yields its images pure and vile
to excite the fancies artificers might think;
even so, my lord, lodged deep within your heart
are mingled pride and mild humility;
but I draw only what I truly see
when I trust my eyes and otherwise stand apart.
Whoever sows the seeds of tears and sighs
(bright dews that fall from heaven, crystal-clear)
in various pools collects antiquities
and so must reap old griefs through misty eyes;
while the one who dwells on beauty, so painful here,
finds ephemeral hopes and certain miseries.
SONNET XXXI: LOVE'S LORDSHIP, TO TOMMASO DE' CAVALIERI
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A che più debb' io.
Am I to confess my heart's desire
with copious tears and windy words of grief,
when a merciless heaven offers no relief
to souls consumed by fire?
Why should my aching heart aspire
to life, when all must die? Beyond belief
would be a death delectable and brief,
since in my compound woes all joys expire!
Therefore, because I cannot dodge the blow,
I rather seek whoever rules my breast,
to glide between her gladness and my woe.
If only chains and bonds can make me blessed,
no marvel if alone and bare I go
to face the foe: her captive slave oppressed.
Michelangelo Epigram Translations
loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch
I saw the angel in the marble and freed him.
I hewed away the coarse walls imprisoning the lovely apparition.
Each stone contains a statue; it is the sculptor’s task to release it.
The danger is not aiming too high and missing, but aiming too low and hitting the mark.
AIM HIGH
The danger is not aiming too high and missing, but aiming too low and hitting the mark.—Michelangelo
If we shoot for the stars
to only end up on Mars,
that's still quite a trip.
The choice is ours.
—Michael R. Burch
Our greatness is only bounded by our horizons.
Be at peace, for God did not create us to abandon us.
God grant that I always desire more than my capabilities.
My soul’s staircase to heaven is earth’s loveliness.
I live and love by God’s peculiar light.
Trifles create perfection, yet perfection is no trifle.
Genius is infinitely patient, and infinitely painstaking.
I have never found salvation in nature; rather I love cities.
He who follows will never surpass.
Beauty is what lies beneath superfluities.
I criticize via creation, not by fault-finding.
If you knew how hard I worked, you wouldn’t call it “genius.”
Keywords/Tags: Michelangelo, Italian sonnet, sonnet, sonnets, epigram, epigrams, epitaph, translation, translations, English, love, affinity and love, love and art, beauty, art, artistic work, light
Apr 4, 2021
Apr 4, 2021 at 7:24 AM UTC
LEONARDO DA VINCI POEMS, EPIGRAMS AND QUOTES
These are my modern English translations of the poems, epigrams and quotes of Leonardo da Vinci. I believe the first six epigrams pertain to the current American election crisis …
Nothing enables authority like silence.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch
The greatest deceptions spring from men’s own opinions.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch
There are three classes of people: Those who see by themselves. Those who see only when they are shown. Those who refuse to see.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Blinding ignorance misleads us. Myopic mortals, open your eyes!—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It is easier to oppose evil from the beginning than at the end.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch
Small minds continue to shrink, but those whose hearts are firm and whose consciences endorse their conduct, will persevere until death.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I am impressed with the urgency of doing. Knowledge is not enough; we must apply ourselves. Wanting and being willing are insufficient; we must act.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Time is sufficient for anyone who uses it wisely.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Once we have flown, we will forever walk the earth with our eyes turned heavenward, for there we were and will always long to return.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The great achievers rarely relaxed and let things happen to them. They set out and kick-started whatever happened.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Where the spirit does not aid and abet the hand there is no art.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Necessity is the mistress of mother nature's inventions.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Nature has no effect without cause, no invention without necessity.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Did Leonardo da Vinci anticipate Darwin with his comments about Nature and necessity being the mistress of her inventions? Yes, and his studies of comparative anatomy, including the intestines, led da Vinci to say explicitly that "apes, monkeys and the like" are not merely related to humans but are "almost of the same species." He was, indeed, a man ahead of his time, by at least 350 years.
Excerpts from “Paragone of Poetry and Painting” and Other Writings
by Leonardo da Vinci, circa 1500
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sculpture requires light, received from above,
while a painting contains its own light and shade.
Painting is the more beautiful, the more imaginative, the more copious,
while sculpture is merely the more durable.
Painting encompasses infinite possibilities
which sculpture cannot command.
But you, O Painter, unless you can make your figures move,
are like an orator who can’t bring his words to life!
While as soon as the Poet abandons nature, he ceases to resemble the Painter;
for if the Poet abandons the natural figure for flowery and flattering speech,
he becomes an orator and is thus neither Poet nor Painter.
Painting is poetry seen but not heard,
while poetry is painting heard but not seen.
And if the Poet calls painting dumb poetry,
the Painter may call poetry blind painting.
Yet poor is the pupil who fails to surpass his master!
Shun those studies in which the work dies with the worker.
Because I find no subject especially useful or pleasing
and because those who preceded me appropriated every useful theme,
I will be like the beggar who comes late to the fair,
who must content himself with other buyers' rejects.
Thus, I will load my humble cart full of despised and rejected merchandise,
the refuse of so many other buyers,
and I will go about distributing it, not in the great cities,
but in the poorer towns,
selling at discounts whatever the wares I offer may be worth.
And what can I do when a woman plucks my heart?
Alas, how she triumphs over me, and yet I must persist!
The Point
by Leonardo da Vinci, circa 1500
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here forms, colors, the character of the entire universe, contract to a point,
and that point is miraculous, marvelous …
O marvelous, O miraculous, O stupendous Necessity!
By your elegant laws you compel every effect to be the direct result of its cause,
by the shortest path possible.
Such are your miracles!
Old age, believe me, is a blessing. While it’s true you get gently shouldered off the stage, you’re awarded such a comfortable front row seat as spectator. — Confucius, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Improve yourself by others' writings, attaining freely what they purchased at the expense of experience. — Socrates, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Are mayflies missed by mountains? Do stars
applaud the glowworm’s stellar mimicry?
—Michael R. Burch
Sinking
by Michael R. Burch
for Virginia Woolf
Weigh me down with stones ...
fill all the pockets of my gown ...
I’m going down,
mad as the world
that can’t recover,
to where even mermaids drown ...
Keywords/Tags: Leonardo da Vinci, epigram, epitaph, poem, quote, translation, silence, election, spring, nature, art, poetry, poet, poets
Published as the collection "Leonardo da Vinci Poems, Epigrams and Quotes"
Dec 11, 2020
Dec 11, 2020 at 5:52 AM UTC
Dearly Beloved
by Michael R. Burch
for Suzan Blacksmith
She was
Dearly Beloved by her children, who gather
to pay their respects; they remember her
as they clung together through frightful weather,
always learning that Love can persevere ...
She was
Dearly Beloved by family and friends
who saw her great worth, even as she grew frail;
for they saw with Love’s eyes how Love’s vision transcends,
how her heart never faltered, through cyclones and hail ...
She is
Dearly Beloved, well-loved, sadly missed ...
and, while we mourn the lost days of a life too-soon ended,
we also rejoice that her suffering is past ...
she now lives in the Light, by kind Angels befriended.
And if
others were greater in fortune and fame,
and if some had iron wills when life’s pathways grew dark ...
still, since Love’s the great goal, we now reaffirm her claim
to the highest of honors: a mother’s Heart.
Keywords/Tags: Suzan Blacksmith, elegy, eulogy, epitaph, memorial, tribute, remembrance, farewell, goodbye, last respects
Oct 16, 2020
Oct 16, 2020 at 10:07 PM UTC
Here lies a liar
Because the liar lied here.
Now the liar's stable,
For the liar's inable
To equivocate and lie.
Oct 2, 2020
Oct 2, 2020 at 5:08 PM UTC
Sometimes
The world goes on behind my window
I stare out into the suns glare
I wrap myself around my thoughts
and all that I have sought
do I still care?
Sometimes
I am broken beggar
trying to get a leg up
sometimes I want to say
words of meaning
am I still dreaming?
Sometimes
my hearts soft like paper
sometimes it’s hard like a diamond
fashioned with pressure and heat
sometimes I play my songs on repeat
hoping to make my way to someone’s smile on the street.
Sometimes
I bow to the dark
sometimes I look to the stars sparkling in the sky
sometimes I want to die
but I realise life is short
and I love my friends to much to make this life end
so my epitaph will say I loved until my world drifted away
but I left you my words and that’s more than ok.
Sep 17, 2020
Sep 17, 2020 at 3:24 PM UTC
“whenever the sky is crying,
it means that i’m mourning
so you should feel the guilt,
until you die and wilt.”
—it was the sweetest epitaph
for her who died alone
and became a lone
even in her afterlife.
Jul 14, 2020
Jul 14, 2020 at 7:49 AM UTC
A proof of truthful reading.
That it’s still of me and that I live:
Left out of and in crying,
Its [story’s] departure by pain of death trespassing.
Justly, so.
Every ending sentence of a subchapter
was here a melancholy more punctuating
Than all the statuses of things
Coming and leaving, explaining better
Than silence.
Lace in eyes/meshes of the numbers,
In God’s notebook.
Miracles of joy, of enigmas from Poetry
Poured had been into the study
In navy blue of mathematics.
The beige of rain of each dot
At the end of each subchapter.
Now I know what the blank pages are for:
Literature is a person,
At their death you don’t leave them
without a word, a touch.
You leave, at least, an epitaph,
with beloving or not.
For at one time you both decided
to bear with each other as one.
You let each letter have and bear
its part in your mind’s eye.
Every time you read:
“My memory lasts 80 minutes.”
Ellipsis.
Thank you
ありがとう
Jul 4, 2020
Jul 4, 2020 at 2:04 PM UTC
How many times have I climbed this mountain?
How many times sat in the dry leaves at the end of day?
And how many more to come?
Uncountable to me...
There must be a definite number
but to me they are endless.
Endless in number and endless
each in its own day.
Jun 28, 2020
Jun 28, 2020 at 7:11 PM UTC
A gun came up along the way.
Marrying you with the grave prematurely.
However, all that was needless,
As your father had already engaged you two before,
You’d been dead inside for oh so long.
Todd was right about that all along,
More perceptive than the rest.
How ironic and grotesque:
a fire burning so truly and strongly was put out
with a single blow,
How the greatest few hours of your life were made gradually
into your worst and, eventually, your end.
And how is that fair?
The curtains have been drawn,
The audience is long gone,
Yet your act won’t be in vain,
Not if I have something to say.
No, most certainly not!
You’ve become the greatest proof for all those fools
Of the power of the living word,
Of the power of a rebelled voice,
Of the immortal art of a being of poetry,
who’s the true soul of the universe.
Keating’s work became fulfilled in your choices,
The very fruit of his teachings.
You showed those mortals, that no matter
what they claim, do or inflict on you,
they could never **** you.
Neither rules, nor words nor the trigger.
You’re the champion, you’re the winner.
Altogether, we became Poetry ourselves.
No quills, paper or audience were needed,
just the world around us, our voices and passion in our eyes.
We gained the upper hand in the process of the withering,
Weaving ourselves into the tether of all the matters.
Now, no grave or unwritten memories shall restrict us or make us perish.
Never more, as art has no rules.
With all due respect, I give you back
your rightful laurel wreath.
With all your greatness you deserved that prize,
of meaning greater than just a crown of an actor;
The victory over others’ power,
Over fear to speak,
Over fear to sing,
Over fear to be.
You were a misunderstood artist, though not like those, that are many of them.
Your amalgamation of all that you were,
Though so harshly interrupted on that fateful night,
made the authorities and that cold academy see,
That it is them who let you down, not you,
That they can never quench
the call of the Life,
the truth whispered up there
among the trees,
A soul’s thriving beauty, in all the madness of the existence
The curtain’s fallen,
The audience is long gone,
But I shall commemorate you forevermore,
As a poet and artist of the Life owes it
to another of their kin.
With all the pride, honour and bitterness,
You are more than welcome,
as a true member,
in the Dead Poets Society.
- - -
As I let quote myself
in this gender observation,
based on the B. Sáenz work:
“Por eso lloramos,
Por eso reímos,
Por eso se alborota
nuestro corazón,
Y por eso vivimos”
Jun 17, 2020
Jun 17, 2020 at 4:36 AM UTC
Athenian Epitaphs
by Michael R. Burch
These are my modern English translations of ancient Greek epitaphs placed on gravestones and monuments by the ancient Greeks in remembrance of their dead.
Mariner, do not ask whose tomb this may be,
but go with good fortune: I wish you a kinder sea.
—Michael R. Burch, after Plato
Does my soul abide in heaven, or hell?
Only the sea gulls
in their high, lonely circuits may tell.
—Michael R. Burch, after Glaucus
Passerby,
Tell the Spartans we lie
Lifeless at Thermopylae:
Dead at their word,
Obedient to their command.
Have they heard?
Do they understand?
—Michael R. Burch, after Simonides
Since I'm dead sea-enclosed Cyzicus shrouds my bones.
Faretheewell, O my adoptive land that suckled and nurtured me;
Once again I take rest at your breast.
—Michael R. Burch, after Erycius
These men earned a crown of imperishable glory,
nor did the maelstrom of death obscure their story.
—Michael R. Burch, after Simonides
He lies in state tonight: great is his Monument!
Yet Ares cares not, neither does War relent.
—Michael R. Burch, after Anacreon
They observed our fearful fetters,
marched to confront the surrounding darkness;
now we gratefully commemorate their excellence.
Bravely, they died for us.
—Michael R. Burch, after Mnasalcas
Be ashamed, O mountains and seas,
that these valorous men lack breath.
Assume, like pale chattels,
an ashen silence at death.
—Michael R. Burch, after Parmenio
Stripped of her stripling, if asked, she'd confess:
"I am now less than nothingness."
—Michael R. Burch, after Diotimus
Blame not the gale, nor the inhospitable sea-gulf, nor friends' tardiness,
mariner! Just man's foolhardiness.
—Michael R. Burch, after Leonidas of Tarentum
Stranger, flee!
But may Fortune grant you all the prosperity
she denied me.
—Michael R. Burch, after Leonidas of Tarentum
I am loyal to you, master, even in the grave:
just as you now are death's slave.
—Michael R. Burch, after Dioscorides
Having never earned a penny
nor seen a bridal gown address the floor,
still I lie here with the love of many,
to be the love of yet one more.
—Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
Little I knew—a child of five—
of what it means to be alive
and all life's little thrills;
but little also—(I was glad not to know)—
of life's great ills.
—Michael R. Burch, after Lucian
I lie by stark Icarian rocks
and only speak when the sea talks.
Please tell my dear father I gave up the ghost
on the Aegean coast.
—Michael R. Burch, after Theatetus
Everywhere the sea is the sea, the dead are the dead.
What difference to me—where I rest my head?
The sea knows I'm buried.
—Michael R. Burch, after Antipater of Sidon
Pity this boy who was beautiful, but died.
Pity his monument, overlooking this hillside.
Pity the world that bore him, then foolishly survived.
—Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
Insatiable Death! I was only a child!
Why did you ****** me away, in my infancy,
from those destined to love me?
—Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
Tell Nicagoras that Strymonias
at the setting of the Kids
lost his.
—Michael R. Burch, after Nicaenetus
Now his voice is prisoned in the silent pathways of the night:
his owner's faithful Maltese...
but will he still bark again, on sight?
—Michael R. Burch, after Tymnes
Poor partridge, poor partridge, lately migrated from the rocks;
our cat bit off your unlucky head; my offended heart still balks!
I put you back together again and buried you, so unsightly!
May the dark earth cover you heavily: heavily, not lightly...
so she shan't get at you again!
—Michael R. Burch, after Agathias
Dead as you are, though you lie still as stone,
huntress Lycas, my great Thessalonian hound,
the wild beasts still fear your white bones;
craggy Pelion remembers your valor,
splendid Ossa, the way you would bound
and bay at the moon for its whiteness,
bellowing as below we heard valleys resound.
And how brightly with joy you would canter and run
the strange lonely peaks of high Cithaeron!
—Michael R. Burch, after Simonides
Aeschylus, graybeard, son of Euphorion,
died far away in wheat-bearing Gela;
still, the groves of Marathon may murmur of his valor
and the black-haired Mede, with his mournful clarion.
—Michael R. Burch, after Aeschylus
Not Rocky Trachis,
nor the thirsty herbage of Dryophis,
nor this albescent stone
with its dark blue lettering shielding your white bones,
nor the wild Icarian sea dashing against the steep shingles
of Doliche and Dracanon,
nor the empty earth,
nor anything essential of me since birth,
nor anything now mingles
here with the perplexing absence of you,
with what death forces us to abandon...
—Michael R. Burch, after Euphorion
Though they were steadfast among spears, dark Fate destroyed them
as they defended their native land, rich in sheep;
now Ossa's dust seems all the more woeful, where they now sleep.
—Michael R. Burch, after Aeschylus
Sail on, mariner, sail on,
for when we were perishing,
greater ships sailed on.
—Michael R. Burch, after Theodorides
We who left the thunderous surge of the Aegean
of old, now lie here on the mid-plain of Ecbatan:
farewell, dear Athens, nigh to Euboea,
farewell, dear sea!
—Michael R. Burch, after Plato
My friend found me here,
a shipwrecked corpse on the beach.
He heaped these strange boulders above me.
Oh, how he would wail
that he "loved" me,
with many bright tears for his own calamitous life!
Now he sleeps with my wife
and flits like a gull in a gale
—beyond reach—
while my broken bones bleach.
—Michael R. Burch, after Callimachus
All this vast sea is his Monument.
Where does he lie—whether heaven, or hell?
Well friend, perhaps when the gulls repent—
their shriekings may tell.
—Michael R. Burch, after Glaucus
Cloud-capped Geraneia, cruel mountain!
If only you had looked no further than Ister and Scythian
Tanais, had not aided the surge of the Scironian
sea's wild-spurting fountain
filling the dark ravines of snowy Meluriad!
But now he is dead:
a chill corpse in a chillier ocean—moon led—
and only an empty tomb now speaks of the long, windy voyage ahead.
—Michael R. Burch, after Simonides
His white bones lie shining on some inhospitable shore:
a son lost to his father, his tomb empty; the poor-
est beggars have happier mothers!
—Michael R. Burch, after Damegtus
The light of a single morning
exterminated the sacred offspring of Lysidice.
Nor do the angels sing.
Nor do we seek the gods' advice.
This is the grave of Nicander's lost children.
We merely weep at its bitter price.
—Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
Pluto, delighting in tears,
why did you bring our son, Ariston,
to the laughterless abyss of death?
Why—why? —did the gods grant him breath,
if only for seven years?
—Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
Although I had to leave the sweet sun,
only nineteen—Diogenes, hail! —
beneath the earth, let's have lots more fun:
till human desire seems weak and pale.
—Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
Once sweetest of the workfellows,
our shy teller of tall tales
—fleet Crethis! —who excelled
at every childhood game...
now you sleep among long shadows
where everyone's the same...
—Michael R. Burch, after Callimachus
Passing by, passing by my oft-bewailed pillar,
shudder, my new friend to hear my tragic story:
of how my pyre was lit by the same fiery torch
meant to lead the procession to my nuptials in glory!
O Hymenaeus, why did you did change
my bridal song to a dirge? Strange!
—Michael R. Burch, after Erinna
Suddenly this grave
holds our nightingale speechless;
now she lies here like a stone,
who voice was so marvelous;
while sunlight illumining dust
proves the gods all reachless,
as our prayers prove them also
unhearing or beseechless.
—Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
I, Homenea, the chattering bright sparrow,
lie here in the hollow of a great affliction,
leaving tears to Atimetus
and all scattered—that great affection.
—Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
Wert thou, O Artemis,
overbusy with thy beast-slaying hounds
when the Beast embraced me?
—Michael R. Burch, after Diodorus of Sardis
A mother only as far as the birth pangs,
my life cut short at the height of life's play:
only eighteen years old, so brief was my day.
—Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
We mourn Polyanthus, whose wife
placed him newly-wedded in an unmarked grave,
having received his luckless corpse
back from the green Aegean wave
that deposited his fleshless skeleton
gruesomely in the harbor of Torone.
—Michael R. Burch, after Phaedimus
Here Saon, son of Dicon, now rests in holy sleep:
say not that the good die, friend, lest gods and mortals weep.
—Michael R. Burch, after Callimachus
Keywords/Tags: translation, epitaph, epitaphs, eulogy, Ancient Greek, epigram, epigrams, death, mrbepi, grave, funeral, spirit, ghost, memorial, tribute, praise
Epigrams on Life
You begrudge men your virginity?
Why? To what purpose?
You will find no one to embrace you in the grave.
The joys of love are for the living.
But in Acheron, dear ****** we shall all lie dust and ashes.
—Michael R. Burch, after Asclepiades of Samos
Let me live with joy today, since tomorrow is unforeseeable.
—Michael R. Burch, after Palladas of Alexandria
Ibykos/Ibycus Epigrams
Ibycus has been called the most love-mad of poets.
Euryalus, born of the blue-eyed Graces,
scion of the bright-tressed Seasons,
son of the Cyprian,
whom dew-lidded Persuasion birthed among rose-blossoms.
—Ibykos/Ibycus (circa 540 BC), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ibykos/Ibycus Fragment 286, circa 564 B.C.
this poem has been titled "The Influence of Spring"
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come spring, the grand
apple trees stand
watered by a gushing river
where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver
and the blossoming grape vine swells
in the gathering shadows.
Unfortunately
for me
Eros never rests
but like a Thracian tempest
ablaze with lightning
emanates from Aphrodite;
the results are frightening—
black,
bleak,
astonishing,
violently jolting me from my soles
to my soul.
Originally published by The Chained Muse
Ibykos/Ibycus Fragment 282, circa 540 B.C.
Ibykos fragment 282, Oxyrhynchus papyrus, lines 1-32
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
... They also destroyed the glorious city of Priam, son of Dardanus,
after leaving Argos due to the devices of death-dealing Zeus,
encountering much-sung strife over the striking beauty of auburn-haired Helen,
waging woeful war when destruction rained down on longsuffering Pergamum
thanks to the machinations of golden-haired Aphrodite ...
But now it is not my intention to sing of Paris, the host-deceiver,
nor of slender-ankled Cassandra,
nor of Priam’s other children,
nor of the nameless day of the downfall of high-towered Troy,
nor even of the valour of the heroes who hid in the hollow, many-bolted horse ...
Such was the destruction of Troy.
They were heroic men and Agamemnon was their king,
a king from Pleisthenes,
a son of Atreus, son of a noble father.
The all-wise Muses of Helicon
might recount such tales accurately,
but no mortal man, unblessed,
could ever number those innumerable ships
Menelaus led across the Aegean from Aulos ...
"From Argos they came, the bronze-speared sons of the Achaeans ..."
Anacreon Epigrams
Yes, bring me Homer’s lyre, no doubt,
but first yank the bloodstained strings out!
—Anacreon, translation by Michael R. Burch
Here we find Anacreon,
an elderly lover of boys and wine.
His harp still sings in lonely Acheron
as he thinks of the lads he left behind ...
—Anacreon or the Anacreontea, translation by Michael R. Burch
He lies in state tonight: great is his Monument!
Yet Ares cares not, neither does War relent.
—Michael R. Burch, after Anacreon
Plato Epigrams
These epitaphs and other epigrams have been ascribed to Plato ...
Mariner, do not ask whose tomb this may be,
But go with good fortune: I wish you a kinder sea.
—Michael R. Burch, after Plato
We left the thunderous Aegean
to sleep peacefully here on the plains of Ecbatan.
Farewell, renowned Eretria, our homeland!
Farewell, Athens, Euboea's neighbor!
Farewell, dear Sea!
—Michael R. Burch, after Plato
We who navigated the Aegean’s thunderous storm-surge
now sleep peacefully here on the mid-plains of Ecbatan:
Farewell, renowned Eretria, our homeland!
Farewell, Athens, nigh to Euboea!
Farewell, dear Sea!
—Michael R. Burch, after Plato
This poet was pleasing to foreigners
and even more delightful to his countrymen:
Pindar, beloved of the melodious Muses.
—Michael R. Burch, after Plato
Some say the Muses are nine.
Foolish critics, count again!
Sappho of ****** makes ten.
—Michael R. Burch, after Plato
Even as you once shone, the Star of Morning, vastly above our heads,
even so you now shine, the Star of Evening, eclipsing the dead.
—Michael R. Burch, after Plato
Why do you gaze up at the stars?
Oh, my Star, that I were Heaven,
to gaze at you with many eyes!
—Michael R. Burch, after Plato
Every heart sings an incomplete song,
until another heart sings along.
Those who would love long to join in the chorus.
At a lover’s touch, everyone becomes a poet.
—Michael R. Burch, after Plato
The Apple
ascribed to Plato
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here’s an apple; if you’re able to love me,
catch it and chuck me your cherry in exchange.
But if you hesitate, as I hope you won’t,
take the apple, examine it carefully,
and consider how briefly its beauty will last.
HOMER TRANSLATIONS
Surrender to sleep at last! What an ordeal, keeping watch all night, wide awake. Soon you’ll succumb to sleep and escape all your troubles. Sleep. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Any moment might be our last. Earth’s magnificence? Magnified because we’re doomed. You will never be lovelier than at this moment. We will never pass this way again. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let’s hope the gods are willing. They rule the vaulting skies. They’re stronger than men to plan, execute and realize their ambitions.—Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Passage home? Impossible! Surely you have something else in mind, Goddess, urging me to cross the ocean’s endless expanse in a raft. So vast, so full of danger! Hell, sometimes not even the sea-worthiest ships can prevail, aided as they are by Zeus’s mighty breath! I’ll never set foot on a raft, Goddess, until you swear by all that’s holy you’re not plotting some new intrigue! — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Few sons surpass their fathers; most fall short, all too few overachieve. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Beauty! Ah, Terrible Beauty! A deathless Goddess, she startles our eyes! — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Many dread seas and many dark mountain ranges lie between us. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The lives of mortal men? Like the leaves’ generations. Now the old leaves fall, blown and scattered by the wind. Soon the living timber bursts forth green buds as spring returns. Even so with men: as one generation is born, another expires. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Since I’m attempting to temper my anger, it does not behoove me to rage unrelentingly on. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Overpowering memories subsided to grief. Priam wept freely for Hector, who had died crouching at Achilles’ feet, while Achilles wept himself, first for his father, then for Patroclus, as their mutual sobbing filled the house. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“Genius is discovered in adversity, not prosperity.” — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ruin, the eldest daughter of Zeus, blinds us all with her fatal madness. With those delicate feet of hers, never touching the earth, she glides over our heads, trapping us all. First she entangles you, then me, in her lethal net. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Death and Fate await us all. Soon comes a dawn or noon or sunset when someone takes my life in battle, with a well-flung spear or by whipping a deadly arrow from his bow. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Death is the Great Leveler, not even the immortal gods can defend the man they love most when the dread day dawns for him to take his place in the dust.—Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Antipater Epigrams
Mnemosyne was stunned into astonishment when she heard honey-tongued Sappho,
wondering how mortal men merited a tenth Muse.
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O Aeolian land, you lightly cover Sappho,
the mortal Muse who joined the Immortals,
whom Cypris and Eros fostered,
with whom Peitho wove undying wreaths,
who was the joy of Hellas and your glory.
O Fates who twine the spindle's triple thread,
why did you not spin undying life
for the singer whose deathless gifts
enchanted the Muses of Helicon?
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here, O stranger, the sea-crashed earth covers Homer,
herald of heroes' valour,
spokesman of the Olympians,
second sun to the Greeks,
light of the immortal Muses,
the Voice that never diminishes.
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This herald of heroes,
this interpreter of the Immortals,
this second sun shedding light on the life of Greece,
Homer,
the delight of the Muses,
the ageless voice of the world,
lies dead, O stranger,
washed away with the sea-washed sand ...
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
As high as the trumpet's cry exceeds the thin flute's,
so high above all others your lyre rang;
so much the sweeter your honey than the waxen-celled swarm's.
O Pindar, with your tender lips witness how the horned god Pan
forgot his pastoral reeds when he sang your hymns.
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here lies Pindar, the Pierian trumpet,
the heavy-smiting smith of well-stuck hymns.
Hearing his melodies, one might believe
the immortal Muses possessed bees
to produce heavenly harmonies in the bridal chamber of Cadmus.
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Harmonia, the goddess of Harmony, was the bride of Cadmus, so his bridal chamber would have been full of pleasant sounds.
Praise the well-wrought verses of tireless Antimachus,
a man worthy of the majesty of ancient demigods,
whose words were forged on the Muses' anvils.
If you are gifted with a keen ear,
if you aspire to weighty words,
if you would pursue a path less traveled,
if Homer holds the scepter of song,
and yet Zeus is greater than Poseidon,
even so Poseidon his inferior exceeds all other Immortals;
and even so the Colophonian bows before Homer,
but exceeds all other singers.
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I, the trumpet that once blew the ****** battle-notes
and the sweet truce-tunes, now hang here, Pherenicus,
your gift to Athena, quieted from my clamorous music.
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Behold Anacreon's tomb;
here the Teian swan sleeps with the unmitigated madness of his love for lads.
Still he sings songs of longing on the lyre of Bathyllus
and the albescent marble is perfumed with ivy.
Death has not quenched his desire
and the house of Acheron still burns with the fevers of Cypris.
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
May the four-clustered clover, Anacreon,
grow here by your grave,
ringed by the tender petals of the purple meadow-flowers,
and may fountains of white milk bubble up,
and the sweet-scented wine gush forth from the earth,
so that your ashes and bones may experience joy,
if indeed the dead know any delight.
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Stranger passing by the simple tomb of Anacreon,
if you found any profit in my books,
please pour drops of your libation on my ashes,
so that my bones, refreshed by wine, may rejoice
that I, who so delighted in the boisterous revels of Dionysus,
and who played such manic music, as wine-drinkers do,
even in death may not travel without Bacchus
in my sojourn to that land to which all men must come.
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Anacreon, glory of Ionia,
even in the land of the lost may you never be without your beloved revels,
or your well-loved lyre,
and may you still sing with glistening eyes,
shaking the braided flowers from your hair,
turning always towards Eurypyle, Megisteus, or the locks of Thracian Smerdies,
sipping sweet wine,
your robes drenched with the juices of grapes,
wringing intoxicating nectar from its folds ...
For all your life, old friend, was poured out as an offering to these three:
the Muses, Bacchus, and Love.
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Smerdies, also mentioned by the poet Simonides, was a Thracian boy loved by Anacreon. Simonides also mentioned Megisteus. Eurypyle was a girl also mentioned by the poet Dioscorides. So these seem to be names associated with Anacreon. The reference to "locks" apparently has to do with Smerdies having his hair cut by Anacreon's rival for his affections, in a jealous rage.
You sleep amid the dead, Anacreon,
your day-labor done,
your well-loved lyre's sweet tongue silenced
that once sang incessantly all night long.
And Smerdies also sleeps,
the spring-tide of your loves,
for whom, tuning and turning you lyre,
you made music like sweetest nectar.
For you were Love's bullseye,
the lover of lads,
and he had the bow and the subtle archer's craft
to never miss his target.
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Erinna's verses were few, nor were her songs overlong,
but her smallest works were inspired.
Therefore she cannot fail to be remembered
and is never lost beneath the shadowy wings of bleak night.
While we, the estranged, the innumerable throngs of tardy singers,
lie in pale corpse-heaps wasting into oblivion.
The moaned song of the lone swan outdoes the cawings of countless jackdaws
echoing far and wide through darkening clouds.
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Who hung these glittering shields here,
these unstained spears and unruptured helmets,
dedicating to murderous Ares ornaments of no value?
Will no one cast these virginal weapons out of my armory?
Their proper place is in the peaceful halls of placid men,
not within the wild walls of Enyalius.
I delight in hacked heads and the blood of dying berserkers,
if, indeed, I am Ares the Destroyer.
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
May good Fortune, O stranger, keep you on course all your life before a fair breeze!
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Docile doves may coo for cowards,
but we delight in dauntless men.
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here by the threshing-room floor,
little ant, you relentless toiler,
I built you a mound of liquid-absorbing earth,
so that even in death you may partake of the droughts of Demeter,
as you lie in the grave my plough burrowed.
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This is your mother’s lament, Artemidorus,
weeping over your tomb,
bewailing your twelve brief years:
"All the fruit of my labor has gone up in smoke,
all your heartbroken father's endeavors are ash,
all your childish passion an extinguished flame.
For you have entered the land of the lost,
from which there is no return, never a home-coming.
You failed to reach your prime, my darling,
and now we have nothing but your headstone and dumb dust."
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Everywhere the sea is the sea, the dead are the dead.
What difference to me—where I rest my head?
The sea knows I’m buried.
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Everywhere the Sea is the Sea
by Antipater of Sidon
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Everywhere the Sea is the same;
why then do we idly blame
the Cyclades
or the harrowing waves of narrow Helle?
To protest is vain!
Justly, they have earned their fame.
Why then,
after I had escaped them,
did the harbor of Scarphe engulf me?
I advise whoever finds a fair passage home:
accept that the sea's way is its own.
Man is foam.
Aristagoras knows who's buried here.
Orpheus, mute your bewitching strains
by Antipater of Sidon
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Orpheus, mute your bewitching strains;
Leave beasts to wander stony plains;
No longer sing fierce winds to sleep,
Nor seek to enchant the tumultuous deep;
For you are dead; each Muse, forlorn,
Strums anguished strings as your mother mourns.
Mind, mere mortals, mind—no use to moan,
When even a Goddess could not save her own!
Orpheus, now you will never again enchant
by Antipater of Sidon
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Orpheus, now you will never again enchant the charmed oaks,
never again mesmerize shepherdless herds of wild beasts,
never again lull the roaring winds,
never again tame the tumultuous hail
nor the sweeping snowstorms
nor the crashing sea,
for you have perished
and the daughters of Mnemosyne weep for you,
and your mother Calliope above all.
Why do mortals mourn their dead sons,
when not even the gods can protect their children from Hades?
—Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The High Road to Death
by Antipater of Sidon
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Men skilled in the stars call me brief-lifed;
I am, but what do I care, O Seleucus?
All men descend to Hades
and if our demise comes quicker,
the sooner we shall we look on Minos.
Let us drink then, for surely wine is a steed for the high-road,
when pedestrians march sadly to Death.
The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World
by Antipater of Sidon
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have set my eyes upon
the lofty walls of Babylon
with its elevated road for chariots
... and upon the statue of Zeus
by the Alpheus ...
... and upon the hanging gardens ...
... upon the Colossus of the Sun ...
... upon the massive edifices
of the towering pyramids ...
... even upon the vast tomb of Mausolus ...
but when I saw the mansion of Artemis
disappearing into the cirri,
those other marvels lost their brilliancy
and I said, "Setting aside Olympus,
the Sun never shone on anything so fabulous!"
Erinna Epigrams
This portrait is the work of sensitive, artistic hands.
See, noble Prometheus, you have human equals!
For if whoever painted this girl had only added a voice,
she would have been Agatharkhis entirely.
—Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Erinna is generally considered to be second only to Sappho as an ancient Greek female poet. Little is known about her life; Erinna has been called a contemporary of Sappho and her most gifted student, but she may have lived up to a few hundred years later. This poem, about a portrait of a girl or young woman named Agatharkhis, has been called the earliest Greek ekphrastic epigram (an epigram describing a work of art).
Passing by, passing by my oft-bewailed pillar,
shudder, my new friend to hear my tragic story:
of how my pyre was lit by the same fiery torch
meant to lead the procession to my nuptials in glory!
O Hymenaeus, why did you did change
my bridal song to a dirge? Strange!
—Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You, my tall Columns, and you, my small Urn,
the receptacle of Hades’ tiny pittance of ash—
remember me to those who pass by
my grave, as they dash.
Tell them my story, as sad as it is:
that this grave sealed a young bride’s womb;
that my name was Baucis and Telos my land;
and that Erinna, my friend, etched this poem on my Tomb.
—Erinna, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Translator’s note: Baucis is also spelled Baukis. Erinna has been attributed to different locations, including ****** Rhodes, Teos, Telos and Tenos. Telos seems the most likely because of her Dorian dialect. Erinna wrote in a mixture of Aeolic and Doric Greek. In 1928, Italian archaeologists excavating at Oxyrhynchus discovered a tattered piece of papyrus which contained 54 lines Erinna’s lost epic, the poem “Distaff.” This work, like the epigram above, was also about her friend Baucis.
Excerpts from “Distaff”
by Erinna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
… the moon rising …
… leaves falling …
… waves lapping a windswept shore …
… and our childish games, Baucis, do you remember? ...
... Leaping from white horses,
running on reckless feet through the great courtyard.
“You’re it!’ I cried, ‘You’re the Tortoise now!”
But when your turn came to pursue your pursuers,
you darted beyond the courtyard,
dashed out deep into the waves,
splashing far beyond us …
… My poor Baucis, these tears I now weep are your warm memorial,
these traces of embers still smoldering in my heart
for our silly amusements, now that you lie ash …
… Do you remember how, as girls,
we played at weddings with our dolls,
pretending to be brides in our innocent beds? ...
... How sometimes I was your mother,
allotting wool to the weaver-women,
calling for you to unreel the thread? ...
… Do you remember our terror of the monster Mormo
with her huge ears, her forever-flapping tongue,
her four slithering feet, her shape-shifting face? ...
... Until you mother called for us to help with the salted meat ...
... But when you mounted your husband’s bed,
dearest Baucis, you forgot your mothers’ warnings!
Aphrodite made your heart forgetful ...
... Desire becomes oblivion ...
... Now I lament your loss, my dearest friend.
I can’t bear to think of that dark crypt.
I can’t bring myself to leave the house.
I refuse to profane your corpse with my tearless eyes.
I refuse to cut my hair, but how can I mourn with my hair unbound?
I blush with shame at the thought of you! …
... But in this dark house, O my dearest Baucis,
My deep grief is ripping me apart.
Wretched Erinna! Only nineteen,
I moan like an ancient crone, eying this strange distaff ...
O ***** . . . O Hymenaeus! . . .
Alas, my poor Baucis!
On a Betrothed Girl
by Erinna
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I sing of Baucis the bride.
Observing her tear-stained crypt
say this to Death who dwells underground:
"Thou art envious, O Death!"
Her vivid monument tells passers-by
of the bitter misfortune of Baucis —
how her father-in-law burned the poor girl on a pyre
lit by bright torches meant to light her marriage train home.
While thou, O Hymenaeus, transformed her harmonious bridal song into a chorus of wailing dirges.
***** O Hymenaeus!
Sappho Epigrams
Sappho, fragment 155
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A short revealing frock?
It's just my luck
your lips were made to mock!
(Pollux wrote: "Sappho used the word beudos [Βεῦδοσ] for a woman's dress, a kimbericon, a kind of short transparent frock.")
Sappho, fragment 156
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
She keeps her scents
in a dressing-case.
And her sense?
In some undiscoverable place.
(Phrynichus wrote: "Sappho calls a woman's dressing-case, where she keeps her scents and such things, grutê [γρύτη].")
Sappho, fragment 47
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Eros harrows my heart:
wild winds whipping desolate mountains,
uprooting oaks.
The poem above is my favorite Sappho epigram. The metaphor of Eros ****** desire) harrowing mountain slopes, leveling oaks and leaving them desolate, is really something―truly powerful and evocative. According to Edwin Marion *** this Sapphic epigram was "Quoted by Maximus Tyrius about 150 B.C. He speaks of Socrates exciting Phaedus to madness, when he speaks of love."
Improve yourself by others' writings, attaining freely what they purchased at the expense of experience. — Socrates, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ancient Roman Epigrams
Wall, I'm astonished that you haven't collapsed,
since you're holding up verses so prolapsed!
—Ancient Roman graffiti, translation by Michael R. Burch
Incompatibles
by Michael R. Burch
Reason’s treason!
cries the Heart.
Love’s insane,
replies the Brain.
Originally published by Light
The Greatest of These ...
by Michael R. Burch
The hands that held me tremble.
The arms that lifted
fall.
Angelic flesh, now parchment,
is held together with gauze.
But her undimmed eyes still embrace me;
there infinity can be found.
I can almost believe such love
will reach me, underground.
PRINCESS DIANA POEMS
Fairest Diana
by Michael R. Burch
Fairest Diana, princess of dreams,
born to be loved and yet distant and lone,
why did you linger―so solemn, so lovely―
an orchid ablaze in a crevice of stone?
Was not your heart meant for tenderest passions?
Surely your lips―for wild kisses, not vows!
Why then did you languish, though lustrous, becoming
a pearl of enchantment cast before sows?
Fairest Diana, as fragile as lilac,
as willful as rainfall, as true as the rose;
how did a stanza of silver-bright verse
come to be bound in a book of dull prose?
Published by Tucumcari Literary Journal and Night Roses
Will There Be Starlight
for Princess Diana
by Michael R. Burch
Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
damask
and lilac
and sweet-scented heathers?
And will she find flowers,
or will she find thorns
guarding the petals
of roses unborn?
Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
seashells
and mussels
and albatross feathers?
And will she find treasure
or will she find pain
at the end of this rainbow
of moonlight on rain?
She Was Very Strange, and Beautiful
for Princess Diana
by Michael R. Burch
She was very strange, and beautiful,
like a violet mist enshrouding hills
before night falls
when the hoot owl calls
and the cricket trills
and the envapored moon hangs low and full.
She was very strange, in a pleasant way,
as the hummingbird
flies madly still,
so I drank my fill
of her every word.
What she knew of love, she demurred to say.
She was meant to leave, as the wind must blow,
as the sun must set,
as the rain must fall.
Though she gave her all,
we had nothing left...
yet we smiled, bereft, in her receding glow.
The Peripheries of Love
for Princess Diana
by Michael R. Burch
Through waning afternoons we glide
the watery peripheries of love.
A silence, a quietude falls.
Above us―the sagging pavilions of clouds.
Below us―rough pebbles slowly worn smooth
grate in the gentle turbulence
of yesterday’s forgotten rains.
Later, the moon like a ******
lifts her stricken white face
and the waters rise
toward some unfathomable shore.
We sway gently in the wake
of what stirs beneath us,
yet leaves us unmoved...
curiously motionless,
as though twilight might blur
the effects of proximity and distance,
as though love might be near―
as near
as a single cupped tear of resilient dew
or a long-awaited face.
The Aery Faery Princess
for Princess Diana
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a princess lighter than fluff
made of such gossamer stuff―
the down of a thistle, butterflies’ wings,
the faintest high note the hummingbird sings,
moonbeams on garlands, stands of bright hair...
I think she’s just you when you’re floating on air.
I Pray Tonight
for Princess Diana
by Michael R. Burch
I pray tonight
the starry light
might
surround you.
I pray
by day
that, come what may,
no dark thing confound you.
I pray ere tomorrow
an end to your sorrow.
May angels' white chorales
sing, and astound you.
Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar 1460-1525
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that is held most dear―
except only that death is merciless.
Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently―
yet everywhere, no odor but rue.
I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose of pallid and gentle cast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that, if I could, I would compose her roots again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.
May 25, 2020
May 25, 2020 at 4:19 AM UTC
Stormfront
by Michael R. Burch
Our distance is frightening:
a distance like the abyss between heaven and earth
interrupted by bizarre and terrible lightning.
###
Childless
by Michael R. Burch
How can she bear her grief?
Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight
of one fallen star.
###
Laughter’s Cry
by Michael R. Burch
Because life is a mystery, we laugh
and do not know the half.
Because death is a mystery, we cry
when one is gone, our numbering thrown awry.
###
Long Division
by Michael R. Burch
All things become one
Through death’s long division
And perfect precision.
###
Autumn Conundrum
by Michael R. Burch
It’s not that every leaf must finally fall,
it’s just that we can never catch them all.
###
Piercing the Shell
by Michael R. Burch
If we strip away all the accouterments of war,
perhaps we’ll discover what the heart is for.
###
Here and Hereafter
by Michael R. Burch
Life’s saving graces are love, pleasure, laughter ...
wisdom, it seems, is for the Hereafter.
###
Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
###
Styx
by Michael R. Burch
Black waters,
deep and dark and still . . .
all men have passed this way,
or will.
###
honeybee
by Michael R. Burch
love is a little treble thing—
prone to sing
and (sometimes) to sting
###
The Shrinking Season
by Michael R. Burch
With every wearying year
the weight of the winter grows
and while the schoolgirl outgrows
her clothes,
the widow disappears
in hers.
###
brrExit
by Michael R. Burch
what would u give
to simply not exist—
for a painless exit?
he asked himself, uncertain.
then from behind
the hospital room curtain
a patient screamed—
"my life!"
###
briefling
by Michael R. Burch
manishatched,hopsintotheMix,
cavorts,hassex(quick!,spawnanewBrood!);
then,likeamayfly,he’ssuddenlygone:
plantfood
###
Stage Fright
by Michael R. Burch
To be or not to be?
In the end Hamlet
opted for naught.
###
Housman was right ...
by Michael R. Burch
It's true that life’s not much to lose,
so why not hang out on a cloud?
It’s just the "bon voyage" is hard
and the objections loud.
###
Athenian Epitaphs
by Michael R. Burch
Here he lies in state tonight: great is his Monument!
Yet Ares cares not, neither does War relent.
—Michael R. Burch, after Anacreon
Blame not the gale, or the inhospitable sea-gulf, or friends’ tardiness,
mariner! Just man’s foolhardiness.
—Michael R. Burch, after Leonidas of Tarentum
Mariner, do not ask whose tomb this may be,
but go with good fortune: I wish you a kinder sea.
—Michael R. Burch, after Plato
Does my soul abide in heaven, or hell?
Only the sea gulls in their high, lonely circuits may tell.
—Michael R. Burch, after Glaucus
Passerby,
tell the Spartans we lie
here, dead at their word,
obedient to their command.
Have they heard?
Do they understand?
—Michael R. Burch, after Simonides
Now that I am dead sea-enclosed Cyzicus shrouds my bones.
Faretheewell, O my adoptive land that nurtured me, that held me;
I take rest at your breast.
—Michael R. Burch, after Erycius
Keywords/Tags: epigram, epigrams, epitaph, epitaphs, Greek, translation, Greece, life, life and death, grief, mother, mother and child, eulogy, dirge
May 11, 2020
May 11, 2020 at 12:15 AM UTC
My Epitaph
by Michael R. Burch
Do not weep for me, when I am gone.
I lived, and ate my fill, and gorged on life.
You will not find beneath this glossy stone
the man who sowed and reaped and gathered days
like flowers, well aware they would not keep.
Go lightly then, and leave me to my sleep.
Keywords/Tags: epitaph, epigram, death, grave, stone, marker, nameplate, tombstone, inscription, life, days, flowers, sleep
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 11:52 PM UTC
Return to the forest where I grew.
Because that is where you will find me.
Travel to the base of the hill, to the temperamental stream
Because that is where you will find me.
Go to the park and sit on the swing nearest the car park.
Because that is where you will find me.
At the field that watches over the sun's bed, follow the path to the storm drain, my shrine.
Because that is where you will find me.
Hear me in the wind, in every spark of purple and every stupid thing relating to every stupid joke I ever made.
Find me in Samarkand and in the playlists I leave behind.
Cast me to Zephyrus, so I can be in your lungs.
Because I want you to be, where you find me.
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 9:17 PM UTC
Last Anthem
by Michael R. Burch
Where you have gone are the shadows falling...
does memory pale
like a fossil in shale
...do you not hear me calling?
Where you have gone do the shadows lengthen...
does memory wane
with the absence of pain
...is silence at last your anthem?
Keywords/Tags: elegy, eulogy, epitaph, death, grave, Sheol, shadows, silence, eternity, funeral, memory, memorial, tribute
Mar 27, 2020
Mar 27, 2020 at 12:35 AM UTC
Here lies the one
who lived between two moons
Mar 11, 2020
Mar 11, 2020 at 7:33 AM UTC
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly
Feb 21, 2020
Feb 21, 2020 at 10:51 PM UTC
Here lies the body of Jamie McGraph
Who decided to write his own epitaph
Thinking a selfie might make it better
While taking the photo he took a header
Off the edge of a cliff into oblivion
"Came to a sticky end" the fitting idiom
Dec 4, 2019
Dec 4, 2019 at 4:34 PM UTC