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Poems about Poets Caveat Spender by Michael R. Burch for Stephen Spender It’s better not to speculate "continually" on who is great. Though relentless awe’s a Célèbre Cause, please reserve some time for the contemplation of the perils of EXAGGERATION. The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...) by Michael R. Burch Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts at “meter,” I crossly concluded I’d use each iamb in lieu of a lamb, bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded. Originally published by Grand Little Things The Better Man by Michael R. Burch 　 Dear Ed: I don’t understand why you will publish this other guy— when I’m brilliant, devoted, one hell of a poet! Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie! Fie! A pox on your head if you favor this poet who’s dubious, unsavor y, inconsistent in texts, no address (I checked!): since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager! 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. Kin by Michael R. Burch O pale, austere moon, haughty beauty ... what do we know of love, or duty? Published by Swathe of Light and The HyperTexts Fahr an' Ice by Michael R. Burch Apologies to Robert Frost and Ogden Nash! From what I know of death, I'll side with those who'd like to have a say in how it goes: just make mine cool, cool rocks (twice drowned in likker), and real fahr off, instead of quicker. 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 Come, investigate loneliness! a solitary leaf clings to the Kiri tree ― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Abide by Michael R. Burch after Philip Larkin’s “Aubade” It is hard to understand or accept mortality— such an alien concept: not to be. Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion, or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea boiling like goopy green soup in a kettle. Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle. And so we abide . . . even in life, staring out across that dark brink. And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink, it is best not to drink (or, drinking, certainly not to think). Originally published by Light Confetti for Ferlinghetti by Michael R. Burch Lawrence Ferlinghetti is the only poet whose name rhymes with “spaghetti” and, while not being quite as rich as J. Paul Getty, he still deserves some confetti for selling a million books while being a modern Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Like Dante Gabriel Rossetti, his rhyming namesake, Lawrence Ferlinghetti was both poet and painter. A Passing Observation about Thinking Outside the Box by Michael R. Burch William Blake had no public, and yet he’s still read. His critics are dead. 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. Dylan Thomas was one of my favorite poets from my early teens and has remained so over the years. I have written three poems ‘for’ him and one poem ‘after’ him … Myth by Michael R. Burch after the sprung rhythm of Dylan Thomas Here the recalcitrant wind sighs with grievance and remorse over fields of wayward gorse and thistle-throttled lanes. And she is the myth of the scythed wheat hewn and sighing, complete, waiting, lain in a low sheaf— full of faith, full of grief. Here the immaculate dawn requires belief of the leafed earth and she is the myth of the mown grain— golden and humble in all its weary worth. “Myth” won a Dylan Thomas poetry contest. The judge was very complimentary of the poem. I believe I wrote the first version of this poem toward the end of my senior year of high school, around age 18. To my recollection this is my only poem influenced by the “sprung rhythm” of Dylan Thomas (moreso than that of Gerard Manley Hopkins). Elemental by Michael R. Burch for and after Dylan Thomas The poet delves earth’s detritus—hard toil— for raw-edged nouns, barbed verbs, vowels’ lush bouquet; each syllable his pen excretes—dense soil, dark images impacted, rooted clay. The poet sees the sea but feels its meaning— the teeming brine, the mirrored oval flame that leashes and excites its turgid surface ... then squanders years imagining love’s the same. Belatedly, he turns to what lies broken— the scarred and furrowed plot he fiercely sifts, among death’s sicksweet dungs and composts seeking one element whose scorching flame uplifts. I have published this poem with the title "Elemental" at times, "Radiance" at others, and I have even thought about "Elemental Radiance" but that seems a bit unwieldy. Sunset, at Laugharne by Michael R. Burch for Dylan Thomas At Laugharne, in his thirty-fifth year, he watched the starkeyed hawk career; he felt the vested heron bless, and larks and finches everywhere sank with the sun, their missives west— where faith is light; his nightjarred breast watched passion dovetail to its rest. * He watched the gulls above green shires flock shrieking, fleeing priested shores with silver fishes stilled on spears. He felt the pressing weight of years in ways he never had before— that gravity no brightness spares from sunken hills to unseen stars. He saw his father’s face in waves which gently lapped Wales’ gulled green bays. He wrote as passion swelled to rage— the dying light, the unturned page, the unburned soul’s devoured sage. * The words he gathered clung together till night—the jetted raven’s feather— fell, fell . . . and all was as before . . . till silence lapped Laugharne’s dark shore diminished, where his footsteps shone in pools of fading light—no more. Keywords/Tags: Dylan Thomas, Laugharne, Wales, ocean, sea, seaside, beach, bays, waves, ocean waves, birds, hawk, herons, gulls, father, poet, poetry, poem, poems, famous poets, elegy Downdraft by Michael R. Burch for Dylan Thomas We feel rather than understand what he meant as he reveals a shattered firmament which before him never existed. Here, there are no images gnarled and twisted out of too many words, but only flocks of white birds wheeling and flying. Here, as Time spins, reeling and dying, the voice of a last gull or perhaps some spirit no longer whole, echoes its lonely madrigal and we feel its strange pull on the astonished soul. O My Prodigal! The vents of the sky, ripped asunder, echo this wild, primal thunder— now dying into undulations of vanishing wings . . . and this voice which in haggard bleak rapture still somehow downward sings. When I wrote this poem listing poets I like to read, the first poet I named was Dylan Thomas ... beMused by Michael R. Burch Perhaps at three you'll come to tea, to have a cuppa here? You'll just stop in to sip dry gin? I only have a beer. To name the “greats”: Pope, Dryden, mates? The whole world knows their names. Discuss the “songs” of Emerson? But these are children's games. Give me rhythms wild as Dylan’s! Give me Bobbie Burns! Give me Psalms, or Hopkins’ poems, Hart Crane’s, if he returns! Or Langston railing! Blake assailing! Few others I desire. Or go away, yes, leave today: your tepid poets tire. The American poet Thomas Rain Crowe lived in the Dylan Thomas boat house at Laugharne and wrote poems there. These are poems I wrote for Thomas that were influenced by Dylan Thomas and his experience. Mongrel Dreams (I) by Michael R. Burch These nights bring dreams of Cherokee shamans whose names are bright verbs and impacted dark nouns, whose memories are indictments of my pallid flesh . . . and I hear, as from a great distance, the cries tortured from their guileless lips, proclaiming the nature of my mutation. Mongrel Dreams (II) by Michael R. Burch for Thomas Rain Crowe I squat in my Cherokee lodge, this crude wooden hutch of dry branches and leaf-thatch as the embers smolder and burn, hearing always the distant tom-toms of your rain dance. I relax in my rustic shack on the heroned shores of Gwynedd, slandering the English in the amulet gleam of the North Atlantic, hearing your troubadour’s songs, remembering Dylan. I stand in my rough woolen kilt in the tall highland heather feeling the freezing winds through the trees leaning sideways, hearing your bagpipes’ lament, dreaming of Burns. I slave in my drab English hovel, tabulating rents while dreaming of Blake and burning your poems like incense. I abide in my pale mongrel flesh, writing in Nashville as the thunderbolts flash and the spring rains spill, till the quill gently bleeds and the white page fills, dreaming of Whitman, calling you brother. At Wilfred Owen’s Grave by Michael R. Burch A week before the Armistice, you died. They did not keep your heart like Livingstone’s, then plant your bones near Shakespeare’s. So you lie between two privates, sacrificed like Christ to politics, your poetry unknown except for that brief flurry’s: thirteen months with Gaukroger beside you in the trench, dismembered, as you babbled, as the stench of gangrene filled your nostrils, till you clenched your broken heart together and the fist began to pulse with life, so close to death. Or was it at Craiglockhart, in the care of “ergotherapists” that you sensed life is only in the work, and made despair a thing that Yeats despised, but also breath, a mouthful’s merest air, inspired less than wrested from you, and which we confess we only vaguely breathe: the troubled air that even Sassoon failed to share, because a man in pieces is not healed by gauze, and breath’s transparent, unless we believe the words are true despite their lack of weight and float to us like chlorine—scalding eyes, and lungs, and hearts. Your words revealed the fate of boys who retched up life here, gagged on lies. Published by The Chariton Review, The Neovictorian/Cochlea, Rogue Scholars, Romantics Quarterly, Mindful of Poetry, Famous Poets and Poems, Poetry Life & Times, and Other Voices International 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.) NOTE: The Unisphere mentioned is a large stainless steel representation of the earth; it was commissioned to celebrate the beginning of the space age for the 1964 New York World's Fair. Long Division by Michael R. Burch for and after Laura Riding Jackson All things become one Through death’s long division And perfect precision. Nod to the Master by Michael R. Burch If every witty thing that’s said were true, Oscar Wilde, the world would worship You! Goddess by Michael R. Burch for Kevin N. Roberts “What will you conceive in me?”— I asked her. But she only smiled. “Naked, I bore your child when the wolf wind howled, when the cold moon scowled . . . naked, and gladly.” “What will become of me?”— I asked her, as she absently stroked my hand. Centuries later, I understand: she whispered—“I Am.” Published by Romantics Quarterly (the first poem in the first issue), Penny Dreadful, Unlikely Stories, Underground Poets, Poetically Speaking, Poetry Life & Times and Little Brown Poetry Safe Harbor by Michael R. Burch for Kevin Nicholas Roberts The sea at night seems an alembic of dreams— the moans of the gulls, the foghorns’ bawlings. A century late to be melancholy, I watch the last shrimp boat as it steams to safe harbor again. In the twilight she gleams with a festive light, done with her trawlings, ready to sleep . . . Deep, deep, in delight glide the creatures of night, elusive and bright as the poet’s dreams. Published by The Lyric, Grassroots Poetry, Romantics Quarterly, Angle, Poetry Porch, Poetry Life & Times The Harvest of Roses by Michael R. Burch for Harvey Stanbrough I have not come for the harvest of roses— the poets' mad visions, their railing at rhyme ... for I have discerned what their writing discloses: weak words wanting meaning, beat torsioning time. Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer— images weak, too forced not to fail; gathered by poets who worship their luster, they shimmer, impendent, resplendently pale. Originally published by The Raintown Review 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 as 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 raging 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 heights of awareness from which we were seized. Published by Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times and The Chained Muse Kin by Michael R. Burch for Richard Moore 1. Shrill gull, how like my thoughts you, struggling, rise to distant bliss— the weightless blue of skies that are not blue in any atmosphere, but closest here ... 2. You seek an air so clear, so rarified the effort leaves you famished; earthly tides soon call you back— one long, descending glide ... 3. Disgruntledly you ***** dirt shores for orts you pull like mucous ropes from shells’ bright forts ... You eye the teeming world with nervous darts— this way and that ... Contentious, shrewd, you scan— the sky, in hope, the earth, distrusting man. Published by Triplopia. Able Muse and The HyperTexts escape! by michael r. burch for anaïs vionet to live among the daffodil folk . . . slip down the rainslickened drainpipe . . . suddenly pop out                              the GARGANTUAN SPOUT . . . minuscule as alice, shout yippee-yi-yee!                        in wee exultant glee to be leaving behind the                                        LARGE THREE-DENALI GARAGE. Published by Andwerve, Bewildering Stories and The HyperTexts The Heimlich Limerick by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill The sanest of poets once wrote: "Friend, why be a sheep or a goat? Why follow the leader or be a blind ******* But almost no one took note. The Pain of Love by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill The pain of love is this: the parting after the kiss; the train steaming from the station whistling abnegation; each interstate’s bleak white bar / every highways’ broken white bar that vanishes under your car; every hour and flower and friend / each (with the second option above) that cannot be saved in the end; dear things of immeasurable cost ... now all irretrievably lost. Note: The title “The Pain of Love” was suggested by an interview with Little Richard, then eighty years old, in Rolling Stone. He said that someone should create a song called “The Pain of Love.” Lean Harvests (II) by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill the trees are shedding their leaves again: another summer is over. the Christians are praising their Maker again, but not the disconsolate plover:      i hear him berate      the fate      of his mate; he claims God is no body’s lover. Published by The Rotary Dial and Angle The Wonder Boys by Michael R. Burch for Leslie Mellichamp, the late editor of The Lyric, who was a friend and mentor to many poets, and a fine poet in his own right The stars were always there, too-bright cliches: scintillant truths the jaded world outgrew as baffled poets winged keyed kites—amazed, in dream of shocks that suddenly came true ... but came almost as static—background noise, a song out of the cosmos no one hears, or cares to hear. The poets, starstruck boys, lay tuned into their kite strings, saucer-eared. They thought to feel the lightning’s brilliant sparks electrify their nerves, their brains; the smoke of words poured from their overheated hearts. The kite string, knotted, made a nifty rope ... You will not find them here; they blew away— in tumbling flight beyond nights’ stars. They clung by fingertips to satellites. They strayed too far to remain mortal. Elfin, young, their words are with us still. Devout and fey, they wink at us whenever skies are gray. Originally published by The Lyric The Princess and the Pauper by Michael R. Burch for Norman Kraeft in memory of his beloved wife June Here was a woman bright, intent on life, who did not flinch from Death, but caught his eye and drew him, powerless, into her spell of wanting her himself, so much the lie that she was meant for him—obscene illusion!— made him seem a monarch throned like God on high, when he was less than nothing; when to die meant many stultifying, pained embraces. She shed her gown, undid the tangled laces that tied her to the earth: then she was his. Now all her erstwhile beauty he defaces and yet she grows in hallowed loveliness— her ghost beyond perfection—for to die was to ascend. Now he begs, penniless. Published by Katrina Anthology, The Lyric and Trinacria Come Down by Michael R. Burch for Harold Bloom and the Ivory Towerists Come down, O, come down from your high mountain tower. How coldly the wind blows, how late this chill hour ... and I cannot wait for a meteor shower to show you the time must be now, or not ever. Come down, O, come down from the high mountain heather now brittle and brown as fierce northern gales sever.           Come down, or your hearts will grow cold as the weather when winter devours and spring returns never. At Cædmon’s Grave “Cædmon’s Hymn,” composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. I wrote this poem after visiting Caedmon's grave at Whitby. At the monastery of Whitby, on a day when the sun sank through the sea, and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free, while the wind and time blew all around, I paced those dusk-enamored grounds and thought I heard the steps resound of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede who walked there, too, their spirits freed —perhaps by God, perhaps by need— to write, and with each line, remember the glorious light of Cædmon’s ember, scorched tongues of flame words still engender. Here, as darkness falls, at last we meet. I lay this pale garland of words at his feet. Published by The Lyric, Volume 80, Number 4 Orpheus by Michael R. Burch after William Blake I. Many a sun and many a moon I walked the earth and whistled a tune. I did not whistle as I worked: the whistle was my work. I shirked nothing I saw and made a rhyme to children at play and hard time. II. Among the prisoners I saw the leaden manacles of Law, the heavy ball and chain, the quirt. And yet I whistled at my work. III. Among the children’s daisy faces and in the women’s frowsy laces, I saw redemption, and I smiled. Satanic millers, unbeguiled, were swayed by neither girl, nor child, nor any God of Love. Yet mild I whistled at my work, and Song broke out, ere long. Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor by Michael R. Burch After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs, Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs: “Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!” (His name, let’s assume, was, er ... Percival Queemly.) “Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes. “Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise, for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name ... Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!” “Continue to live here—carouse as you please!” the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees. Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose: “I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose ... but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.” (Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.) Originally published by Lucid Rhythms Why the Kid Gloves Came Off by Michael R. Burch for Lemuel Ibbotson It's hard to be a man of taste in such a waste: hence the lambaste. Nightfall by Michael R. Burch for Kevin Nicholas Roberts Only the long dolor of dusk delights me now,      as I await death. The rain has ruined the unborn corn,          and the wasting breath of autumn has cruelly, savagely shorn                each ear of its radiant health. As the golden sun dims, so the dying land seems to relinquish its vanishing wealth. Only a few erratic, trembling stalks still continue to stand,      half upright, and even these the winds have continually robbed of their once-plentiful,           golden birthright. I think of you and I sigh, forlorn, on edge                with the rapidly encroaching night. Ten thousand stillborn lilies lie limp, mixed with roses, unable to ignite. Whatever became of the magical kernel, golden within      at the winter solstice? What of its promised kingdom, Amen!, meant to rise again           from this balmless poultice, this strange bottomland where one Scarecrow commands                dark legions of ravens and mice? And what of the Giant whose bellows demand our negligible lives, his black vice? I find one bright grain here aglitter with rain, full of promise and purpose      and drive. Through lightning and hail and nightfalls and pale, cold sunless moons          it will strive to rise up from its “place” on a network of lace, to the glory              of being alive. Why does it bother, I wonder, my brother? O, am I unwise to believe?                                     But Jack had his beanstalk                               and you had your poems                          and the sun seems intent to ascend                and so I also must climb           to the end of my time,      however the story may unwind and end. This poem was written around a month after Kevin’s death. I Learned Too Late by Michael R. Burch “Show, don’t tell!” I learned too late that poetry has rules, although they may be rules for greater fools. In any case, by dodging rules and schools, I avoided useless duels. I learned too late that sentiment is bad— that Blake and Keats and Plath had all been had. In any case, by following my heart, I learned to walk apart. I learned too late that “telling” is a crime. Did Shakespeare know? Is Milton doing time? In any case, by telling, I admit: I think such rules are s**t. The Difference by Michael R. Burch The chimneysweeps will weep for Blake, who wrote his poems for their dear sake. The critics clap, polite, for you. Another poem for poets, Whooo! Ah! Sunflower by Michael R. Burch for and after William Blake O little yellow flower like a star ... how beautiful, how wonderful we are! blake take by michael r. burch we became ashamed of our bodies; we became ashamed of sweet *** we became ashamed of the LORD with each terrible CURSE and HEX; we became ashamed of the planet (it’s such a slovenly hovel); and we came to see, in the end, that we really agreed with the devil. dark matter(s) by Michael R. Burch for and after William Blake the matter is dark, despairful, alarming: ur Creator is hardly prince charming! yes, ur “Great I Am” created blake’s lamb but He also created the tyger ... and what about trump and rod steiger? Rod Steiger is best known for his portrayals of weirdos, oddballs, mobsters, bandits, serial killers, and fascists like Mussolini and Napoleon. The Echoless Green by Michael R. Burch for and after William Blake At dawn, laughter rang on the echoing green as children at play greeted the day. At noon, smiles were seen on the echoing green as, children no more, many fine oaths they swore. By twilight, their cries had subsided to sighs. Now night reigns supreme on the echoless green. evol-u-shun by michael r. burch for and after william blake does GOD adore the Tyger while it’s ripping ur lamb apart? does GOD applaud the Plague while it’s eating u à la carte? does GOD admire ur brains while ur claimng IT has a heart? does GOD endorse the Bible you blue-lighted at k-mart? I Learned Too Late by Michael R. Burch “Show, don’t tell!” I learned too late that poetry has rules, although they may be rules for greater fools. In any case, by dodging rules and schools, I avoided useless duels. I learned too late that sentiment is bad— that Blake and Keats and Plath had all been had. In any case, by following my heart, I learned to walk apart. I learned too late that “telling” is a crime. Did Shakespeare know? Is Milton doing time? In any case, by telling, I admit: I think such rules are **** tyger, lamb, free love, etc. by michael r. burch for and after william blake the tiger’s a ferocious slayer.      he has no say in it. hence, ur Creator’s a **** the lamb led to the slaughter      extends her neck to the block and bit. she has no say in it. so don’t be a nitwit:      drink, carouse and revel! why obey the Devil? Discrimination by Michael R. Burch for lovers of traditional poetry The meter I had sought to find, perplexed, was ripped from books of “verse” that read like prose. I found it in sheet music, in long rows of hologramic CDs, in sad wrecks of long-forgotten volumes undisturbed half-centuries by archivists, unscanned. I read their fading numbers, frowned, perturbed— why should such tattered artistry be banned? I heard the sleigh bells’ jingles, vampish ads, the supermodels’ babble, Seuss’s books extolled in major movies, blurbs for abs ... A few poor thinnish journals crammed in nooks are all I’ve found this late to sell to those who’d classify free verse “expensive prose.” Published by The Chariton Review, The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Famous Poets and Poems, FreeXpression (Australia), Famous Poets and Poems, Inspirational Stories, Poetry Life & Times and Trinacria (where it was nominated for the Pushcart Prize) The Composition of Shadows by Michael R. Burch “I made it out of a mouthful of air.”—W. B. Yeats We breathe and so we write; the night hums softly its accompaniment. Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn leads onward, and we smile, content. And what we mean we write to learn: the vowels of love, the consonants’ strange golden weight, each plosive’s shape— curved like the heart. Here, resonant, ... sounds’ shadows mass beneath bright glass like singing voles curled in a maze of blank white space. We touch a face— long-frozen words trapped in a glaze that insulates our hearts. Nowhere can love be found. Just shrieking air. Published by The Lyric, Contemporary Rhyme, Candelabrum, Iambs & Trochees, Triplopia, Romantics Quarterly, Hidden Treasures (Selected Poem), ImageNation (UK), Yellow Bat Review, Poetry Life & Times, Vallance Review, Poetica Victorian The Composition of Shadows (II) by Michael R. Burch We breathe and so we write; the night hums softly its accompaniment. Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn leads onward, and we smile, content. And what we mean we write to learn: the vowels of love, the consonants’ strange golden weight, the blood’s debate within the heart. Here, resonant, sounds’ shadows mass against bright glass, within the white Labyrinthian maze. Through simple grace, I touch your face, (ah words!) And I would gaze the night’s dark length in waning strength to find the words to feel such light again. O, for a pen to spell love so ethereal. Keywords/Tags: composition, write, writing, poetry, poem, night, pen, pencil, computer, monitor, love, alienation, lonely, loneliness Me? by Michael R. Burch Me? Whee! (I stole this poem From Muhammad Ali.) 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. Bother 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. To Please The Poet by Michael R. Burch for poets who still write musical verse To please the poet, words must dance— staccato, brisk, a two-step: so! Or waltz in elegance to time of music—mild, adagio. To please the poet, words must chance emotion in catharsis— flame. Or splash into salt seas, descend in sheets of silver-shining rain. To please the poet, words must prance and gallop, gambol, revel, rail. Or muse upon a moment—mute, obscure, unsure, imperfect, pale. To please the poet, words must sing, or croak, wart-tongued, imagining. Originally published by The Lyric The danger is not aiming too high and missing, but aiming too low and hitting the mark.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch Trifles create perfection, yet perfection is no trifle.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch Genius is infinitely patient, and infinitely painstaking.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch If you knew how hard I worked, you wouldn't call it "genius."—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch He who follows will never surpass.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch Beauty is what lies beneath superfluities.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch I criticize via creation, not by fault-finding.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch a peom in supsport of a dsylexci peot by michael r. burch, allso a peot for ken d williams pay no hede to the saynayers, the asburd wordslayers, the splayers and sprayers, the heartless diecriers, the liers! what the hell due ur criticks no? let them bellow below! ur every peom has a good haert and culd allso seerv as an ichart! There are a number of puns, including ur (my term for original/ancient/first), no/know, pay/due, the critic as both absurd and an as(s)-burd who is he(artless), and the poet as the (seer)v of an (i)-chart for all. Here is an encoded version: (pay) k(no)w hede to the say(nay)ers, the as(s)bird word(s*)layers, the s(players) and s(prayers), the he(artless) (die)(cry)ers, the (lie)rs! what the hell (due) ur (cry)(ticks) k(no)w? let them (be)l(low) below! (ur) every peom has a good haert and culd (all)so (seer)ve as an (i)chart! we did not Dye in vain! by Michael R. Burch from “songs of the sea snails” though i’m just a slimy crawler, my lineage is proud: my forebears gave their lives (oh, let the trumps blare loud!) so purple-mantled Royals might stand out in a crowd. i salute you, fellow loyals, who labor without scruple as your incomes fall while deficits quadruple to swaddle unjust Lords in bright imperial purple! Notes: In ancient times the purple dye produced from the secretions of purpura mollusks (sea snails) was known as “Tyrian purple,” “royal purple” and “imperial purple.” It was greatly prized in antiquity, and was very expensive according to the historian Theopompus: “Purple for dyes fetched its weight in silver at Colophon.” Thus, purple-dyed fabrics became status symbols, and laws often prevented commoners from possessing them. The production of Tyrian purple was tightly controlled in Byzantium, where the imperial court restricted its use to the coloring of imperial silks. A child born to the reigning emperor was literally porphyrogenitos ("born to the purple") because the imperial birthing apartment was walled in porphyry, a purple-hued rock, and draped with purple silks. Royal babies were swaddled in purple; we know this because the iconodules, who disagreed with the emperor Constantine about the veneration of images, accused him of defecating on his imperial purple swaddling clothes! PROFESSOR POETS These are poems about professor poets and other “intellectuals” who miss the main point of poetry, which is to connect with readers via pleasing sounds and the communication of emotion as well as meaning. Professor Poets by Michael R. Burch Professor poets remind me of drones chasing the Classical queen's aging bones. With bottle-thick glasses they still see to write — droning on, endlessly buzzing all night. And still in our classrooms their tomes are decreed ... Perhaps they're too busy with buzzing to breed? In my next poem the “businessmen” are the poetry professors and professional poetry publishers who speak dismissively of the things that made poetry popular with the masses: rhythm, rhyme, clarity, accessible storytelling, etc. The Board by Michael R. Burch Accessible rhyme is never good. The penalty is understood— soft titters from dark board rooms where the businessmen paste on their hair and, Colonel Klinks, defend the Muse with reprimands of Dr. Seuss. The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...) by Michael R. Burch Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts at “meter,” I crossly concluded I’d use each iamb in lieu of a lamb, bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded. Alien by Michael R. Burch for J. S. S., a poetry professor On a lonely outpost on Mars the astronaut practices “speech” as alien to primates below as mute stars winking high, out of reach. And his words fall as bright and as chill as ice crystals on Kilimanjaro — far colder than Jesus’s words over the “fortunate” sparrow. And I understand how gentle Emily felt, when all comfort had flown, gazing into those inhuman eyes, feeling zero at the bone. Oh, how can I grok his arctic thought? For if he is human, I am not. The opposite approach to the poetry professors, the poetry journalists and the uber-intellectuals is that of musicians to their instruments and the music they produce… Duet, Minor Key by Michael R. Burch Without the drama of cymbals or the fanfare and snares of drums, I present my case stripped of its fine veneer: Behold, thy instrument. Play, for the night is long. 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.) 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.” The Plums Were Sweet by Michael R. Burch after WCW The plums were sweet, icy and delicious. To eat them all was perhaps malicious. But I vastly prefer your kisses! Caveat by Michael R. Burch If only we were not so eloquent, we might sing, and only sing, not to impress, but only to enjoy, to be enjoyed. We might inundate the earth with thankfulness for light, although it dies, and make a song of night descending on the earth like bliss, with other lights beyond—not to be known— but only to be welcomed and enjoyed, before all worlds and stars are overthrown ... as a lover’s hands embrace a sleeping face and find it beautiful for emptiness of all but joy. There is no thought to love but love itself. How senseless to redress, in darkness, such becoming nakedness . . . Come Down by Michael R. Burch for Harold Bloom and the Ivory Towerists Come down, O, come down from your high mountain tower. How coldly the wind blows, how late this chill hour ... and I cannot wait for a meteor shower to show you the time must be now, or not ever. Come down, O, come down from the high mountain heather blown, brittle and brown, as fierce northern gales sever. Come down, or your heart will grow cold as the weather when winter devours and spring returns never. Rant: The Elite by Michael R. Burch When I heard Harold Bloom unsurprisingly say: "Poetry is necessarily difficult. It is our elitist art ..." I felt a small suspicious thrill. After all, sweetheart, isn’t this who we are? Aren’t we obviously better, and certainly fairer and taller, than they are? Though once I found Ezra Pound perhaps a smidgen too profound, perhaps a bit over-fond of Benito and the advantages of fascism to be taken ad finem, like high tea with a pure white spot of intellectualism and an artificial sweetener, calorie-free. I know! I know! Politics has nothing to do with art And it tempts us so to be elite, to stand apart ... but somehow the word just doesn’t ring true, echoing effetely away—the distance from me to you. Of course, politics has nothing to do with art, but sometimes art has everything to do with becoming elite, with climbing the cultural ladder, with being able to meet someone more Exalted than you, who can demonstrate how to **** so that everyone below claims one’s odor is sweet. "You had to be there! We were falling apart with gratitude! We saw him! We wept at his feet!" Though someone will always be far, far above you, clouding your air, gazing down at you with a look of wondering despair. Sweenies (or Swine-ies) Among the Nightingales by Michael R. Burch for the Corseted Ones and the Erratics Open yourself to words, and if they come, be glad the stone-tongued apes are stricken dumb by anything like music; they believe in petrified dry meaning. Love conceives wild harmonies, while lumberjacks fell trees. Sweet, unifying music, a cappella ... but apeneck Sweeny’s not the brightest fella. He has no interest in celestial brightness; he’d distill Love to chivalry, politeness, yet longs to be acclaimed, like those before him who (should the truth be told) confuse and bore him. For Sweeney is himself a piggish boor — the kind pale pearl-less swine claim to adore. Untitled Haiku Fireflies thinking to illuminate the darkness? Poets! —Michael R. Burch BeMused by Michael R. Burch You will find in her hair a fragrance more severe than camphor. You will find in her dress no hint of a sweet distractedness. You will find in her eyes horn-owlish and wise no metaphors of love, but only reflections of books, books, books. If you like Her looks, meet me in the long rows, between Poetry and Prose, where we’ll win Her favor with jousts, and savor the wine of Her hair, the shimmery wantonness of Her rich-satined dress; where we’ll press our good deeds upon Her, save Her from every distress, for the lovingkindness of Her matchless eyes and all the suns of Her tongues. We were young, once, unlearned and unwise . . . but, O, to be young when love comes disguised with the whisper of silks and idolatry, and even the childish tongue claims the intimacy of Poetry. Impotent by Michael R. Burch Tonight my pen is barren of passion, spent of poetry. I hear your name upon the rain and yet it cannot comfort me. I feel the pain of dreams that wane, of poems that falter, losing force. I write again words without end, but I cannot control their course . . . Tonight my pen is sullen and wants no more of poetry. I hear your voice as if a choice, but how can I respond, or flee? I feel a flame I cannot name that sends me searching for a word, but there is none not over-done, unless it's one I never heard. I believe this poem was written in my late teens or early twenties. The Monarch’s Rose or The Hedgerow Rose by Michael R. Burch I lead you here to pluck this florid rose still tethered to its post, a dreary mass propped up to stiff attention, winsome-thorned (what hand was ever daunted less to touch such flame, in blatant disregard of all but atavistic beauty)? Does this rose not symbolize our love? But as I place its emblem to your breast, how can this poem, long centuries deflowered, not debase all art, if merely genuine, but not “original”? Love, how can reused words though frailer than all petals, bent by air to lovelier contortions, still persist, defying even gravity? For here beat Monarch’s wings: they rise on emptiness! Over(t) Simplification by Michael R. Burch “Keep it simple, stupid.” A sonnet is not simple, but the rule is simply this: let poems be beautiful, or comforting, or horrifying. Move the reader, and the world will not reprove the idiosyncrasies of too few lines, too many syllables, or offbeat beats. It only matters that she taps her feet or that he frowns, or smiles, or grimaces, or sits bemused—a child—as images of worlds he’d lost come flooding back, and then... they’ll cheer the poet’s insubordinate pen. A sonnet is not simple, but the rule is simply this: let poems be beautiful. Writing Verse for Free, Versus Programs for a Fee by Michael R. Burch How is writing a program like writing a poem? You start with an idea, something fresh. Almost a wish. Something effervescent, like foam flailing itself against the rocks of a lost tropical coast . . After the idea, of course, there are complications and trepidations, as with the poem or even the foam. Who will see it, appreciate it, understand it? What will it do? Is it worth the effort, all the mad dashing and crashing about, the vortex—all that? And to what effect? Next comes the real labor, the travail, the scouring hail of things that simply don’t fit or make sense. Of course, with programming you have the density of users to fix, which is never a problem with poetry, since the users have already had their fix (this we know because they are still reading and think everything makes sense); but this is the only difference. Anyway, what’s left is the debugging, or, if you’re a poet, the hugging yourself and crying, hoping someone will hear you, so that you can shame them into reading your poem, which they will refuse, but which your mother will do if you phone, perhaps with only the tiniest little mother-of-the-poet, harried, self-righteous moan. The biggest difference between writing a program and writing a poem is simply this: if your program works, or seems to work, or almost works, or doesn’t work at all, you’re set and hugely overpaid. Made-in-the-shade-have-a-pink-lemonade-and-ticker-tape-parade OVERPAID. If your poem is about your lover and ***** up quite nicely, perhaps you’ll get laid. Perhaps. Regardless, you’ll probably see someone repossessing your furniture and TV to bring them posthaste to someone like me. The moral is this: write programs first, then whatever passes for poetry. DO YOUR SHARE; HELP END POVERTY TODAY!
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Jun 15, 2021
Jun 15, 2021 at 5:13 AM UTC
michael-r-burch
Poems about Poets
Poems about Poets Caveat Spender by Michael R. Burch for Stephen Spender It’s better not to speculate "continually" on who is great. Though relentless awe’s a Célèbre Cause, please reserve some time for the contemplation of the perils of EXAGGERATION. The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...) by Michael R. Burch Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts at “meter,” I crossly concluded I’d use each iamb in lieu of a lamb, bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded. Originally published by Grand Little Things The Better Man by Michael R. Burch 　 Dear Ed: I don’t understand why you will publish this other guy— when I’m brilliant, devoted, one hell of a poet! Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie! Fie! A pox on your head if you favor this poet who’s dubious, unsavor y, inconsistent in texts, no address (I checked!): since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager! 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. Kin by Michael R. Burch O pale, austere moon, haughty beauty ... what do we know of love, or duty? Published by Swathe of Light and The HyperTexts Fahr an' Ice by Michael R. Burch Apologies to Robert Frost and Ogden Nash! From what I know of death, I'll side with those who'd like to have a say in how it goes: just make mine cool, cool rocks (twice drowned in likker), and real fahr off, instead of quicker. 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 Come, investigate loneliness! a solitary leaf clings to the Kiri tree ― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Abide by Michael R. Burch after Philip Larkin’s “Aubade” It is hard to understand or accept mortality— such an alien concept: not to be. Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion, or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea boiling like goopy green soup in a kettle. Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle. And so we abide . . . even in life, staring out across that dark brink. And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink, it is best not to drink (or, drinking, certainly not to think). Originally published by Light Confetti for Ferlinghetti by Michael R. Burch Lawrence Ferlinghetti is the only poet whose name rhymes with “spaghetti” and, while not being quite as rich as J. Paul Getty, he still deserves some confetti for selling a million books while being a modern Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Like Dante Gabriel Rossetti, his rhyming namesake, Lawrence Ferlinghetti was both poet and painter. A Passing Observation about Thinking Outside the Box by Michael R. Burch William Blake had no public, and yet he’s still read. His critics are dead. 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. Dylan Thomas was one of my favorite poets from my early teens and has remained so over the years. I have written three poems ‘for’ him and one poem ‘after’ him … Myth by Michael R. Burch after the sprung rhythm of Dylan Thomas Here the recalcitrant wind sighs with grievance and remorse over fields of wayward gorse and thistle-throttled lanes. And she is the myth of the scythed wheat hewn and sighing, complete, waiting, lain in a low sheaf— full of faith, full of grief. Here the immaculate dawn requires belief of the leafed earth and she is the myth of the mown grain— golden and humble in all its weary worth. “Myth” won a Dylan Thomas poetry contest. The judge was very complimentary of the poem. I believe I wrote the first version of this poem toward the end of my senior year of high school, around age 18. To my recollection this is my only poem influenced by the “sprung rhythm” of Dylan Thomas (moreso than that of Gerard Manley Hopkins). Elemental by Michael R. Burch for and after Dylan Thomas The poet delves earth’s detritus—hard toil— for raw-edged nouns, barbed verbs, vowels’ lush bouquet; each syllable his pen excretes—dense soil, dark images impacted, rooted clay. The poet sees the sea but feels its meaning— the teeming brine, the mirrored oval flame that leashes and excites its turgid surface ... then squanders years imagining love’s the same. Belatedly, he turns to what lies broken— the scarred and furrowed plot he fiercely sifts, among death’s sicksweet dungs and composts seeking one element whose scorching flame uplifts. I have published this poem with the title "Elemental" at times, "Radiance" at others, and I have even thought about "Elemental Radiance" but that seems a bit unwieldy. Sunset, at Laugharne by Michael R. Burch for Dylan Thomas At Laugharne, in his thirty-fifth year, he watched the starkeyed hawk career; he felt the vested heron bless, and larks and finches everywhere sank with the sun, their missives west— where faith is light; his nightjarred breast watched passion dovetail to its rest. * He watched the gulls above green shires flock shrieking, fleeing priested shores with silver fishes stilled on spears. He felt the pressing weight of years in ways he never had before— that gravity no brightness spares from sunken hills to unseen stars. He saw his father’s face in waves which gently lapped Wales’ gulled green bays. He wrote as passion swelled to rage— the dying light, the unturned page, the unburned soul’s devoured sage. * The words he gathered clung together till night—the jetted raven’s feather— fell, fell . . . and all was as before . . . till silence lapped Laugharne’s dark shore diminished, where his footsteps shone in pools of fading light—no more. Keywords/Tags: Dylan Thomas, Laugharne, Wales, ocean, sea, seaside, beach, bays, waves, ocean waves, birds, hawk, herons, gulls, father, poet, poetry, poem, poems, famous poets, elegy Downdraft by Michael R. Burch for Dylan Thomas We feel rather than understand what he meant as he reveals a shattered firmament which before him never existed. Here, there are no images gnarled and twisted out of too many words, but only flocks of white birds wheeling and flying. Here, as Time spins, reeling and dying, the voice of a last gull or perhaps some spirit no longer whole, echoes its lonely madrigal and we feel its strange pull on the astonished soul. O My Prodigal! The vents of the sky, ripped asunder, echo this wild, primal thunder— now dying into undulations of vanishing wings . . . and this voice which in haggard bleak rapture still somehow downward sings. When I wrote this poem listing poets I like to read, the first poet I named was Dylan Thomas ... beMused by Michael R. Burch Perhaps at three you'll come to tea, to have a cuppa here? You'll just stop in to sip dry gin? I only have a beer. To name the “greats”: Pope, Dryden, mates? The whole world knows their names. Discuss the “songs” of Emerson? But these are children's games. Give me rhythms wild as Dylan’s! Give me Bobbie Burns! Give me Psalms, or Hopkins’ poems, Hart Crane’s, if he returns! Or Langston railing! Blake assailing! Few others I desire. Or go away, yes, leave today: your tepid poets tire. The American poet Thomas Rain Crowe lived in the Dylan Thomas boat house at Laugharne and wrote poems there. These are poems I wrote for Thomas that were influenced by Dylan Thomas and his experience. Mongrel Dreams (I) by Michael R. Burch These nights bring dreams of Cherokee shamans whose names are bright verbs and impacted dark nouns, whose memories are indictments of my pallid flesh . . . and I hear, as from a great distance, the cries tortured from their guileless lips, proclaiming the nature of my mutation. Mongrel Dreams (II) by Michael R. Burch for Thomas Rain Crowe I squat in my Cherokee lodge, this crude wooden hutch of dry branches and leaf-thatch as the embers smolder and burn, hearing always the distant tom-toms of your rain dance. I relax in my rustic shack on the heroned shores of Gwynedd, slandering the English in the amulet gleam of the North Atlantic, hearing your troubadour’s songs, remembering Dylan. I stand in my rough woolen kilt in the tall highland heather feeling the freezing winds through the trees leaning sideways, hearing your bagpipes’ lament, dreaming of Burns. I slave in my drab English hovel, tabulating rents while dreaming of Blake and burning your poems like incense. I abide in my pale mongrel flesh, writing in Nashville as the thunderbolts flash and the spring rains spill, till the quill gently bleeds and the white page fills, dreaming of Whitman, calling you brother. At Wilfred Owen’s Grave by Michael R. Burch A week before the Armistice, you died. They did not keep your heart like Livingstone’s, then plant your bones near Shakespeare’s. So you lie between two privates, sacrificed like Christ to politics, your poetry unknown except for that brief flurry’s: thirteen months with Gaukroger beside you in the trench, dismembered, as you babbled, as the stench of gangrene filled your nostrils, till you clenched your broken heart together and the fist began to pulse with life, so close to death. Or was it at Craiglockhart, in the care of “ergotherapists” that you sensed life is only in the work, and made despair a thing that Yeats despised, but also breath, a mouthful’s merest air, inspired less than wrested from you, and which we confess we only vaguely breathe: the troubled air that even Sassoon failed to share, because a man in pieces is not healed by gauze, and breath’s transparent, unless we believe the words are true despite their lack of weight and float to us like chlorine—scalding eyes, and lungs, and hearts. Your words revealed the fate of boys who retched up life here, gagged on lies. Published by The Chariton Review, The Neovictorian/Cochlea, Rogue Scholars, Romantics Quarterly, Mindful of Poetry, Famous Poets and Poems, Poetry Life & Times, and Other Voices International 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.) NOTE: The Unisphere mentioned is a large stainless steel representation of the earth; it was commissioned to celebrate the beginning of the space age for the 1964 New York World's Fair. Long Division by Michael R. Burch for and after Laura Riding Jackson All things become one Through death’s long division And perfect precision. Nod to the Master by Michael R. Burch If every witty thing that’s said were true, Oscar Wilde, the world would worship You! Goddess by Michael R. Burch for Kevin N. Roberts “What will you conceive in me?”— I asked her. But she only smiled. “Naked, I bore your child when the wolf wind howled, when the cold moon scowled . . . naked, and gladly.” “What will become of me?”— I asked her, as she absently stroked my hand. Centuries later, I understand: she whispered—“I Am.” Published by Romantics Quarterly (the first poem in the first issue), Penny Dreadful, Unlikely Stories, Underground Poets, Poetically Speaking, Poetry Life & Times and Little Brown Poetry Safe Harbor by Michael R. Burch for Kevin Nicholas Roberts The sea at night seems an alembic of dreams— the moans of the gulls, the foghorns’ bawlings. A century late to be melancholy, I watch the last shrimp boat as it steams to safe harbor again. In the twilight she gleams with a festive light, done with her trawlings, ready to sleep . . . Deep, deep, in delight glide the creatures of night, elusive and bright as the poet’s dreams. Published by The Lyric, Grassroots Poetry, Romantics Quarterly, Angle, Poetry Porch, Poetry Life & Times The Harvest of Roses by Michael R. Burch for Harvey Stanbrough I have not come for the harvest of roses— the poets' mad visions, their railing at rhyme ... for I have discerned what their writing discloses: weak words wanting meaning, beat torsioning time. Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer— images weak, too forced not to fail; gathered by poets who worship their luster, they shimmer, impendent, resplendently pale. Originally published by The Raintown Review 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 as 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 raging 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 heights of awareness from which we were seized. Published by Songs of Innocence, Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times and The Chained Muse Kin by Michael R. Burch for Richard Moore 1. Shrill gull, how like my thoughts you, struggling, rise to distant bliss— the weightless blue of skies that are not blue in any atmosphere, but closest here ... 2. You seek an air so clear, so rarified the effort leaves you famished; earthly tides soon call you back— one long, descending glide ... 3. Disgruntledly you ***** dirt shores for orts you pull like mucous ropes from shells’ bright forts ... You eye the teeming world with nervous darts— this way and that ... Contentious, shrewd, you scan— the sky, in hope, the earth, distrusting man. Published by Triplopia. Able Muse and The HyperTexts escape! by michael r. burch for anaïs vionet to live among the daffodil folk . . . slip down the rainslickened drainpipe . . . suddenly pop out                              the GARGANTUAN SPOUT . . . minuscule as alice, shout yippee-yi-yee!                        in wee exultant glee to be leaving behind the                                        LARGE THREE-DENALI GARAGE. Published by Andwerve, Bewildering Stories and The HyperTexts The Heimlich Limerick by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill The sanest of poets once wrote: "Friend, why be a sheep or a goat? Why follow the leader or be a blind ******* But almost no one took note. The Pain of Love by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill The pain of love is this: the parting after the kiss; the train steaming from the station whistling abnegation; each interstate’s bleak white bar / every highways’ broken white bar that vanishes under your car; every hour and flower and friend / each (with the second option above) that cannot be saved in the end; dear things of immeasurable cost ... now all irretrievably lost. Note: The title “The Pain of Love” was suggested by an interview with Little Richard, then eighty years old, in Rolling Stone. He said that someone should create a song called “The Pain of Love.” Lean Harvests (II) by Michael R. Burch for Tom Merrill the trees are shedding their leaves again: another summer is over. the Christians are praising their Maker again, but not the disconsolate plover:      i hear him berate      the fate      of his mate; he claims God is no body’s lover. Published by The Rotary Dial and Angle The Wonder Boys by Michael R. Burch for Leslie Mellichamp, the late editor of The Lyric, who was a friend and mentor to many poets, and a fine poet in his own right The stars were always there, too-bright cliches: scintillant truths the jaded world outgrew as baffled poets winged keyed kites—amazed, in dream of shocks that suddenly came true ... but came almost as static—background noise, a song out of the cosmos no one hears, or cares to hear. The poets, starstruck boys, lay tuned into their kite strings, saucer-eared. They thought to feel the lightning’s brilliant sparks electrify their nerves, their brains; the smoke of words poured from their overheated hearts. The kite string, knotted, made a nifty rope ... You will not find them here; they blew away— in tumbling flight beyond nights’ stars. They clung by fingertips to satellites. They strayed too far to remain mortal. Elfin, young, their words are with us still. Devout and fey, they wink at us whenever skies are gray. Originally published by The Lyric The Princess and the Pauper by Michael R. Burch for Norman Kraeft in memory of his beloved wife June Here was a woman bright, intent on life, who did not flinch from Death, but caught his eye and drew him, powerless, into her spell of wanting her himself, so much the lie that she was meant for him—obscene illusion!— made him seem a monarch throned like God on high, when he was less than nothing; when to die meant many stultifying, pained embraces. She shed her gown, undid the tangled laces that tied her to the earth: then she was his. Now all her erstwhile beauty he defaces and yet she grows in hallowed loveliness— her ghost beyond perfection—for to die was to ascend. Now he begs, penniless. Published by Katrina Anthology, The Lyric and Trinacria Come Down by Michael R. Burch for Harold Bloom and the Ivory Towerists Come down, O, come down from your high mountain tower. How coldly the wind blows, how late this chill hour ... and I cannot wait for a meteor shower to show you the time must be now, or not ever. Come down, O, come down from the high mountain heather now brittle and brown as fierce northern gales sever.           Come down, or your hearts will grow cold as the weather when winter devours and spring returns never. At Cædmon’s Grave “Cædmon’s Hymn,” composed at the Monastery of Whitby (a North Yorkshire fishing village), is one of the oldest known poems written in the English language, dating back to around 680 A.D. I wrote this poem after visiting Caedmon's grave at Whitby. At the monastery of Whitby, on a day when the sun sank through the sea, and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free, while the wind and time blew all around, I paced those dusk-enamored grounds and thought I heard the steps resound of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede who walked there, too, their spirits freed —perhaps by God, perhaps by need— to write, and with each line, remember the glorious light of Cædmon’s ember, scorched tongues of flame words still engender. Here, as darkness falls, at last we meet. I lay this pale garland of words at his feet. Published by The Lyric, Volume 80, Number 4 Orpheus by Michael R. Burch after William Blake I. Many a sun and many a moon I walked the earth and whistled a tune. I did not whistle as I worked: the whistle was my work. I shirked nothing I saw and made a rhyme to children at play and hard time. II. Among the prisoners I saw the leaden manacles of Law, the heavy ball and chain, the quirt. And yet I whistled at my work. III. Among the children’s daisy faces and in the women’s frowsy laces, I saw redemption, and I smiled. Satanic millers, unbeguiled, were swayed by neither girl, nor child, nor any God of Love. Yet mild I whistled at my work, and Song broke out, ere long. Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor by Michael R. Burch After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs, Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs: “Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!” (His name, let’s assume, was, er ... Percival Queemly.) “Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes. “Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise, for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name ... Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!” “Continue to live here—carouse as you please!” the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees. Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose: “I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose ... but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.” (Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.) Originally published by Lucid Rhythms Why the Kid Gloves Came Off by Michael R. Burch for Lemuel Ibbotson It's hard to be a man of taste in such a waste: hence the lambaste. Nightfall by Michael R. Burch for Kevin Nicholas Roberts Only the long dolor of dusk delights me now,      as I await death. The rain has ruined the unborn corn,          and the wasting breath of autumn has cruelly, savagely shorn                each ear of its radiant health. As the golden sun dims, so the dying land seems to relinquish its vanishing wealth. Only a few erratic, trembling stalks still continue to stand,      half upright, and even these the winds have continually robbed of their once-plentiful,           golden birthright. I think of you and I sigh, forlorn, on edge                with the rapidly encroaching night. Ten thousand stillborn lilies lie limp, mixed with roses, unable to ignite. Whatever became of the magical kernel, golden within      at the winter solstice? What of its promised kingdom, Amen!, meant to rise again           from this balmless poultice, this strange bottomland where one Scarecrow commands                dark legions of ravens and mice? And what of the Giant whose bellows demand our negligible lives, his black vice? I find one bright grain here aglitter with rain, full of promise and purpose      and drive. Through lightning and hail and nightfalls and pale, cold sunless moons          it will strive to rise up from its “place” on a network of lace, to the glory              of being alive. Why does it bother, I wonder, my brother? O, am I unwise to believe?                                     But Jack had his beanstalk                               and you had your poems                          and the sun seems intent to ascend                and so I also must climb           to the end of my time,      however the story may unwind and end. This poem was written around a month after Kevin’s death. I Learned Too Late by Michael R. Burch “Show, don’t tell!” I learned too late that poetry has rules, although they may be rules for greater fools. In any case, by dodging rules and schools, I avoided useless duels. I learned too late that sentiment is bad— that Blake and Keats and Plath had all been had. In any case, by following my heart, I learned to walk apart. I learned too late that “telling” is a crime. Did Shakespeare know? Is Milton doing time? In any case, by telling, I admit: I think such rules are s**t. The Difference by Michael R. Burch The chimneysweeps will weep for Blake, who wrote his poems for their dear sake. The critics clap, polite, for you. Another poem for poets, Whooo! Ah! Sunflower by Michael R. Burch for and after William Blake O little yellow flower like a star ... how beautiful, how wonderful we are! blake take by michael r. burch we became ashamed of our bodies; we became ashamed of sweet *** we became ashamed of the LORD with each terrible CURSE and HEX; we became ashamed of the planet (it’s such a slovenly hovel); and we came to see, in the end, that we really agreed with the devil. dark matter(s) by Michael R. Burch for and after William Blake the matter is dark, despairful, alarming: ur Creator is hardly prince charming! yes, ur “Great I Am” created blake’s lamb but He also created the tyger ... and what about trump and rod steiger? Rod Steiger is best known for his portrayals of weirdos, oddballs, mobsters, bandits, serial killers, and fascists like Mussolini and Napoleon. The Echoless Green by Michael R. Burch for and after William Blake At dawn, laughter rang on the echoing green as children at play greeted the day. At noon, smiles were seen on the echoing green as, children no more, many fine oaths they swore. By twilight, their cries had subsided to sighs. Now night reigns supreme on the echoless green. evol-u-shun by michael r. burch for and after william blake does GOD adore the Tyger while it’s ripping ur lamb apart? does GOD applaud the Plague while it’s eating u à la carte? does GOD admire ur brains while ur claimng IT has a heart? does GOD endorse the Bible you blue-lighted at k-mart? I Learned Too Late by Michael R. Burch “Show, don’t tell!” I learned too late that poetry has rules, although they may be rules for greater fools. In any case, by dodging rules and schools, I avoided useless duels. I learned too late that sentiment is bad— that Blake and Keats and Plath had all been had. In any case, by following my heart, I learned to walk apart. I learned too late that “telling” is a crime. Did Shakespeare know? Is Milton doing time? In any case, by telling, I admit: I think such rules are **** tyger, lamb, free love, etc. by michael r. burch for and after william blake the tiger’s a ferocious slayer.      he has no say in it. hence, ur Creator’s a **** the lamb led to the slaughter      extends her neck to the block and bit. she has no say in it. so don’t be a nitwit:      drink, carouse and revel! why obey the Devil? Discrimination by Michael R. Burch for lovers of traditional poetry The meter I had sought to find, perplexed, was ripped from books of “verse” that read like prose. I found it in sheet music, in long rows of hologramic CDs, in sad wrecks of long-forgotten volumes undisturbed half-centuries by archivists, unscanned. I read their fading numbers, frowned, perturbed— why should such tattered artistry be banned? I heard the sleigh bells’ jingles, vampish ads, the supermodels’ babble, Seuss’s books extolled in major movies, blurbs for abs ... A few poor thinnish journals crammed in nooks are all I’ve found this late to sell to those who’d classify free verse “expensive prose.” Published by The Chariton Review, The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Famous Poets and Poems, FreeXpression (Australia), Famous Poets and Poems, Inspirational Stories, Poetry Life & Times and Trinacria (where it was nominated for the Pushcart Prize) The Composition of Shadows by Michael R. Burch “I made it out of a mouthful of air.”—W. B. Yeats We breathe and so we write; the night hums softly its accompaniment. Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn leads onward, and we smile, content. And what we mean we write to learn: the vowels of love, the consonants’ strange golden weight, each plosive’s shape— curved like the heart. Here, resonant, ... sounds’ shadows mass beneath bright glass like singing voles curled in a maze of blank white space. We touch a face— long-frozen words trapped in a glaze that insulates our hearts. Nowhere can love be found. Just shrieking air. Published by The Lyric, Contemporary Rhyme, Candelabrum, Iambs & Trochees, Triplopia, Romantics Quarterly, Hidden Treasures (Selected Poem), ImageNation (UK), Yellow Bat Review, Poetry Life & Times, Vallance Review, Poetica Victorian The Composition of Shadows (II) by Michael R. Burch We breathe and so we write; the night hums softly its accompaniment. Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn leads onward, and we smile, content. And what we mean we write to learn: the vowels of love, the consonants’ strange golden weight, the blood’s debate within the heart. Here, resonant, sounds’ shadows mass against bright glass, within the white Labyrinthian maze. Through simple grace, I touch your face, (ah words!) And I would gaze the night’s dark length in waning strength to find the words to feel such light again. O, for a pen to spell love so ethereal. Keywords/Tags: composition, write, writing, poetry, poem, night, pen, pencil, computer, monitor, love, alienation, lonely, loneliness Me? by Michael R. Burch Me? Whee! (I stole this poem From Muhammad Ali.) 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. Bother 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. To Please The Poet by Michael R. Burch for poets who still write musical verse To please the poet, words must dance— staccato, brisk, a two-step: so! Or waltz in elegance to time of music—mild, adagio. To please the poet, words must chance emotion in catharsis— flame. Or splash into salt seas, descend in sheets of silver-shining rain. To please the poet, words must prance and gallop, gambol, revel, rail. Or muse upon a moment—mute, obscure, unsure, imperfect, pale. To please the poet, words must sing, or croak, wart-tongued, imagining. Originally published by The Lyric The danger is not aiming too high and missing, but aiming too low and hitting the mark.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch Trifles create perfection, yet perfection is no trifle.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch Genius is infinitely patient, and infinitely painstaking.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch If you knew how hard I worked, you wouldn't call it "genius."—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch He who follows will never surpass.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch Beauty is what lies beneath superfluities.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch I criticize via creation, not by fault-finding.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch a peom in supsport of a dsylexci peot by michael r. burch, allso a peot for ken d williams pay no hede to the saynayers, the asburd wordslayers, the splayers and sprayers, the heartless diecriers, the liers! what the hell due ur criticks no? let them bellow below! ur every peom has a good haert and culd allso seerv as an ichart! There are a number of puns, including ur (my term for original/ancient/first), no/know, pay/due, the critic as both absurd and an as(s)-burd who is he(artless), and the poet as the (seer)v of an (i)-chart for all. Here is an encoded version: (pay) k(no)w hede to the say(nay)ers, the as(s)bird word(s*)layers, the s(players) and s(prayers), the he(artless) (die)(cry)ers, the (lie)rs! what the hell (due) ur (cry)(ticks) k(no)w? let them (be)l(low) below! (ur) every peom has a good haert and culd (all)so (seer)ve as an (i)chart! we did not Dye in vain! by Michael R. Burch from “songs of the sea snails” though i’m just a slimy crawler, my lineage is proud: my forebears gave their lives (oh, let the trumps blare loud!) so purple-mantled Royals might stand out in a crowd. i salute you, fellow loyals, who labor without scruple as your incomes fall while deficits quadruple to swaddle unjust Lords in bright imperial purple! Notes: In ancient times the purple dye produced from the secretions of purpura mollusks (sea snails) was known as “Tyrian purple,” “royal purple” and “imperial purple.” It was greatly prized in antiquity, and was very expensive according to the historian Theopompus: “Purple for dyes fetched its weight in silver at Colophon.” Thus, purple-dyed fabrics became status symbols, and laws often prevented commoners from possessing them. The production of Tyrian purple was tightly controlled in Byzantium, where the imperial court restricted its use to the coloring of imperial silks. A child born to the reigning emperor was literally porphyrogenitos ("born to the purple") because the imperial birthing apartment was walled in porphyry, a purple-hued rock, and draped with purple silks. Royal babies were swaddled in purple; we know this because the iconodules, who disagreed with the emperor Constantine about the veneration of images, accused him of defecating on his imperial purple swaddling clothes! PROFESSOR POETS These are poems about professor poets and other “intellectuals” who miss the main point of poetry, which is to connect with readers via pleasing sounds and the communication of emotion as well as meaning. Professor Poets by Michael R. Burch Professor poets remind me of drones chasing the Classical queen's aging bones. With bottle-thick glasses they still see to write — droning on, endlessly buzzing all night. And still in our classrooms their tomes are decreed ... Perhaps they're too busy with buzzing to breed? In my next poem the “businessmen” are the poetry professors and professional poetry publishers who speak dismissively of the things that made poetry popular with the masses: rhythm, rhyme, clarity, accessible storytelling, etc. The Board by Michael R. Burch Accessible rhyme is never good. The penalty is understood— soft titters from dark board rooms where the businessmen paste on their hair and, Colonel Klinks, defend the Muse with reprimands of Dr. Seuss. The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...) by Michael R. Burch Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts at “meter,” I crossly concluded I’d use each iamb in lieu of a lamb, bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded. Alien by Michael R. Burch for J. S. S., a poetry professor On a lonely outpost on Mars the astronaut practices “speech” as alien to primates below as mute stars winking high, out of reach. And his words fall as bright and as chill as ice crystals on Kilimanjaro — far colder than Jesus’s words over the “fortunate” sparrow. And I understand how gentle Emily felt, when all comfort had flown, gazing into those inhuman eyes, feeling zero at the bone. Oh, how can I grok his arctic thought? For if he is human, I am not. The opposite approach to the poetry professors, the poetry journalists and the uber-intellectuals is that of musicians to their instruments and the music they produce… Duet, Minor Key by Michael R. Burch Without the drama of cymbals or the fanfare and snares of drums, I present my case stripped of its fine veneer: Behold, thy instrument. Play, for the night is long. 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.) 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.” The Plums Were Sweet by Michael R. Burch after WCW The plums were sweet, icy and delicious. To eat them all was perhaps malicious. But I vastly prefer your kisses! Caveat by Michael R. Burch If only we were not so eloquent, we might sing, and only sing, not to impress, but only to enjoy, to be enjoyed. We might inundate the earth with thankfulness for light, although it dies, and make a song of night descending on the earth like bliss, with other lights beyond—not to be known— but only to be welcomed and enjoyed, before all worlds and stars are overthrown ... as a lover’s hands embrace a sleeping face and find it beautiful for emptiness of all but joy. There is no thought to love but love itself. How senseless to redress, in darkness, such becoming nakedness . . . Come Down by Michael R. Burch for Harold Bloom and the Ivory Towerists Come down, O, come down from your high mountain tower. How coldly the wind blows, how late this chill hour ... and I cannot wait for a meteor shower to show you the time must be now, or not ever. Come down, O, come down from the high mountain heather blown, brittle and brown, as fierce northern gales sever. Come down, or your heart will grow cold as the weather when winter devours and spring returns never. Rant: The Elite by Michael R. Burch When I heard Harold Bloom unsurprisingly say: "Poetry is necessarily difficult. It is our elitist art ..." I felt a small suspicious thrill. After all, sweetheart, isn’t this who we are? Aren’t we obviously better, and certainly fairer and taller, than they are? Though once I found Ezra Pound perhaps a smidgen too profound, perhaps a bit over-fond of Benito and the advantages of fascism to be taken ad finem, like high tea with a pure white spot of intellectualism and an artificial sweetener, calorie-free. I know! I know! Politics has nothing to do with art And it tempts us so to be elite, to stand apart ... but somehow the word just doesn’t ring true, echoing effetely away—the distance from me to you. Of course, politics has nothing to do with art, but sometimes art has everything to do with becoming elite, with climbing the cultural ladder, with being able to meet someone more Exalted than you, who can demonstrate how to **** so that everyone below claims one’s odor is sweet. "You had to be there! We were falling apart with gratitude! We saw him! We wept at his feet!" Though someone will always be far, far above you, clouding your air, gazing down at you with a look of wondering despair. Sweenies (or Swine-ies) Among the Nightingales by Michael R. Burch for the Corseted Ones and the Erratics Open yourself to words, and if they come, be glad the stone-tongued apes are stricken dumb by anything like music; they believe in petrified dry meaning. Love conceives wild harmonies, while lumberjacks fell trees. Sweet, unifying music, a cappella ... but apeneck Sweeny’s not the brightest fella. He has no interest in celestial brightness; he’d distill Love to chivalry, politeness, yet longs to be acclaimed, like those before him who (should the truth be told) confuse and bore him. For Sweeney is himself a piggish boor — the kind pale pearl-less swine claim to adore. Untitled Haiku Fireflies thinking to illuminate the darkness? Poets! —Michael R. Burch BeMused by Michael R. Burch You will find in her hair a fragrance more severe than camphor. You will find in her dress no hint of a sweet distractedness. You will find in her eyes horn-owlish and wise no metaphors of love, but only reflections of books, books, books. If you like Her looks, meet me in the long rows, between Poetry and Prose, where we’ll win Her favor with jousts, and savor the wine of Her hair, the shimmery wantonness of Her rich-satined dress; where we’ll press our good deeds upon Her, save Her from every distress, for the lovingkindness of Her matchless eyes and all the suns of Her tongues. We were young, once, unlearned and unwise . . . but, O, to be young when love comes disguised with the whisper of silks and idolatry, and even the childish tongue claims the intimacy of Poetry. Impotent by Michael R. Burch Tonight my pen is barren of passion, spent of poetry. I hear your name upon the rain and yet it cannot comfort me. I feel the pain of dreams that wane, of poems that falter, losing force. I write again words without end, but I cannot control their course . . . Tonight my pen is sullen and wants no more of poetry. I hear your voice as if a choice, but how can I respond, or flee? I feel a flame I cannot name that sends me searching for a word, but there is none not over-done, unless it's one I never heard. I believe this poem was written in my late teens or early twenties. The Monarch’s Rose or The Hedgerow Rose by Michael R. Burch I lead you here to pluck this florid rose still tethered to its post, a dreary mass propped up to stiff attention, winsome-thorned (what hand was ever daunted less to touch such flame, in blatant disregard of all but atavistic beauty)? Does this rose not symbolize our love? But as I place its emblem to your breast, how can this poem, long centuries deflowered, not debase all art, if merely genuine, but not “original”? Love, how can reused words though frailer than all petals, bent by air to lovelier contortions, still persist, defying even gravity? For here beat Monarch’s wings: they rise on emptiness! Over(t) Simplification by Michael R. Burch “Keep it simple, stupid.” A sonnet is not simple, but the rule is simply this: let poems be beautiful, or comforting, or horrifying. Move the reader, and the world will not reprove the idiosyncrasies of too few lines, too many syllables, or offbeat beats. It only matters that she taps her feet or that he frowns, or smiles, or grimaces, or sits bemused—a child—as images of worlds he’d lost come flooding back, and then... they’ll cheer the poet’s insubordinate pen. A sonnet is not simple, but the rule is simply this: let poems be beautiful. Writing Verse for Free, Versus Programs for a Fee by Michael R. Burch How is writing a program like writing a poem? You start with an idea, something fresh. Almost a wish. Something effervescent, like foam flailing itself against the rocks of a lost tropical coast . . After the idea, of course, there are complications and trepidations, as with the poem or even the foam. Who will see it, appreciate it, understand it? What will it do? Is it worth the effort, all the mad dashing and crashing about, the vortex—all that? And to what effect? Next comes the real labor, the travail, the scouring hail of things that simply don’t fit or make sense. Of course, with programming you have the density of users to fix, which is never a problem with poetry, since the users have already had their fix (this we know because they are still reading and think everything makes sense); but this is the only difference. Anyway, what’s left is the debugging, or, if you’re a poet, the hugging yourself and crying, hoping someone will hear you, so that you can shame them into reading your poem, which they will refuse, but which your mother will do if you phone, perhaps with only the tiniest little mother-of-the-poet, harried, self-righteous moan. The biggest difference between writing a program and writing a poem is simply this: if your program works, or seems to work, or almost works, or doesn’t work at all, you’re set and hugely overpaid. Made-in-the-shade-have-a-pink-lemonade-and-ticker-tape-parade OVERPAID. If your poem is about your lover and ***** up quite nicely, perhaps you’ll get laid. Perhaps. Regardless, you’ll probably see someone repossessing your furniture and TV to bring them posthaste to someone like me. The moral is this: write programs first, then whatever passes for poetry. DO YOUR SHARE; HELP END POVERTY TODAY!
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