#feminists
Your body is public.
Everyone has an opinion.
You’re a woman.
Too small.
Too big.
Too curvy.
Too straight.
Eat more.
Eat less.
Smile more.
Be friendly.
Not too friendly.
Don’t be a tease.
Cover yourself.
Don’t wear anything
that might tempt the boys.
You’re a woman.
Be submissive
Let the men lead
But don’t overwhelm them
With all of your needs
Protect yourself.
But don’t set boundaries.
Don’t be assertive.
Don’t be a *****
Have children.
Even when you’re forced.
Even if you’re not ready.
You’ll regret it if you don’t.
But raise them alone.
You’re their mother.
You’re a woman.
And after all of that
they still wonder
why you’re angry.
Why you’re loud.
Why you’re done listening.
Well
Because
You’re a woman.
Mar 5
Mar 5, 2026 at 7:41 PM UTC
In India, we need feminism
Because, it stands for equality
Before you start losing your calm
Please allow me to clarify
Feminism means not, women dominating men
It means equal rights for both men and women
And of course, women empowerment
Now, let me be blunt
India is not and has never been a great place for women
Our society enables male **********
In almost every sphere of life
Which ends up creating a lot of strife
It is time to change all of that
Hence, is feminism so important
Because, women need to find their voice
And for that, they must have a choice
To do what they desire
Without invoking the society's ire
So, it is time to dismantle our Brahminical patriarchy
Only then, can we really reform our society
Because, gender and caste go hand-in-hand
We cannot destroy gender inequality with a magic wand
It is necessary to strike at its very root
Which, essentially, is caste
For instance, why do so many rapes happen?
Because, they enable upper caste male **********
****** harassment and **** reinforce the caste structure
Thus, does the Manusmriti continue to influence gender
And proactively hinder women empowerment
Again, this is why feminism is so important
But it also needs to be intersectional
And include women at all levels
Of our wretched caste hierarchy
In order to achieve gender equality
It is necessary for Brahmin and Savarna women to take a pause
And allow Bahujan women to make uniformed choices for themselves
Instead of dictating terms to them all the time
Also, men need to be part of feminism
After all, inclusiveness is the very core of feminism
It transcends gender, *** race, religion and caste
Was not Babasaheb Dr. B.R. Ambedkar one of India's greatest feminists?
It is thanks to this beautiful soul
That, at least in theory, are men and women equal
As far as our country is concerned
Therefore, feminism is something we greatly need
But it can be successful only when it includes everyone
Thus, in order to make India a much safer place for women
Everybody must adopt feminism
Because, it is equivalent to humanism!
Jai Bhim!!
Oct 14, 2024
Oct 14, 2024 at 12:18 AM UTC
You are the reason I smile
Every time I happen to fail
Because, when I think about you
I know all hope isn't lost yet
And I can even beat the worst ever Monday blues
Your never-say-die spirit is tough to beat
Even when it comes to someone like Rahul Gandhi
It's what makes you such an awesome poet
Not to mention, a bestselling novelist
A truly intersectional feminist
And last but not the least
One of the fiercest anti-caste activists
Of course, I know you haven't even properly met me
However, you have made an impact upon me
Which is utterly impossible to forget
Really, I have to admit
You have made me think more positively
And act more independently
Which has done wonders for my mental health
Also, have you taught me to keep up the faith
Even when I have been at my nadir
Therefore, is it no wonder
That you are an inspiration to one and all
Thanks to you, even when we fall
We know how to rise again
And smile through our pain
You are a powerful voice of change
In a country that is thoroughly resistant to change
You speak what most of us are afraid to speak
And inspire even the meek
You call a ***** a *****
Your keyboard is the sharpest blade
Finally, you awaken those who are asleep
And give a red alert to those who are merely pretending to sleep
You know, whenever you enter my mind
I feel a quiet but fierce pride
Certainly, has God been kind
To present me with the opportunity
Indeed, a very very special opportunity
To come across such an incredible human being
Without whom, am I nothing!
May the Lord bless you with everything
Which you deeply crave for
Dear Comrade, please keep fighting and do take care
Jai Bhim!! Vaazhga Periyar!!
Sep 5, 2024
Sep 5, 2024 at 3:04 AM UTC
Were nothing to go right
You would show me the light
Because, are you a beacon of hope
Which doesn't allow anyone to mope
Really, are you that one person
Who manages to keep me sane
Even when I am surrounded by total chaos
You teach me how to find bliss
When I am trapped in a bottomless pit of despair
Thanks to you, am I able to bear
Even the worst of all situations
Much louder than your words, are your actions
You fight fire with fire
Never, do you put on airs
Underneath your hard outer shell, lies a rather soft interior
For your people, do you greatly care
Not to mention, are you extremely brave
So much is there about you, that I greatly love
You are among the greatest poets
Not to mention, the most fearless activists
About what our society thinks, you give not a ****
Even after receiving so much hate
You have shown not, any alarm
Rarely, do you take the bait
Even after endless provocation
And at the same time, you show not, any caution
Hence, by you, am I so inspired
That I feel less and less afraid
To speak my mind
Until I grow really, really old
May the Lord bless you, you fantastic human being
With anything and everything
Which you hold dear
Keep fighting, keep motivating and take care
Jai Bhim! Vaazhga Periyar!!
Aug 19, 2024
Aug 19, 2024 at 2:33 AM UTC
Thou art my last hope
Do my best I shall, not to mope
Thanks to you, and you alone
Because, you have been through so much pain
Yet, have you always emerged strong
Very rarely, has your judgement been wrong
These days, I seem to be doing nothing right
But thanks to you, do I somehow manage to see the light
You motivate me so much
That I feel like I am on a beach
Watching the waves rise and fall
And being at peace, all in all
Suddenly, do I begin to feel
That the possibility of achieving the impossible is very real
Always, have you been a fighter
Pushing harder and harder
Against the tallest of odds
Carrying an extremely heavy load
On your already weary shoulders
Really, are you a warrior!
Thou art my last hope
Even when there is a queen-sized gap
Between expectations and reality
Never do you think of giving up
Because, so much do you care about humanity
Thanks to you, will I try my best not to give up
Always, do you have the mindset
That there is nothing to lose
And never do you mind, being imperfect
Even when there is everything to lose
You are the person, who puts a smile on my face
During my darkest times
If I emerge successful in life
Remember you I will, for sure
For inspiring me during times of strife
Never do you put on airs
Defined are you, by your humility
Totally can I relate, to your brutal honesty
Truly, are you a lioness
Perfectly fits you, does the Tamil hit song 'Badass'
You are one of the bravest Indian women
A bulwark against upper caste male **********
And in spite of the numerous activities you have been doing
Your maternal instincts continue to remain very strong
Really, are you an allrounder
And I can totally feel your righteous anger
Whenever there is even the tiniest injustice
Above all, do you dream of peace
And a much better world
Well, are you absolute gold
As far as character is concerned
Therefore, you are a person whom I've always greatly admired
Indeed, thou art my last hope
Hence, for you will I always clap
Please keep fighting and keep inspiring
And may the Lord bless you with everything
Which you have ever dreamed of!!
May 15, 2024
May 15, 2024 at 2:10 PM UTC
Thou art an amazing human being
Your poetry is something
That I could go on reading and reading
And never feel bored at all
Because, I love how you make the mighty fall
Showing the world that they truly are
Which is, nothing but a bunch of pretentious bores!
Thou art an amazing human being
Thanks to whom, are things always happening
Always, do you hit the bull's eye
When it cometh to calling out casteism and misogyny
Not to mention, are you incredibly courageous
What you write, has often been called "outrageous"
However, in my opinion
Nothing could ever come closer to the truth
And never have I been prouder of any person
Especially given that, nowadays, is there a dearth
Of truly radical thinkers
With the system, does nobody dare to tinker!!
Thou art an amazing human being
I find your books extremely inspiring
Not to mention, is your activism of supreme importance
Particularly given that, nowadays, very few dare to take a chance
And challenge the existing class and caste structure
A role model are you, for everyone who aspires
To try and bring about a societal transformation
Not to mention, repeatedly have you breached the bastion
Of cis hetero male **********
Thou art an amazing human being
Never do you give up on anything
Compassionate are you, to the core
A very caring mother
Who somehow manages to devote time to her children
In spite of being in the midst of so much action
Not to mention, a lot of genuine respect do you have
For your fans and admirers
Something that we greatly love
Oh, and ***** your haters!!
Just be the way you are
And may Jesus bless you, for now and forever!!
May 14, 2024
May 14, 2024 at 12:33 AM UTC
You make me so proud
Because, always do you say it so loud
A powerful crusader against injustice
Often, do you stand on the edge of a precipice
And scream so that the whole world can hear
Year after year
How ****** up is our country
An utter sham of a democracy
Always, do you walk the talk
Haters may say you often sulk
However, they cannot be more wrong
Because, like a honeybee, do you sting
Where it hurts them the most
Really, art thou the best
When it cometh to using words as a weapon
Your books are an emotion
And your activism gives us all hope
You certainly are not one to sit down and mope
Even while the world comes crashing down
No matter what, do it you can
Because, you are the fire that burns
Even when it rains cats and dogs!
You make me so proud
Thanks to you, is it not so hard
To believe that we can truly annihilate caste
We will ensure your pathbreaking work does not go waste
Thou art one of the bravest parents
Because, never do you allow motherhood to dent
In any way, your never-ending fight for social justice
In fact, you redefine independence
Doing almost everything on your own
Braving storm after storm
And yet managing to maintain a modicum of calm
As you set forth on an absolutely brutal journey
In a tearing hurry
In order to reclaim your stolen freedom
Truly, are you a powerful beam
Of light that never fades
By the rules, you do not abide
Because, you are simply a force of nature
A human being most mature
I repeat, you make me so proud
That I want to say it loud
VAAZHGA DR. MEENA KANDASAMY!!
May 1, 2024
May 1, 2024 at 1:48 PM UTC
Thou art my chief source of motivation
Because, never do you show caution
Always, do you speak your mind
To your fire, is there no end
Seriously, are your poems so powerful
That they inspire us to fight
Against the Indian State's sheer might
Your personality is beautiful
Though your writing is fiery
I know you wouldn't hurt a fly
Because, all you want, is social justice
Even if it involves a huge sacrifice!
Thou art my chief source of motivation
And propel me towards action
Whenever I am feeling low
Never are your thoughts shallow
You are a raging feminist
And a compassionate socialist
As well as one of the leaders
In the fight against casteism
Not to mention, an extremely versatile writer
Who blends gender and caste
Romance and escapism
Peace and war
Religion and mass ******
Truly endless, is the list
But we get the gist!!
Thou art my chief source of motivation
Because, whenever you speak
My ears dance with anticipation
And the future suddenly seems less bleak
Always, do you make an impact
In fact, can you even act!!
Of course, suffered have you, a lot
However, you give up not
And most importantly, remind us
To keep doing the right thing always
Even if it ends up killing us!!
Thou art my chief source of motivation
Because you simply have not, any inhibition
You speak what we don't want to hear
And do what most of us fear
Sometimes, are you truly scary
But of course, in a good way!!
So much have you done, for your community
And that too, without any immunity
As can be seen by the sheer amount of hate you've often received
Simply for speaking the truth!!
I must say, hats off to your unwavering faith
You've made all of us proud
May the Lord bless you
With all the love, success, happiness, peace and prosperity in the world!!
Jai Bhim!! Vaazhga Periyar!!
Apr 15, 2024
Apr 15, 2024 at 2:19 PM UTC
I look up to you greatly
Thou art an amazing lady
In you, do I see a fire
That refuses to die, no matter what
You lay your soul threadbare
Wit, is one of your greatest assets
Never do you back down from a fight
In a tunnel full of never-ending darkness
Are you the light
Which keeps emptiness and depression at bay
And puts us firmly on the path to happiness
Come what may!
I look up to you greatly
Your writing is so fiery
That it can spark a raging inferno
Full of righteous anger
Against all the injustice perpetrated by the Indian State
The lynchings that refuse to abate
Poor and underprivileged children dying of hunger
People being denied homes due to their caste
While the government has the sheer nerve to boast
About its so-called achievements
Your poems are a testament
To the famous saying "The pen is mightier than the sword"
Very hard-hitting indeed, are your words!!
I look up to you greatly
Never dost thou fail to amaze
Every story of yours is a maze
Full of character arcs and plot twists
Ensuring we get hooked very fast
And by the time we finally put the book down
Our minds would have been blown!!
I look up to you greatly
Never dost thou fail to raise your voice
When it cometh to social justice
Yet, somehow do you manage to maintain your poise
In the face of never-ending malice
Which is constantly thrown your way
The way you keep your detractors at bay
Is something we must all learn
Thanks to people like you, have I gradually started to unlearn
Certain things I once considered gospel truth
Excel do you, at transforming the narrative
When it cometh to our Hindu myths
For your community, do you live
Not yourself
Hopefully, more books of yours may soon adorn my shelf!!
I look up to you greatly
Thou art a wonderful role model
Bestsellers, are your novels
You love your profession
As much as Israel loves to lie
You yourself are an institution
And always do you aim for the sky
So much have you done for our society
With an absolutely brutal honesty
That beggars belief
Your writings provide some much-needed relief
In these dark and difficult times
Where even mere dissent is often treated as a crime!!
I look up to you greatly
For you, is impossible nothing
And social justice, everything!!
By the Grace of God
May all your dreams come true
And may you have nothing to rue
Finally, must I say
More power to you, Meena!!
Apr 11, 2024
Apr 11, 2024 at 12:44 AM UTC
You are an amazing writer
And one hell of a character
I love the way you think
In your armour, are there no chinks
Precisely do you know how to attract readers
In your world, there ain't no order!
Thou art the mistress of chaos
To your writings, if people are averse
Then it is their loss
Because you are an absolute diamond
And for you, never does learning end!!
You are an amazing writer
And a stellar storyteller
You always call a ***** a *****
By rules, you do not abide
When you are angry
We all are angry
Because we cannot stand injustice
And you yourself are Lady Justice!!
You are an amazing writer
Sure, you do have your share of haters
But that only serves to underscore the sheer impact you produce
Truly, art thou a natural force!!
Smashing the Brahminical patriarchy looks not impossible
Only because your spirit is unbreakable!!
You are an amazing writer
And an even better reciter
Your poetry is simply revolutionary
And though your critics are often reactionary
You simply let your keyboard do the talking
Thus reducing them to effectively nothing!!
You are an amazing writer
And we are your debtors
Because, you are one of those fearless critics
Whom the government always tries to silence
But you brave storm after storm
In order to try and ensure justice for the downtrodden
You are the oasis that represents hope
In a desert full of despair
You are an amazing writer
Who doesn't give two hoots about her detractors
You are the true face of intersectional feminism
In a land full of Savarna feminism
Which is as fake as Israeli democracy
Thanks to you, gender equality is not a mere fantasy!!
Most important of all, though
Is your anti-caste activism
In the never-ending battle against casteism
You are one of the fiercest warriors
May you eventually succeed in breaking all the barriers
Which stand between you and annihilation of caste!!
Jai Bhim!! Vaazhga Periyar!!
Mar 26, 2024
Mar 26, 2024 at 1:37 PM UTC
If
I made excuses for you
Then I’m sorry.
Not to you,
But to me.
I didn’t deserve that sort of disrespect
From either of us.
May 11, 2020
May 11, 2020 at 1:23 PM UTC
First they came for the Muslims
by Michael R. Burch
after Martin Niemoller
First they came for the Muslims
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Muslim.
Then they came for the homosexuals
and I did not speak out
because I was not a homosexual.
Then they came for the feminists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a feminist.
Now when will they come for me
because I was too busy and too apathetic
to defend my sisters and brothers?
"First they came for the Muslims" was published in Amnesty International’s "Words That Burn" anthology and is now being used as training material for budding human rights activists. My poem was inspired by and patterned after Martin Niemoller’s famous Holocaust poem. Niemoller, a German pastor, supported Adolph ****** in the early going, but ended up in a **** concentration camp and nearly lost his life. So his was a true poem based on his actual life experience. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, genocide, apartheid, racism, intolerance, Jew, Jews, Muslim, Muslims, homosexuals, feminists, apathy, sisters, brothers, Islam, Islamic, God, religion, intolerance, race, racism, racist, discrimination, feminist, feminists, feminism, sexuality, gay, homosexual, homosexuals, LGBT, mrbmuslim, mrbpal, mrbnakba
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.
I Pray Tonight
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers and children of Gaza
I pray tonight
the starry light
might
surround you.
I pray
each 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.
Such Tenderness
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers of Gaza
There was, in your touch, such tenderness―as
only the dove on her mildest day has,
when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing
and coos to them softly, unable to sing.
What songs long forgotten occur to you now―
a babe at each breast? What terrible vow
ripped from your throat like the thunder that day
can never hold severing lightnings at bay?
Time taught you tenderness―time, oh, and love.
But love in the end is seldom enough ...
and time?―insufficient to life’s brief task.
I can only admire, unable to ask―
what is the source, whence comes the desire
of a woman to love as no God may require?
I, too, have a Dream ...
written by Michael R. Burch for the children of Gaza
I, too, have a dream ...
that one day Jews and Christians
will see me as I am:
a small child, lonely and afraid,
staring down the barrels of their big bazookas,
knowing I did nothing
to deserve their enmity.
My Nightmare ...
written by Michael R. Burch for the children of Gaza
I had a dream of Jesus!
Mama, his eyes were so kind!
But behind him I saw a billion Christians
hissing "You're nothing!," so blind.
For a Palestinian Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch
Where does the butterfly go ...
when lightning rails ...
when thunder howls ...
when hailstones scream ...
when winter scowls ...
when nights compound dark frosts with snow ...
where does the butterfly go?
Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill,
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief’s a banked fire’s glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?
Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times and Victorian Violet Press (where it was nominated for a “Best of the Net”), The Contributor (a Nashville homeless newspaper), Siasat (Pakistan), and set to music as a part of the song cycle “The Children of Gaza” which has been performed in various European venues by the Palestinian soprano Dima Bawab
Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers and children of Gaza
Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...
Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this―
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss ...
Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears ...
Published by The Lyric, Promosaik (Germany), Setu (India) and Poetry Life & Times; translated into Arabic by Nizar Sartawi and into Italian by Mario Rigli
Note: The phrase "frail envelope of flesh" was one of my first encounters with the power of poetry, although I read it in a superhero comic book as a young boy (I forget which one). More than thirty years later, the line kept popping into my head, so I wrote this poem. I have dedicated it to the mothers and children of Gaza, who know all too well how fragile life and human happiness can be. What can I say, but that I hope, dream, wish and pray that one day ruthless men will no longer have power over the lives and happiness of innocents? Women, children and babies are not “terrorists” so why are they being punished collectively for the “crime” of having been born “wrong”? How can the government of Israel practice systematic racism and apartheid, and how can the government of the United States fund and support such a barbaric system?
who, US?
by Michael R. Burch
jesus was born
a palestinian child
where there’s no Room
for the meek and the mild
... and in bethlehem still
to this day, lambs are born
to cries of “no Room!”
and Puritanical scorn ...
under Herod, Trump, Bibi
their fates are the same―
the slouching Beast mauls them
and WE have no shame:
“who’s to blame?”
(In the poem "US" means both the United States and "us" the people of the world, wherever we live. The name "jesus" is uncapitalized while "Room" is capitalized because it seems evangelical Christians are more concerned about land and not sharing it with the less fortunate, than the teachings of Jesus Christ. Also, Jesus and his parents were refugees for whom there was "no Room" to be found. What would Jesus think of Christian scorn for the less fortunate, one wonders? What would he think of people adopting his name for their religion, then voting for someone like Trump, as four out of five evangelical Christians did, according to exit polls?)
Excerpts from “Travels with Einstein”
by Michael R. Burch
I went to Berlin to learn wisdom
from Adolph. The wild spittle flew
as he screamed at me, with great conviction:
“Please despise me! I look like a Jew!”
So I flew off to ’Nam to learn wisdom
from tall Yankees who cursed “yellow” foes.
“If we lose this small square,” they informed me,
earth’s nations will fall, dominoes!”
I then sat at Christ’s feet to learn wisdom,
but his Book, from its genesis to close,
said: “Men can enslave their own brothers!”
(I soon noticed he lacked any clothes.)
So I traveled to bright Tel Aviv
where great scholars with lofty IQs
informed me that (since I’m an Arab)
I’m unfit to lick dirt from their shoes.
At last, done with learning, I stumbled
to a well where the waters seemed sweet:
the mirage of American “justice.”
There I wept a real sea, in defeat.
Originally published by Café Dissensus
Starting from Scratch with Ol’ Scratch
by Michael R. Burch
for the Religious Right
Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh
went to the ovens. Please don’t bother to cry.
You could have saved her, but you were all tied up
complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp.
Scratch that. You were born after World War II.
You had something more important to do:
while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza
with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a
religious tract against homosexual marriage
and various things gods and evangelists disparage.)
Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I’m quite sure
that your intentions were good and ineluctably pure.
After all, what the hell does he care about Palestinians?
Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians.
Scratch that. You’re one of the Devil’s minions.
Brother Iran
by Michael R. Burch
for the poets of Iran
Brother Iran, I feel your pain.
I feel it as when the Turk fled Spain.
As the Jew fled, too, that constricting span,
I feel your pain, Brother Iran.
Brother Iran, I know you are noble!
I too fear Hiroshima and Chernobyl.
But though my heart shudders, I have a plan,
and I know you are noble, Brother Iran.
Brother Iran, I salute your Poets!
your Mathematicians!, all your great Wits!
O, come join the earth's great Caravan.
We'll include your Poets, Brother Iran.
Brother Iran, I love your Verse!
Come take my hand now, let's rehearse
the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.
For I love your Verse, Brother Iran.
Brother Iran, civilization's Flower!
How high flew your spires in man's early hours!
Let us build them yet higher, for that's my plan,
civilization's first flower, Brother Iran.
These are my translations of Holocaust poems by Ber Horvitz (also known as Ber Horowitz); his bio follows the poems. Poems about the Holocaust and Nakba often bear striking resemblances, especially when written from the perspective of a child.
Der Himmel
"The Heavens"
by Ber Horvitz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
These skies
are leaden, heavy, gray ...
I long for a pair
of deep blue eyes.
The birds have fled
far overseas;
"Tomorrow I’ll migrate too,"
I said ...
These gloomy autumn days
it rains and rains.
Woe to the bird
Who remains ...
Doctorn
"Doctors"
by Ber Horvitz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Early this morning I bandaged
the lilac tree outside my house;
I took thin branches that had broken away
and patched their wounds with clay.
My mother stood there watering
her window-level flower bed;
The morning sun, quite motherly,
kissed us both on our heads!
What a joy, my child, to heal!
Finished doctoring, or not?
The eggs are nicely poached
And the milk's a-boil in the ***
Broit
“Bread”
by Ber Horvitz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness. Why?
On the hard uncomfortable floor the exhausted people lie.
Flung everywhere, scattered over the broken theater floor,
the exhausted people sleep. Night. Late. Too tired to snore.
At midnight a little boy cries wildly into the gloom:
"Mommy, I’m afraid! Let’s go home!”
His mother, reawakened into this frightful place,
presses her frightened child even closer to her breast …
"If you cry, I’ll leave you here, all alone!
A little boy must sleep ... this, now, is our new home.”
Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness all around,
exhausted people sleeping on the hard ground.
"My Lament"
by Ber Horvitz
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Nothingness enveloped me
as tender green toadstools
lie blanketed by snow
with its thick, heavy prayer shawl …
After that, nothing could hurt me …
Ber Horvitz aka Ber Horowitz (1895-1942): Born to village people in the woods of Maidan in the West Carpathians, Horowitz showed art talent early on. He went to gymnazie in Stanislavov, then served in the Austrian army during WWI, where he was a medic to Italian prisoners of war. He studied medicine in Vienna and was published in many Yiddish newspapers. Fluent in several languages, he translated Polish and Ukrainian to Yiddish. He also wrote poetry in Yiddish. A victim of the Holocaust, he was murdered in 1942 by the Nazis.
Second Sight
by Michael R. Burch
I never touched you—
that was my mistake.
Deep within,
I still feel the ache.
Can an unformed thing
eternally break?
Now, from a great distance,
I see you again
not as you are now,
but as you were then—
eternally present
and Sovereign.
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.
Published by Angle and Poem Today
Annual
by Michael R. Burch
Silence
steals upon a house
where one sits alone
in the shadow of the itinerant letterbox,
watching the disconnected telephone
collecting dust ...
hearing the desiccate whispers of voices’
dry flutters,—
moths’ wings
brittle as cellophane ...
Curled here,
reading the yellowing volumes of loss
by the front porch light
in the groaning swing . . .
through thin adhesive gloss
I caress your face.
Published by The HyperTexts
US Verse, after Auden
by Michael R. Burch
“Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.”
Verse has small value in our Unisphere,
nor is it fit for windy revelation.
It cannot legislate less taxing fears;
it cannot make us, several, a nation.
Enumerator of our sins and dreams,
it pens its cryptic numbers, and it sings,
a little quaintly, of the ways of love.
(It seems of little use for lesser things.)
Published by The Raintown Review, The Barefoot Muse and Poetry Life & Times
The Unisphere mentioned is a spherical stainless steel representation of the earth constructed for the 1964 New York World’s Fair. It was commissioned to celebrate the beginning of the space age and dedicated to "Man's Achievements on a Shrinking Globe in an Expanding Universe." The lines quoted in the epigraph are from W. H. Auden’s love poem “Lullaby.”
Sea Dreams
by Michael R. Burch
I.
In timeless days
I've crossed the waves
of seaways seldom seen.
By the last low light of evening
the breakers that careen
then dive back to the deep
have rocked my ship to sleep,
and so I've known the peace
of a soul at last at ease
there where Time's waters run
in concert with the sun.
With restless waves
I've watched the days’
slow movements, as they hum
their antediluvian songs.
Sometimes I've sung along,
my voice as soft and low
as the sea's, while evening slowed
to waver at the dim
mysterious moonlit rim
of dreams no man has known.
In thoughtless flight,
I've scaled the heights
and soared a scudding breeze
over endless arcing seas
of waves ten miles high.
I've sheared the sable skies
on wings as soft as sighs
and stormed the sun-pricked pitch
of sunset’s scarlet-stitched,
ebullient dark demise.
I've climbed the sun-cleft clouds
ten thousand leagues or more
above the windswept shores
of seas no man has sailed
— great seas as grand as hell's,
shores littered with the shells
of men's "immortal" souls —
and I've warred with dark sea-holes
whose open mouths implored
their depths to be explored.
And I've grown and grown and grown
till I thought myself the king
of every silver thing . . .
But sometimes late at night
when the sorrowing wavelets sing
sad songs of other times,
I taste the windborne rime
of a well-remembered day
on the whipping ocean spray,
and I bow my head to pray . . .
II.
It's been a long, hard day;
sometimes I think I work too hard.
Tonight I'd like to take a walk
down by the sea —
down by those salty waves
brined with the scent of Infinity,
down by that rocky shore,
down by those cliffs that I used to climb
when the wind was **** with a taste of lime
and every dream was a sailor's dream.
Then small waves broke light,
all frothy and white,
over the reefs in the ramblings of night,
and the pounding sea
—a mariner’s dream—
was bound to stir a boy's delight
to such a pitch
that he couldn't desist,
but was bound to splash through the surf in the light
of ten thousand stars, all shining so bright.
Christ, those nights were fine,
like a well-aged wine,
yet more scalding than fire
with the marrow’s desire.
Then desire was a fire
burning wildly within my bones,
fiercer by far than the frantic foam . . .
and every wish was a moan.
Oh, for those days to come again!
Oh, for a sea and sailing men!
Oh, for a little time!
It's almost nine
and I must be back home by ten,
and then . . . what then?
I have less than an hour to stroll this beach,
less than an hour old dreams to reach . . .
And then, what then?
Tonight I'd like to play old games—
games that I used to play
with the somber, sinking waves.
When their wraithlike fists would reach for me,
I'd dance between them gleefully,
mocking their witless craze
—their eager, unchecked craze—
to batter me to death
with spray as light as breath.
Oh, tonight I'd like to sing old songs—
songs of the haunting moon
drawing the tides away,
songs of those sultry days
when the sun beat down
till it cracked the ground
and the sea gulls screamed
in their agony
to touch the cooling clouds.
The distant cooling clouds.
Then the sun shone bright
with a different light
over different lands,
and I was always a pirate in flight.
Oh, tonight I'd like to dream old dreams,
if only for a while,
and walk perhaps a mile
along this windswept shore,
a mile, perhaps, or more,
remembering those days,
safe in the soothing spray
of the thousand sparkling streams
that rush into this sea.
I like to slumber in the caves
of a sailor's dark sea-dreams . . .
oh yes, I'd love to dream,
to dream
and dream
and dream.
“Sea Dreams” is one of my longer and more ambitious early poems, along with the full version of “Jessamyn’s Song.” To the best of my recollection, I wrote “Sea Dreams” around age 18, circa 1976-1977. For years I thought I had written “Sea Dreams” around age 19 or 20, circa 1978. But then I remembered a conversation I had with a friend about the poem in my freshman dorm, so the poem must have been started around age 18 or earlier. Dating my early poems has been a bit tricky, because I keep having little flashbacks that help me date them more accurately, but often I can only say, “I know this poem was written by about such-and-such a date, because ...”
The next poem, "Son," is a companion piece to “Sea Dreams” that was written around the same time and discussed in the same freshman dorm conversation. I remember showing this poem to a fellow student and he asked how on earth I came up with a poem about being a father who abandoned his son to live on an island! I think the meter is pretty good for the age at which it was written.
Son
by Michael R. Burch
An island is bathed in blues and greens
as a weary sun settles to rest,
and the memories singing
through the back of my mind
lull me to sleep as the tide flows in.
Here where the hours pass almost unnoticed,
my heart and my home will be till I die,
but where you are is where my thoughts go
when the tide is high.
[etc., see handwritten version, the father laments abandoning his son]
So there where the skylarks sing to the sun
as the rain sprinkles lightly around,
understand if you can
the mind of a man
whose conscience so long ago drowned.
Ode to Postmodernism, or, Bury Me at St. Edmonds!
by Michael R. Burch
"Bury St. Edmonds—Amid the squirrels, pigeons, flowers and manicured lawns of Abbey Gardens, one can plug a modem into a park bench and check e-mail, files or surf the Web, absolutely free."—Tennessean News Service. (The bench was erected free of charge by the British division of MSN, after a local bureaucrat wrote a contest-winning ode of sorts to MSN.)
Our post-modernist-equipped park bench will let
you browse the World Wide Web, the Internet,
commune with nature, interact with hackers,
design a virus, feed brown bitterns crackers.
Discretely-wired phone lines lead to plugs—
four ports we swept last night for nasty bugs,
so your privacy's assured (a threesome's fine)
while invited friends can scan the party line:
for Internet alerts on new positions,
the randier exploits of politicians,
exotic birds on web cams (DO NOT FEED!) .
The cybersex is great, it's guaranteed
to leave you breathless—flushed, free of disease
and malware viruses. Enjoy the trees,
the birds, the bench—this product of Our pen.
We won in with an ode to MSN.
Let Me Give Her Diamonds
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Let me give her diamonds
for my heart's
sharp edges.
Let me give her roses
for my soul's
thorn.
Let me give her solace
for my words
of treason.
Let the flowering of love
outlast a winter
season.
Let me give her books
for all my lack
of reason.
Let me give her candles
for my lack
of fire.
Let me kindle incense,
for our hearts
require
the breath-fanned
flaming perfume
of desire.
Step Into Starlight
by Michael R. Burch
Step into starlight,
lovely and wild,
lonely and longing,
a woman, a child . . .
Throw back drawn curtains,
enter the night,
dream of his kiss
as a comet ignites . . .
Then fall to your knees
in a wind-fumbled cloud
and shudder to hear
oak hocks groaning aloud.
Flee down the dark path
to where the snaking vine bends
and withers and writhes
as winter descends . . .
And learn that each season
ends one vanished day,
that each pregnant moon holds
no spent tides in its sway . . .
For, as suns seek horizons—
boys fall, men decline.
As the grape sags with its burden,
remember—the wine!
I believe I wrote the original version of this poem in my early twenties.
Chloe
by Michael R. Burch
There were skies onyx at night ... moons by day ...
lakes pale as her eyes ... breathless winds
********** tall elms; ... she would say
that we loved, but I figured we’d sinned.
Soon impatiens too fiery to stay
sagged; the crocus bells drooped, golden-limned;
things of brightness, rinsed out, ran to gray ...
all the light of that world softly dimmed.
Where our feet were inclined, we would stray;
there were paths where dead weeds stood untrimmed,
distant mountains that loomed in our way,
thunder booming down valleys dark-hymned.
What I found, I found lost in her face
while yielding all my virtue to her grace.
You Never Listened
by Michael R. Burch
You never listened,
though each night the rain
wove its patterns again
and trembled and glistened . . .
You were not watching,
though each night the stars
shone, brightening the tears
in her eyes palely fetching . . .
You paid love no notice,
though she lay in my arms
as the stars rose in swarms
like a legion of poets,
as the lightning recited
its opus before us,
and the hills boomed the chorus,
all strangely delighted . . .
Through the fields of solitude
by Hermann Allmers
translation by David B. Gosselin with Michael R. Burch
Peacefully, I rest in the tall green grass
For a long time only gazing as I lie,
Caught in the endless hymn of crickets,
And encircled by a wonderful blue sky.
And the lovely white clouds floating across
The depths of the heavens are like silky lace;
I feel as though my soul has long since fled,
Softly drifting with them through eternal space.
An Illusion
by Michael R. Burch
The sky was as hushed as the breath of a bee
and the world was bathed in shades of palest gold
when I awoke.
She came to me with the sound of falling leaves
and the scent of new-mown grass;
I held out my arms to her and she passed
into oblivion ...
The Leveler
by Michael R. Burch
The nature of Nature
is bitter survival
from Winter’s bleak fury
till Spring’s brief revival.
The weak implore Fate;
bold men ravish, dishevel her . . .
till both are cut down
by mere ticks of the Leveler.
I believe I wrote this poem around age 20, in 1978 or thereabouts. It has since been published in The Lyric, Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly and The Aurorean.
In the Whispering Night
by Michael R. Burch
for George King
In the whispering night, when the stars bend low
till the hills ignite to a shining flame,
when a shower of meteors streaks the sky,
and the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame,
we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen,
and gather our vigor, and all our intent.
We must heave our husks into some savage ocean
and laugh as they shatter, and never repent.
We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us,
soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze,
blown high, upward yearning,
twin spirits returning
to the world of resplendence from which we were seized.
In the whispering night, when the mockingbird calls
while denuded vines barely cling to stone walls,
as the red-rocked rivers rush on to the sea,
like a bright Goddess calling
a meteor falling
may flare like desire through skeletal trees.
If you look to the east, you will see a reminder
of days that broke warmer and nights that fell kinder;
but you and I were not meant for this life,
a life of illusions
and painful delusions:
a life without meaning—unless it is life.
So turn from the east and look to the west,
to the stars—argent fire ablaze at God's breast—
but there you'll find nothing but dreams of lost days:
days lost forever,
departed, and never,
oh never, oh never shall they be regained.
So turn from those heavens—night’s pale host of stars—
to these scarred pitted mountains, these wild grotesque tors
which—looming in darkness—obscure lustrous seas.
We are men, we must sing
till enchanted vales ring;
we are men; though we wither, our spirits soar free.
and then i was made whole
by Michael R. Burch
... and then i was made whole,
but not a thing entire,
glued to a perch
in a gilded church,
strung through with a silver wire ...
singing a little of this and of that,
warbling higher and higher:
a thing wholly dead
till I lifted my head
and spat at the Lord and his choir.
Bowery Boys
by Michael R. Burch
Male bowerbirds have learned
that much respect is earned
when optical illusions
inspire wild delusions.
And so they work for hours
to line their manly bowers
with stones arranged by size
to awe and mesmerize.
It’d take a great detective
to grok the false perspective
they use to lure in cuties
to smooch and fill with cooties.
Like human politicians,
they love impressive fictions
as they lie in their randy causes
with props like the Wizard of Oz’s.
THE KNIGHT IN THE PANTHER’S SKIN
***** Rustaveli (c. 1160-1250), often called simply Rustaveli, was a Georgian poet who is generally considered to be the preeminent poet of the Georgian Golden Age. “The Knight in the Panther's Skin” or “The Man in the Panther’s Skin” is considered to be Georgia’s national epic poem and until the 20th century it was part of every Georgian bride’s dowry. It is believed that Rustaveli served Queen Tamar as a treasurer or finance minister and that he may have traveled widely and been involved in military campaigns. Little else is known about his life except through folk tradition and legend.
The Knight in the Panther's Skin
by ***** Rustaveli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
excerpts from the PROLOGUE
I sing of the lion whose image adorns the lances, shields and swords
of our Queen of Queens: Tamar, the ruby-throated and ebon-haired.
How dare I not sing Her Excellency’s manifold praises
when those who attend her must bring her the sweets she craves?
My tears flow profusely like blood as I extol our Queen Tamar,
whose praises I sing in these not ill-chosen words.
For ink I have employed jet-black lakes and for a pen, a flexible reed.
Whoever hears will have his heart pierced by the sharpest spears!
She bade me laud her in stately, sweet-sounding verses,
to praise her eyebrows, her hair, her lips and her teeth:
those rubies and crystals arrayed in bright, even ranks!
A leaden anvil can shatter even the strongest stone.
Kindle my mind and tongue! Fill me with skill and eloquence!
Aid my understanding for this composition!
Thus Tariel will be tenderly remembered,
one of three star-like heroes who always remained faithful.
Come, let us mourn Tariel with undrying tears
because we are men born under similar stars.
I, Rustaveli, whose heart has been pierced through by many sorrows,
have threaded this tale like a necklace of pearls.
Keywords/Tags: ***** Rustaveli, Georgia, Georgian, epic, knight, panther, skin, queen, Tamar, praise, praises, Tariel, Avtandil, Nestan-Darejan
Final Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
Sleep peacefully—for now your suffering’s over.
Sleep peacefully—immune to all distress,
like pebbles unaware of raging waves.
Sleep peacefully—like fields of fragrant clover
unmoved by any motion of the wind.
Sleep peacefully—like clouds untouched by earthquakes.
Sleep peacefully—like stars that never blink
and have no thoughts at all, nor need to think.
Sleep peacefully—in your eternal vault,
immaculate, past perfect, without fault.
don’t forget ...
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
don’t forget to remember
that Space is curved
(like your Heart)
and that even Light is bent
by your Gravity.
I dedicated this poem to the love of my life, but you are welcome to dedicate it to the love of yours, if you like it. The opening lines were inspired by a famous love poem by e. e. cummings. I went through a "cummings phase" around age 15 and wrote a number of poems "under the influence."
Options Underwater: The Song of the First Amphibian
by Michael R. Burch
“Evolution’s a Fishy Business!”
1.
Breathing underwater through antiquated gills,
I’m running out of options. I need to find fresh Air,
to seek some higher Purpose. No porpoise, I despair
to swim among anemones’ pink frills.
2.
My fins will make fine flippers, if only I can walk,
a little out of kilter, safe to the nearest rock’s
sweet, unmolested shelter. Each eye must grow a stalk,
to take in this green land on which it gawks.
3.
No predators have made it here, so I need not adapt.
Sun-sluggish, full, lethargic―I’ll take such nice long naps!
The highest form of life, that’s me! (Quite apt
to lie here chortling, calling fishes saps.)
4.
I woke to find life teeming all around―
mammals, insects, reptiles, loathsome birds.
And now I cringe at every sight and sound.
The water’s looking good! I look Absurd.
5.
The moral of my story’s this: don’t leap
wherever grass is greener. Backwards creep.
And never burn your bridges, till you’re sure
leapfrogging friends secures your Sinecure.
Originally published by Lighten Up Online
Keywords/Tags: amphibian, amphibians, evolution, gills, water, air, lungs, fins, flippers, fish, fishy business
These are my modern English translations of poems by Dante Alighieri.
Little sparks may ignite great Infernos.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In Beatrice I beheld the outer boundaries of blessedness.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
She made my veins and even the pulses within them tremble.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Her sweetness left me intoxicated.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Love commands me by dictating my desires.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Follow your own path and let bystanders gossip.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The devil is not as dark as depicted.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There is no greater sorrow than to recall how we delighted in our own wretchedness.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
As he, who with heaving lungs escaped the suffocating sea, turns to regard its perilous waters.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you nosedive in the mildest breeze?
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you quail at the least breath of wind?
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Midway through my life’s journey
I awoke to find myself lost in a trackless wood,
for I had strayed far from the straight path.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
INSCRIPTION ON THE GATE OF HELL
Before me nothing created existed, to fear.
Eternal I am, eternal I endure.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sonnet: “Ladies of Modest Countenance” from LA VITA NUOVA
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You, who wear a modest countenance,
With eyelids weighed down by such heaviness,
How is it, that among you every face
Is haunted by the same pale troubled glance?
Have you seen in my lady's face, perchance,
the grief that Love provokes despite her grace?
Confirm this thing is so, then in her place,
Complete your grave and sorrowful advance.
And if, indeed, you match her heartfelt sighs
And mourn, as she does, for the heart's relief,
Then tell Love how it fares with her, to him.
Love knows how you have wept, seeing your eyes,
And is so grieved by gazing on your grief
His courage falters and his sight grows dim.
Paradiso, Canto III:1-33, The Revelation of Love and Truth
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
That sun, which had inflamed my breast with love,
Had now revealed to me―as visions move―
The gentle and confounding face of Truth.
Thus I, by her sweet grace and love reproved,
Corrected, and to true confession moved,
Raised my bowed head and found myself behooved
To speak, as true admonishment required,
And thus to bless the One I so desired,
When I was awed to silence! This transpired:
As the outlines of men’s faces may amass
In mirrors of transparent, polished glass,
Or in shallow waters through which light beams pass
(Even so our eyes may easily be fooled
By pearls, or our own images, thus pooled):
I saw a host of faces, pale and lewd,
All poised to speak; but when I glanced around
There suddenly was no one to be found.
A pool, with no Narcissus to astound?
But then I turned my eyes to my sweet Guide.
With holy eyes aglow and smiling wide,
She said, “They are not here because they lied.”
Sonnet: A Vision of Love from LA VITA NUOVA
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To every gentle heart which Love may move,
And unto which my words must now be brought
For true interpretation’s tender thought―
I greet you in our Lord's name, which is Love.
Through night’s last watch, as winking stars, above,
Kept their high vigil over us, distraught,
Love came to me, with such dark terrors fraught
As mortals may not casually absolve.
Love seemed a being of pure joy, and had
My heart held in his hand, while on his arm
My lady, wrapped in her fine mantle, slept.
He, having roused her from her sleep, then made
Her eat my heart; she did, in deep alarm.
He then departed; as he left, he wept.
Excerpts from LA VITA NUOVA
by Dante Alighieri
Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi.
Here is a Deity, stronger than myself, who comes to dominate me.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra.
Your blessedness has now been manifested unto you.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Heu miser! quia frequenter impeditus ero deinceps.
Alas, how often I will be restricted now!
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Fili mi, tempus est ut prætermittantur simulata nostra.
My son, it is time to cease counterfeiting.
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ego tanquam centrum circuli, cui simili modo se habent circumferentiæ partes: tu autem non sic.
Love said: “I am as the center of a harmonious circle; everything is equally near me. No so with you.”
―Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sonnet: “Love’s Thoroughfare” from LA VITA NUOVA
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“O voi che par la via”
All those who travel Love's worn tracks,
Pause here, awhile, and ask
Has there ever been a grief like mine?
Pause here, from that mad race;
Patiently hear my case:
Is it not a piteous marvel and a sign?
Love, not because I played a part,
But only due to his great heart,
Afforded me a provenance so sweet
That often others, as I went,
Asked what such unfair gladness meant:
They whispered things behind me in the street.
But now that easy gait is gone
Along with the wealth Love afforded me;
And so in time I’ve come to be
So poor that I dread to ponder thereon.
And thus I have become as one
Who hides his shame of his poverty
By pretending happiness outwardly,
While within I travail and moan.
Sonnet: “Cry for Pity” from LA VITA NUOVA
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
These thoughts lie shattered in my memory:
When through the past I see your lovely face.
When you are near me, thus, Love fills all Space,
And often whispers, “Is death better? Flee!”
My face reflects my heart's blood-red dammed tide,
Which, fainting, seeks some shallow resting place;
Till, in the blushing shame of such disgrace,
The very earth seems to be shrieking, “Die!”
’Twould be a grievous sin, if one should not
Relay some comfort to my harried mind,
If only with some simple pitying
For this great anguish which fierce scorn has wrought
Through faltering sights of eyes grown nearly blind,
Which search for death now, like a blessed thing.
Excerpt from Paradiso
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
****** Mother, daughter of your Son,
Humble, yet exalted above creation,
And the eternal counsel’s apex shown,
You are the Pinnacle of human nature,
Your nobility instilled by its Creator,
Who did not, having you, disdain his creature.
Love was rekindled in your perfect womb
Where warmth and holy peace were given room
For this, Perfection’s Rose, once sown, to bloom.
Now unto us you are a Torch held high
Our noonday sun―the light of Charity,
Our wellspring of all Hope, a living sea.
Madonna, so pure, high and all-availing,
The man who desires grace of you, though failing,
Despite his grounded state, is given wing!
Your mercy does not fail, but, Ever-Blessed,
The one who asks finds oftentimes his quest
Unneeded: you foresaw his first request!
You are our Mercy; you are our Compassion;
you are Magnificence; in you creation
Unites whatever Goodness deems Salvation.
THE MUSE
by Anna Akhmatova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My being hangs by a thread tonight
as I await a Muse no human pen can command.
The desires of my heart ― youth, liberty, glory ―
now depend on the Maid with the flute in her hand.
Look! Now she arrives; she flings back her veil;
I meet her grave eyes ― calm, implacable, pitiless.
“Temptress, confess!
Are you the one who gave Dante hell?”
She answers, “Yes.”
I have also translated this poem written by Marina Tsvetaeva for Anna Akhmatova:
Excerpt from “Poems for Akhmatova”
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You outshine everything, even the sun
at its zenith. The stars are yours!
If only I could sweep like the wind
through some unbarred door,
gratefully, to where you are ...
to hesitantly stammer, suddenly shy,
lowering my eyes before you, my lovely mistress,
petulant, chastened, overcome by tears,
as a child sobs to receive forgiveness ...
Dante Criticism by Michael R. Burch
Dante’s was a defensive reflex
against religion’s hex.
―Michael R. Burch
Dante, you Dunce!
by Michael R. Burch
The earth is hell, Dante, you Dunce!
Which you should have perceived―since you lived here once.
God is no Beatrice, gentle and clever.
Judas and Satan were wise to dissever
from false “messiahs” who cannot save.
Why flit like a bat through Plato’s cave
believing such shadowy illusions are real?
There is no "hell" but to live and feel!
How Dante Forgot Christ
by Michael R. Burch
Dante ****** the brightest and the fairest
for having loved―pale Helen, wild Achilles―
agreed with his Accuser in the spell
of hellish visions and eternal torments.
His only savior, Beatrice, was Love.
His only savior, Beatrice, was Love,
the fulcrum of his body’s, heart’s and mind’s
sole triumph, and their altogether conquest.
She led him to those heights where Love, enshrined,
blazed like a star beyond religion’s hells.
Once freed from Yahweh, in the arms of Love,
like Blake and Milton, Dante forgot Christ.
The Christian gospel is strangely lacking in Milton’s and Dante’s epics. Milton gave the “atonement” one embarrassed enjambed line. Dante ****** the Earth’s star-crossed lovers to his grotesque hell, while doing exactly what they did: pursing at all costs his vision of love, Beatrice. Blake made more sense to me, since he called the biblical god Nobodaddy and denied any need to be “saved” by third parties.
Dante’s Antes
by Michael R. Burch
There’s something glorious about man,
who lives because he can,
who dies because he must,
and in between’s a bust.
No god can reign him in:
he’s quite intent on sin
and likes it rather, really.
He likes *** touchy-feely.
He likes to eat too much.
He has the Midas touch
and paves hell’s ways with gold.
The things he’s bought and sold!
He’s sold his soul to Mammon
and also plays backgammon
and poker, with such antes
as still befuddle Dantes.
I wonder―can hell hold him?
His chances seem quite dim
because he’s rather puny
and also loopy-looney.
And yet like Evel Knievel
he dances with the Devil
and seems so **** courageous,
good-natured and outrageous
some God might show him mercy
and call religion heresy.
Of Seabound Saints and Promised Lands
by Michael R. Burch
Judas sat on a wretched rock,
his head still sore from Satan’s gnawing.
Saint Brendan’s curragh caught his eye,
wildly geeing and hawing.
I’m on parole from Hell today!
Pale Judas cried from his lonely perch.
You’ve fasted forty days, good Saint!
Let this rock by my church,
my baptismal, these icy waves.
O, plead for me now with the One who saves!
Saint Brendan, full of mercy, stood
at the lurching prow of his flimsy bark,
and mightily prayed for the mangy man
whose flesh flashed pale and stark
in the golden dawn, beneath a sun
that seemed to halo his tonsured dome.
Then Saint Brendan sailed for the Promised Land
and Saint Judas headed Home.
O, behoove yourself, if ever your can,
of the fervent prayer of a righteous man!
In Dante’s Inferno, Satan gnaws on Judas Iscariot’s head. A curragh is a boat fashioned from wood and ox hides. Saint Brendan of Ireland is the patron saint of sailors and whales. According to legend, he sailed in search of the Promised Land and discovered America centuries before Columbus.
RE: Paradiso, Canto III
by Michael R. Burch
for the most “Christian” of poets
What did Dante do,
to earn Beatrice’s grace
(grace cannot be earned!)
but cast disgrace
on the whole human race,
on his peers and his betters,
as a man who wears cheap rayon suits
might disparage men who wear sweaters?
How conventionally “Christian” ― Poet! ― to ****
your fellow man
for being merely human,
then, like a contented clam,
to grandly claim
near-infinite “grace,”
as if your salvation was God’s only aim!
What a scam!
And what of the lovely Piccarda,
whom you placed in the lowest sphere of heaven
for neglecting her vows ―
She was forced!
Were you chaste?
Intimations V
by Michael R. Burch
We had not meditated upon sound
so much as drowned
in the inhuman ocean
when we imagined it broken
open
like a conch shell
whorled like the spiraling hell
of Dante’s Inferno.
Trapped between Nature
and God,
what is man
but an inquisitive,
acquisitive
sod?
And what is Nature
but odd,
or God
but a Clod,
and both of them horribly flawed?
Endgame
by Michael R. Burch
The honey has lost all its sweetness,
the hive―its completeness.
Now ambient dust, the drones lie dead.
The workers weep, their King long fled
(who always had been **** invisible,
his “kingdom” atomic, divisible,
and pathetically risible).
The queen has flown,
long Dis-enthroned,
who would have given all she owned
for a promised white stone.
O, Love has fled, has fled, has fled ...
Religion is dead, is dead, is dead.
The Final Revelation of a Departed God’s Divine Plan
by Michael R. Burch
Here I am, talking to myself again . . .
****** off at God and bored with humanity.
These insectile mortals keep testing my sanity!
Still, I remember when . . .
planting odd notions, dark inklings of vanity,
in their peapod heads might elicit an inanity
worth a chuckle or two.
Philosophers, poets . . . how they all made me laugh!
The things they dreamed up! Sly Odysseus’s raft;
Plato’s Republic; Dante’s strange crew;
Shakespeare’s Othello, mad Hamlet, Macbeth;
Cervantes’ Quixote; fat, funny Falstaff!;
Blake’s shimmering visions. Those days, though, are through . . .
for, puling and tedious, their “poets” now seem
content to write, but not to dream,
and they fill the world with their pale derision
of things they completely fail to understand.
Now, since God has long fled, I am here, in command,
reading this crap. Earth is Hell. We’re all ******
Keyword/Tags: Muslims, sonnet, Italian sonnet, crown of sonnets, rhyme, love, affinity and love, Rome, Italy, Florence
Published as the collection "First they came for the Muslims"
Feb 23, 2020
Feb 23, 2020 at 3:20 AM UTC
It hit me like brick
definitely dense and so thick
I thought it might be a trick
the pieces snapped in and then clicked
Who did I think I was?
seeking to aid in the cause
Not understanding my flaws
giving me a hard mental pause
Just a feminine fan
trying to do all I can
Feminists don't want support
leastwise not
from a man
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 1:26 PM UTC
When a girl is born
She is given a box
Labeled
“Fit in here
Do not
overflow”
She carries
This box
Everywhere
She goes.
She grows
And
Grows.
Until her
Box can
Hold no
More.
When a girl
Becomes
A woman.
She realizes
Her box’s
True use.
A woman
Does
Just
As butterflies
Do.
All she needed
Was a
Little
Space to
Bloom
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 6:27 PM UTC
she doesn't do it for you
she doesn't wake up for you
she doesn't paint her lips for you
or add that sparkle to her eye for you
she is the sun
she is the moon
she is the Stars
and she does it all for herself
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 2:29 PM UTC
SHE so that her skirt was devastated
UP TO "love" went to search a new word for self
SHE fled of herself
SHE ran and went of herself
DEATH not found
A word
OR syllabic
OR voice
FOR himself
IN torture of touching she
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 1:55 PM UTC