#tombs
I can feel the trembling of the earth through the soles of my shoes.
The grinding of the plates down there coming from the tombs.
Sound of ancient maddness seeping through the seams.
The killer in the night lurking in my dreams.
The sadness of my life howling through my bones.
The hollow sound of scraping from the catacombs.
I can feel the trembling blowing through the trees.
See it in the moonlight night fluttering through the leaves. Growing in the midnight winds a smiling lunatic.
The sound of fleeting dreams all gone as my body slips.
The killer in my eyes tonight laughing in my face.
Screaming from the mouths of death as angels fall from grace.
Nov 1, 2020
Nov 1, 2020 at 1:09 AM UTC
Musings at Giza
by Michael R. Burch
In deepening pools of shadows lies
the Sphinx, and men still fear his eyes.
Though centuries have passed, he waits.
Egyptians gather at the gates.
Great pyramids, the looted tombs
—how still and desolate their wombs!—
await sarcophagi of kings.
From eons past, a hammer rings.
Was Cleopatra's litter borne
along these streets now bleak, forlorn?
Did Pharaohs clad in purple ride
fierce stallions through a human tide?
Did Bocchoris here mete his law
from distant Kush to Saqqarah?
or Tutankhamen here once smile
upon the children of the Nile?
or Nefertiti ever rise
with wild abandon in her eyes
to gaze across this arid plain
and cry, “Great Isis, live again!”
Published by Golden Isis and The Eclectic Muse
Keywords/Tags: Ancient, Egypt, Giza, Sphinx, pyramids, tombs, sarcophagi, Cleopatra, pharaohs, Bocchoris, Kush, Saqqarah, Tutankhamen, Nile, Nefertiti, Isis
ANCIENT EGYPTIAN POETRY TRANSLATIONS
These are my modern English translations of ancient Egyptian poems, love lyrics and Harper's songs.
An Ancient Egyptian Love Lyric (circa 1085-570 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Is there anything sweeter than these hours of love,
when we're together, and my heart races?
For what is better than embracing and fondling
when you visit me and we surrender to delights?
If you reach to caress my thigh,
I will offer you my breast also —
it's soft; it won't jab you or ****** you away!
Will you leave me because you're hungry?
Are you ruled by your belly?
Will you leave me because you need something to wear?
I have chests full of fine linen!
Will you leave me because you're thirsty?
Here, **** my ******* They're full to overflowing, and all for you!
I glory in the hours of our embracings;
my joy is incalculable!
The thrill of your love spreads through my body
like honey in water,
like a drug mixed with spices,
like wine mingled with water.
Oh, that you would speed to see your sister
like a stallion in heat, like a bull to his heifer!
For the heavens have granted us love like flames igniting straw,
desire like the falcon's free-falling frenzy!
Egyptian Love Song
(circa the 13th or 14th century BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Lover, let’s slip down to the pond;
I’ll bathe while you watch me from the nearest bank.
I’ll wear my sexiest swimsuit, just for you,
made of sheer linen, fit for a princess!
Come, see how it looks when it’s wet!
Can I coax you to wade in with me?
To let the cool water surround us?
Then I’ll dive way down deep, just for you,
and come up dripping,
letting you feast your eyes
on the little pink fish I’ve found.
Then I’ll say, standing there in the shallows:
"Look at my little pink fish, love,
as I hold it in my hand.
See how my fingers caress it,
slipping down its sides, then inside!
See how it wiggles?"
But then I’ll giggle softly and sigh,
my eyes bright with your seeing:
It’s a gift, my love, no more words!
Come closer and see ...
it’s all me!
Metaphor and simile have been with the human race for thousands of years. This is an excerpt from an ancient Egyptian poem estimated to be around 4,000 years old:
Excerpt from "Dialogue of a Misanthrope with His Soul"
(ancient Egyptian poem circa 2000 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Death lies before me:
like a sick man’s recovery,
like entering a garden after an interminable illness.
Death lies before me:
like the fragrance of myrrh,
like sitting beneath a billowing sail with a favorable wind.
Death lies before me:
like swimming in the course of a stream,
like a man’s return from the slave-galley to freedom.
Death lies before me:
like the sky when it clears,
like a man's longing to see his home after countless years of captivity.
Ancient Egyptian Harper’s Songs
The first carpe diem or "seize the day" poems may be the various versions of the ancient Egyptian "Harper's Song" (or "Song of the Harper"). These may also be the oldest "ubi sunt" or "where are they now" poems. Such poems were inscribed in Egyptian tombs along with the image of a blind man playing a harp. Thus it is believed these were songs performed during funeral services for the deceased. Versions of the "Harper's Song" found in tombs of the Old Kingdom (c. 2686-2181 BC) tend to be short and traditional in regard to the afterlife (i.e., affirmative). Middle Kingdom (c. 2055-1786 BC) and New Kingdom (1539-1075 BC) versions tend to be longer and sometimes encourage listeners to "seize the day" while rejecting the more traditional Egyptian view of eternity (for instance, satirizing large funerary monuments and saying possessions cannot be taken into the afterlife). Such updated versions of the "Harper's Song" include "Harper's Song: Tomb of Neferhotep" and " Harper's Song: Tomb of Inherkhawy." These are my personal favorites of both genres ...
This song comes from a tomb which contains an image of Djehutiemheb and Hedjmetmut seated at an offering table while their son, dressed as a priest, pours libations and burning incense before them. It seems the song may be a blessing being voiced by the son, as the text appears before his representation.
Harper's Song: Tomb of Djehutiemheb
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
... The sky is opened for you,
the earth opened for you,
for you the good path leads into the Necropolis.
You enter and exit like Re.
You stride unhindered like the Lords of Eternity ...
This song from the funerary stela of Iki depicts the deceased sitting at an offering table with his wife, with the rotund harpist Neferhotep sitting on the other side of the table. Neferhotep was one of the earliest known Egyptian singer/harpists. His portrait and his song were included on the stela of a man named Iki.
Harper's Song: Tomb of Iki
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O tomb, you were prepared for a festival,
your foundations anchored in happiness!
The harpist Neferhotep, son of Henu.
***
The stela of Nebankh from Abydos contains a Harper's Song with the deceased depicted sitting at an offering table with the harpist squatting before him:
Harper's Song: Tomb of Nebankh
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Tjeniaa the singer says:
Now you are seated securely in eternity,
in your eternal monument!
Your tomb is filled with food-offerings
and complete with every fitting thing.
Your soul is with you
and will never desert you,
Royal Treasurer and Seal-Bearer, Nebankh!
The sweet north wind is now your breath!
So says the honorable singer Tjeniaa,
whom he loved and who keeps his name alive
by singing to his soul every day.
Interestingly, the three Harper's songs found in the tomb of the priest Neferhotep seem to display very different viewpoints about the afterlife, if we can take the first two to be saying that death is peaceful because no one is doing anything ...
Harper's Song: Tomb of Neferhotep
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I.
I have heard songs inscribed in ancient tombs,
extolling earth-life while belittling the Beyond ...
but why condemn the kingdom of Eternity,
the just and the fair,
which holds no terrors?
II.
Death abhors violence: no man there arms himself against his brother.
No one rebels in that peaceful kingdom.
All our ancestors rest there, since man’s earliest days;
the multitudes assemble there, every one,
for none may tarry overlong in the land of Egypt.
There is no one who will not cross over.
III.
Earth-life is no more than the span of a dream,
but fair welcomes are given when one reaches the West.
Harper's Song: Tomb of Intef
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
(from the tomb of the Pharaoh Intef)
Here lies a happy prince
because death is the kindest fate.
One generation passes, another remains:
so it has been since our eldest ancestors.
Now those who were once "gods" rest in their sepulchers
along with other nobles
and those who built their tombs.
Their palaces are gone,
and what has become of them?
What of the words of Imhotep and Hardedef,
whose sayings are still recited entire?
What of their palaces?
Their walls have collapsed into ruins,
their halls have vanished
as if they never existed!
And no one returns from that realm
to inform us of their state
or to calm our fears.
We remain in the dark until we join them ...
Hence, rejoice with happy hearts!
It is best to forget: heedlessness is happiness!
Humor your hearts as long as you live!
Perfume your hair with myrrh,
adorn yourself in your finest linens,
anoint yourself with the costliest oils, fit for a god,
heap up your treasures here on earth!
Let your heart remain buoyant! Don't let it sink!
Humor your heart and find happiness!
Here on earth, do as your heart demands!
What use is mourning,
when weary-hearted Osiris pays tears no heed?
Weeping and wailing spares no man from the grave,
so make every day your holiday. Never tire of joy's pursuits!
Because no one is allowed to take his possessions with him
and none who departs ever returns!
This song, also known as “The Lay of the Harper,” appears in the tomb of Paatenemheb, where the introductory line says it was copied from the tomb of a King Intef (a name used by several kings from 11th and 17th dynasties). The poem is also preserved in the Ramesside New Kingdom Harris 500 papyrus. These works are accepted by scholars as being a copy of a genuine Middle Kingdom text.
Keywords/Tags: Egypt, Egyptian, poem, poems, poetry, translation, translations, English, harper, harpers songs, love poems, love songs, love lyrics
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 4:48 AM UTC
i wish i’d bled enough;
my wrists — sore from scratching,
from trying to crawl
out of this treacherous skin
my lungs — dry from screaming.
my lips — chapped from chanting prayers;
one for each gravestone in my brain —
different dates
for a single name.
and i wish i’d bled enough —
died an enough number
to never die again,
but my wrists, they still have spaces for my wounds
and my mind, it still has spaces for my tombs
and tonight, i will hold funerals
for the parts of me that bled to death,
for the parts of me that in the caskets lie
and for those that still
are yet to die.
Oct 3, 2019
Oct 3, 2019 at 8:10 PM UTC
Mourning
Mourning is an eerie thing,
Not always tied to death.
It may celebrate or sing,
May widen eyes or lighten breath,
May bring unexpected things.
Sometimes it is a wayward thief,
That steals among the tombs;
It can alter feelings, and twist beliefs,
Searching for less bitter rooms,
Yet it brings a strange relief.
The heart may not know it,
Nor the mind accept it,
But it may be for the best.
As it guides the sorrowful away from grief,
To a long and healing rest.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 11:59 AM UTC
May be tombs are not
As much a sign of glory
As we think them to be
May be its just a way of soil
Of returning the sufferings
That this world
Puts upon the soul
May be that's what they are
A heap of suffering.
21.4.2016
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 3:32 PM UTC
The fog creeps
Quietly over each
Tomb
The clouds covered
Our moon
Tonight, we are
Different
Wet leaves stick
To our skin, we dance
Softly over the
Dead
Jagged teeth
Bring the untimely
Demise
Of a child
We have become
Different
Knots on knots of
Rope
Hang from each
Rotting branch
New victims bring
A gift each night
You will never find
Someone that cares
For you more than
I do.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 5:32 PM UTC
In marble, like moon; encased and cold,
I linger where you sleep. Long shed of decadent
purulence, your pale caress holds me still,
and I dream of your bones atop my
bones; our veins dying of thirst; the
worms making love to our oblivious corpses.
In amour, like rose; blackened in rust,
I shiver where we kiss.
Our lust becomes the dirt; our soiled souls moan.
We’ve become immortal inside the wood-rot.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
Oblique sunlight
Drapes across the tombs of our forefathers,
Diffusing brilliant light
Through fragile petals that grow among the stone.
Each soft blossom casts delicate shadows
from its veins' array
And gathers light against these
In translucent shocks of color:
A momentary burst
Of gentle, piercing glory
Before falling
Like an indigo ash
Back to the dark womb
Of incessant life.
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 10:06 PM UTC
Can I show you how beautiful you are? Can I take out the old photo albums and push my index finger into the faces, the places, and seas? I want to peel back the plastic and remove the square photographs from their sticky setting. I'm alluding to ideas that exist more formidably on the internet- there are no paper photographs, no sticky settings, there aren't even faces in the numbers; it's only ever been you or me.
Some of my things are crooked. The strings don't work, the wires are twisted and make the sounds all come out funny. There's a strange buzzing everywhere, it's like Mickey's gray cloud, a cloud Koopa throwing spiked shells from Park Avenue beach to Montrose street. Everything is quiet, consuming, unassuming and still recalcitrant. I'm showing nothing to nobody. Coaxing storm systems and netting foul play and ***** tricks, with my pants around my ankles or my fly unzipped.
I'm stinking of this stuff. These sudorific crevices on the insides of my thighs. I'm more or less always pacing. Rocking. Rolling. Small room I'm living room, cadavers I stuff my skinny fingers inside of- cold, wet hollow places I'm seeking skin covered gods in. I'm craving tastes and flavors. I'm looking at these pictures of me, of my face and the clothes I wore, the people that knew me. Where have I disappeared to? Every place that I went, every condition of my humanness has gone. Five minutes past my certainty, squirting hot molten magma from my **** my lips, and my fingertips. Hysterical thoughts and homily. I want just a hello. I want just a hello.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 7:16 PM UTC