These are my English translations of poems and epigrams by the ancient Greek poet Callimachus aka Kallimachos. His surviving poems come from various sources including the Greek Anthology and the Garland of Meleager. The epigrams of Callimachus were so admired in antiquity that they became part of the school curriculum.

For Gail White, who put me up to these translations.

Here I lie, Timon, hateful as ever;
curse me as you go, but please go, wherever.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Here Saon,
son of Dicon,
now rests in holy sleep:
don't say the good die young, friend,
lest gods and mortals weep.
—Michael R. Burch, after Callimachus

Once sweetest of the workfellows,
our shy teller of tall tales
—fleet Crethis!—who excelled
at every childhood game …
now you sleep among long shadows
where everyone’s the same …
—Michael R. Burch, after Callimachus

My friend found me here,
a shipwrecked corpse on the beach.
He heaped these strange boulders above me.
Oh, how he would wail
that he “loved” me,
with many bright tears for his own calamitous life!
Now he sleeps with my wife
and flits like a gull in a gale
—beyond reach—
while my broken bones bleach.
—Michael R. Burch, after Callimachus

Half my soul survives, but I don’t know whether Love or Death stole the remainder, only that it’s vanished, forever. Perhaps it flew back to the boys? And yet I often warned them, “Youngsters, don't let the vagabond in!” Now she flits and floats about, sick with love and fit to be ******.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Excerpt from “Hymn to Apollo”
by Callimachus
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We have called him Phoibos and Nomios since he tended the yoke-mares of Amphrysos, fired with love for young Admetos. Lightly the cattle-herd waxed larger; nor did the flock’s she-goats lack kids under Apollo’s watchful eye; nor were the ewes barren without milk but all had lambs frolicking at their feet; and soon one would become the mother of twins.

Epikydes roams the hills, tracking every hare and hind through the frost and snow. But if someone says, "Look, here’s a wounded deer," he won’t touch it. And that’s how I am at love: wildly pursuing the fleeing game while flying past whatever lies available in my path.

Who are you, washed-up stranger? Leontichos found your corpse on the beach then carried you to this nameless tomb, sobbing for the fragility of life, since he too roams the seas like a gull.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

To the Cup-Bearer
from “The Boyish Muse”
by Callimachus
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Decant the wine then toast "To Diokles!" Nor does the beautiful boy Achelous touch his hallowed ladlefuls. So beautiful the boy, Achelous, passing beautiful, and if any disagree, let me alone comprehend real beauty.

Pitiless ship, having borne away my life’s sole light,
I beseech you by Zeus, watchmaster of the harbor,
Return her!
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

They informed me of your death,
Heraklieitos,
and I wept with remorse
remembering how often we two had watched the sun set
on our discourse.
But although Death took all, he forgot one thing:
your Nightingales still sing,
nor can his foul hand ever touch them.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

He stooped to strew flowers on his stepmother's tomb,
thinking she'd been changed for the better by her doom.
But he died when her monument landed on his head.
Moral: Stepmothers are dangerous, alive or dead.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Flee the sea’s testy company,
mariner,
when the Kids are setting!
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We buried Melanippus that morning; then at sunset his sister Basilo joined him; for she couldn’t bear to bury her brother and live; then their father Aristippus bewailed a twofold woe and all Cyrene wept to see a household of happy children left desolate.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

All the Cyclades are Elysian islands,
but Delos shines like a poem in the sea;
she cradled and suckled Apollo,
the first to recognize him as a god.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Halikarnassian, my dear friend,
although you lie elsewhere now,
reduced to mere ashes,
still your songs—your nightingales—survive;
nor will the underworld,
although it destroys everything,
ever touch them with its lethal hand.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

“Wealth without goodness is worthless increase, while goodness requires substance.”—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

“A poet’s lies should at least be plausible.”—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

“A big book is a huge bore.”—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

“Excessive knowledge is unwieldy, while a man with a loose tongue is like a child with a knife.”
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

These are English translations of Spanish poems by Pablo Neruda. There are also English translations of Pablo Neruda quotes and epigrams.

Pablo Neruda (1904-1973) was a Chilean poet who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971 and is generally considered to be one of the world's best poets. Indeed, he was called "the greatest poet of the 20th century in any language" by Gabriel García Márquez.

Neruda always wrote in green ink, the color of esperanza (hope).



Love! Love until the night implodes!—Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



You can crop all the flowers but you cannot detain spring.—Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Every Day You Play (Excerpt)
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Every day you play with Infinity’s rays.
Exquisite visitor, you arrive with the flowers and the water!
You are vastly more than this immaculate head I clasp lovingly
like a cornucopia, every day, with ecstatic hands ...



As if you were set on fire from within,
the moon whitens your skin.
—Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



The Book of Questions
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Is the rose ****
or is that just how she dresses?

Why do trees conceal
their spectacular roots?

Who hears the confession
of the getaway car?

Is there anything sadder
than a train standing motionless in the rain?



While nothing can save us from death,
still love can redeem each breath.
—Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



In El Salvador, Death
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Death still surveils El Salvador.
The blood of murdered peasants has never clotted;
time cannot congeal it,
nor does the rain erase it from the roads.
Fifteen thousand were machine-gunned dead
by Martinez, the murderer.
To this day the coppery taste of blood still flavors
the land, bread and wine of El Salvador.



Please understand that when I awaken weeping
it's because I dreamed I was a lost child
searching the leaf-heaps for your hands in the darkness.
—Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Love Sonnet LXVI
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I love you only because I love you;
I am torn between loving and not loving you,
between apathy and desire.
My heart vacillates between ice and fire.

I love you only because you’re the one I love;
I hate you deeply, but hatred makes me implore you all the more
so that in my inconstancy
I do not see you, but love you blindly.

Perhaps January’s frigid light
will consume my heart with its cruel rays,
robbing me of the key to contentment.

In this tragic plot, I ****** myself
and I will die loveless because I love you,
because I love you, my Love, in fire and in blood.



I'm no longer in love with her, that's certain ...
yet perhaps I love her still.
Love is so short, forgetting so long!
—Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Love Sonnet XI
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
I stalk the streets, silent and starving.
Bread does not satisfy me; dawn does not divert me
from my relentless pursuit of your fluid spoor.

I long for your liquid laughter,
for your sunburned hands like savage harvests.
I lust for your fingernails' pale marbles.
I want to devour your ******* like almonds, whole.

I want to ingest the sunbeams singed by your beauty,
to eat the aquiline nose from your aloof face,
to lick your eyelashes' flickering shade.

I pursue you, snuffing the shadows,
seeking your heart's scorching heat
like a puma prowling the heights of Quitratue.



I own my own darkness, alone.—Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I alone own my darkness.—Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Love Sonnet XVII
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I do not love you like coral or topaz,
or the blazing hearth's incandescent white flame;
I love you like phantoms embraced in the dark ...
secretly, in shadows, unrevealed & unnamed.

I love you like bushes that refuse to bloom
while pregnant with the radiance of mysterious flowers;
now, thanks to your love, an earthy fragrance
lives dimly in my body's odors.

I love you without knowing—how, when, why or where;
I love you forthrightly, without complications or care;
I love you this way because I know no other.

Here, where "I" no longer exists ... so it seems ...
so close that your hand on my chest is my own,
so close that your eyes close gently on my dreams.



I like for you to be still: it’s as if you were absent;
then you hear me from far away, yet my voice fails to touch you.
—Pablo Neruda “Me Gustas Cuando Callas” translation by Michael R. Burch



If You Forget Me
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I need you to know one thing ...

You know
how it goes:
if I gaze up at the glowing moon,
if observe the blazing autumn’s reddening branches from my window,
if I touch the impalpable ash of the charred log’s wrinkled body ...
everything returns me to you,
as if everything that exists
—all aromas, sights, solids—
were small boats
sailing toward those isles of yours that await me.

However ...
if little by little you stop loving me
then I shall stop loving you, little by little.

And if you suddenly
forget me,
do not bother to investigate,
for I shall have immediately
forgotten you
also.

If you think my love strange and mad—
this whirlwind of streaming banners
gusting through me,
so that you elect to leave me at the shore
where my heart lacks roots,
just remember that, on that very day,
at that very hour,
I shall raise my arms
and my roots will sail off
to find some more favorable land.

But
if each day
and every hour,
you feel destined to be with me,
if you greet me with implacable sweetness,
and if each day
and every hour
flowers blossom on your lips to entice me, ...
then ah my love,
oh my only, my own,
all that fire will be reinfernoed in me
and nothing within me will be extinguished or forgotten;
my love will feed on your love, my beloved,
and as long as you live it will be me in your arms ...
as long as you never leave mine.



Laughter is the soul's language.—Pablo Neruda



Sonnet XLV
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don't wander far away, not even for a day, because—
how can I explain? A day is too long ...
and I’ll be waiting for you, like a man in an empty station
where the trains all stand motionless.

Don't leave me, my dear, not even for an hour, because—
then despair’s raindrops will all run blurrily together,
and the smoke that drifts lazily in search of a home
will descend hazily on me, suffocating my heart.

Darling, may your lovely silhouette never dissolve in the surf;
may your lashes never flutter at an indecipherable distance.
Please don't leave me for a second, my dearest,

because then you'll have gone far too far
and I'll wander aimlessly, amazed, asking all the earth:
Will she ever return? Will she spurn me, dying?



I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.—Pablo Neruda



My Dog Died
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My dog died;
so I buried him in the backyard garden
next to some rusted machine.

One day I'll rejoin him, over there,
but for now he's gone
with his shaggy mane, his crude manners and his cold, clammy nose,
while I, the atheist who never believed
in any heaven for human beings,
now believe in a paradise I'm unfit to enter.

Yes, I somehow now believe in a heavenly kennel
where my dog awaits my arrival
wagging his tail in furious friendship!

But I'll not indulge in sadness here:
why bewail a companion
who was never servile?

His friendship was more like that of a porcupine
preserving its prickly autonomy.

His was the friendship of a distant star
with no more intimacy than true friendship called for
and no false demonstrations:
he never clambered over me
coating my clothes with mange;
he never assaulted my knee
like dogs obsessed with ***.

But he used to gaze up at me,
giving me the attention my ego demanded,
while helping this vainglorious man
understand my concerns were none of his.

Aye, and with those bright eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd gaze up at me
contentedly;
it was a look he reserved for me alone
all his entire sweet, gentle life,
always merely there, never troubling me,
never demanding anything.

Aye, and often I envied his energetic tail
as we strode the shores of Isla Negra together,
in winter weather, wild birds swarming skyward
as my golden-maned friend leapt about,
supercharged by the sea's electric surges,
sniffing away wildly, his tail held *****,
his face suffused with the salt spray.

Joy! Joy! Joy!
As only dogs experience joy
in the shameless exuberance
of their guiltless spirits.

Thus there are no sad good-byes
for my dog who died;
we never once lied to each other.

He died, he's gone, I buried him;
that's all there is to it.



Let us forget with generosity those who cannot love us.—Pablo Neruda



Tonight I will write the saddest lines
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tonight I will write the saddest lines.
I will write, for example, “The night is less bright
and a few stars shiver in the distance
as I remember her unwarranted light ...”

Tonight I will write her the saddest lines:
that I loved her as she loved me too, sometimes,
all those long, lonely nights when I held her tight
and filled her ears with indecipherable rhymes ...

Then she loved me too, as I also loved her,
compelled by the spell of her enormous eyes.
Tonight I will write her the saddest lines
as I ponder love’s death and our mutual crimes.

Outside I hear night—silent, cold, dark, immense—
as these delicate words fall, useless as dew.
Oh, what does it matter that love came to naught
if love was false, or perhaps even true?

And yet I hear songs being sung in the distance.
How can I forget her, so soon since I lost her?
I seek to regain her, somehow bring her closer.
But my heart has been blinded; she will not appear!

Now moonlight and starlight whiten dark trees.
We also are ghosts, by love’s failing light.
My love has failed me, but how I once loved her!
My voice ... this cursed wind ... what use to recite?

Another’s. She will soon be another’s.
Her body, her voice, her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her! And why should I love her
when love is sad, short, mad, fickle, unwise?

Because of cold nights we clung through so closely,
I’m not satisfied to know she is gone.
And while I must end this hell I now suffer,
It’s sad to remember all love left undone.

The moon lives in the lining of your skin.—Pablo Neruda



Religión en el Este (“Religion in the East”)
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Tom Merrill

I realized in Rangoon:
the gods were our enemies
as much as God;
alabaster gods elongated like white whales;
gilded gods gleaming like golden ears of corn;
serpentine gods coiling around the crime of being born;
naked detached buddhas
smiling enigmatically at cocktail parties,
contemplating pointless eternity
like Christ on his grotesque cross;
all of them capable of any atrocity,
of imposing their heaven upon us;
all armed with implements of torture, or death;
all demanding piety or, better yet, our blood;
avaricious gods imagined by men
to excuse their cowardice, or to conceal it;
gods everywhere, inescapable;
and the whole earth reeking of heaven,
for sale, like merchandise.



In all the languages of men only the poor will know your name.—Pablo Neruda



The Heights of Macchu Picchu, Canto VIII
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Martin Mc Carthy, who put me up to it

Ascend with me, my American love!

Let’s kiss these mysterious stones together!

The Urubamba’s torrential silver
lures pollen to fly from its golden chalice
while above this canyon’s unbroken silence
everything soars: the climbing grapevines’ fruitless branches,
the shopworn plants, each inflexible garland.

Come, elfin life, test your wings above the earth,
test the cold, crystalline air,
****** the embrittled emeralds aside,
test even these frigid waters, cascading from the icepacks.

Test love, lambent Love itself, until the night's sudden implosion
over the Andes' atlean peaks,
when, reeling on the reddening knees of dawn,
you feast your startled eyes on its snowblind offspring.

Oh Wilkamayu of the sonorous looms,
when you unleash your thunderbursts,
when you crazily rend your thunder’s skeins
leaving gauzy white clouds to bind wounded snow,
when your wild winds whip sheer cliffs into avalanches,
roaring as if to arouse the sky from its sleep,
what language will you awaken at last in the ear,
thus lately freed from your Andean inundations?

Who imprisoned the frigid lightning bolt,
left it chained to these Promethean heights,
scattered its glacial tears,
brandished its mercurial swords,
hammered out the threads of its war-torn stamens,
led it to this warrior's bower
then left it to lie in a rocky fissure?

What do your harried illuminations reveal,
your rebellious lightnings signal?
Must we travel inhibited by words?
Impeded by frozen syllables,
these dark languages, gold-brocaded banners,
fathomless mouths and conquered cries
arising from your silver arterial waters?

Who decapitates lily-like eyelids
from those come to observe the earth’s occupants?
Who scatters dead seeds
flung from your waterfall hands
only to atrophy here
into fossilized coal?

Who flings branches over precipices
only to bury our banal farewells?

On love, Love!, do not approach the boundaries;
avoid idle adoration of sunken heads;
nor let time exhaust all possibilities
in this strange abode of broken overtures;
nor think, between these cascading waters and sheer cliff walls,
to reclaim high mountains’ elevated airs,
nor the wind’s white laminations,
nor the blind canal’s guidance toward high cordilleras,
nor the dew’s brilliant solicitations;
but ascend, blossom by blossom, through the thickets,
clambering up the coiling serpent flung from the crags above.

From this escarpment zone of flint and forest,
from this emerald stardust broken by jungle clearings,
Mantur, the valley, emerges like a living creature
save for its eerie silence.

Ascend to my very being, to my own individual dawn,
even to this higher crown of solitudes.

This fallen kingdom survives in us nonetheless.

While racing across the Andes' sundial the condor's shadow
passes black as a marauder.



For now, I ask no more than the justice of eating.—Pablo Neruda



La Barcarola Termina (“The Watersong Ends”)
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It is time, love, to sever the somber rose,
to shut off the stars, to re-bury the ashes in earth;
and then, in the insurrection of light, to awake with those who awoke,
lest we continue this dream of reaching the far shore of a sea without shores.



One Pillar
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

One pillar props up consolations,
so please don’t bother telling me anything!
Does the pale metalloid heal you, really?
I have a terrible fear of re-becoming an animal,
of the terrible anger that devolves men to boys.
And after so many words?



Soliloquio en Tinieblas (“Soliloquy at Twilight”)
from Estravagario, 1958
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Don’t you know there’s no one in the streets
and no one inside the houses either? Only eyes in the windows.
If you lack someplace to sleep,
knock on a door and they’ll open it,
but only to a certain point,
and you’ll see that it’s cold inside,
that the house is empty
and wants nothing to do with you,
because your stories are worthless.
And if you suggest tenderness
the dog and cat will bite you.

*

Poesía (“Poetry”)
from Memorial de Isla Negra, 1964
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Something transpired in my soul,
a fit of fever or a flurry of wings,
after which I made my way,
deciphering that fire;
finally I wrote the first faint line,
pale, insubstantial, pure nonsense,
or perhaps the pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing;
then suddenly I saw
the heavens
revealed,
gates flung wide open.

Keywords/Tags: Pablo Neruda English Translations, Spanish Poems, Love Sonnets, Quotes, Epigrams, Macchu Picchu

These are my English translations of French poems by Arthur Rimbaud...

Ophélie (“Ophelia”), an Excerpt
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On pitiless black waves unsinking stars abide
... while pale Ophelia, a lethargic lily, drifts by ...
Here, tangled in her veils, she floats on the tide ...
Far-off, in the woods, we hear the strident bugle’s cry.

For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
This albescent phantom, has rocked here, to and fro.
For a thousand years, or more, in her gentle folly,
Ophelia has rocked here when the night breezes blow.

For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
Has passed, an albescent phantom, down this long black river.
For a thousand years, or more, in her sweet madness
Ophelia has made this river shiver.



Le Bateau ivre (“The Drunken Boat”), an Excerpt
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The impassive river carried me downstream
as howling warriors slashed the bargemen's throats,
then nailed them, naked, to their former posts,
while I observed all idly, in a dream.

What did I care about the slaughtered crew,
the Flemish barley or the English freight?
The river had taught me how to navigate,
but otherwise? It seemed so much “ado.”



Drunken Morning, or, Morning of Drunkenness
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, my Beautiful! Oh, my Good!
Hideous fanfare wherein I won’t stumble!
Oh, rack of splendid enchantments!

Huzzah for the virginal!
Huzzah for the immaculate work!
For the marvelous body!

It began amid children’s mirth; where too it must end.
This poison? ’Twill remain in our veins till the fanfare subsides,
when we return to our former discord.

May we, so deserving of these agonies,
may we now recreate ourselves
after our body’s and soul’s superhuman promise—
that promise, that madness!
Elegance, senescence, violence!

They promised to bury knowledge in the shadows—the tree of good and evil—
to deport despotic respectability
so that we might effloresce pure-petaled love.
It began with hellish disgust but ended
—because we weren’t able to grasp eternity immediately—
in a panicked riot of perfumes.

Children’s laughter, slaves’ discretion, the austerity of virgins,
loathsome temporal faces and objects—
all hallowed by the sacredness of this vigil!

Although it began with loutish boorishness,
behold! it ends among angels of ice and flame.
My little drunken vigil, so holy, so blessed!
My little lost eve of drunkenness!
Praise for the mask you provided us!
Method, we affirm you!

Let us never forget that yesterday
you glorified our emergence, then each of our subsequent ages.
We have faith in your poison.
We give you our lives completely, every day.
Behold, the assassin's hour!



L'Eternité (“ Eternity”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Where does Eternity dwell?
In the sea,
run beyond the setting sun.

Implacable Sentinel,
murmuring the soul’s confessions
of night’s barrenness
and days ablaze.

Inhuman votary!
Free of human impulses
and penitence,
you flee accordingly.

Since the beginning of time
you have stood alone,
amid shimmering embers,
exuding voicelessly:

“There is no hope,
no logical orientation,
no future revelation of patient science,
only the inhuman torture.”

Where does Eternity dwell?
In the sea,
run beyond the setting sun.



Les Illuminations II: Enfance (“Childhood”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

II.

The little girl lies dead, behind the rosebushes. – The young mother, deceased, descends the steps. – The cousin’s carriage squeaks through sand. – The little brother (he’s in India!) lies facing the sunset in a meadow of carnations. – The old ones are buried upright in ramparts overgrown with wallflowers.

Swarms of golden leaves surround the General’s house. They’re in the south. – Follow the red road to arrive at the empty inn. The chateau’s for sale; its shutters flap. – The priest’s taken the key to the church. – The keepers’ cottages are tenantless, the fences so high only rustling treetops are visible. Oh well, there’s nothing much to be seen, besides.

The meadows rise to hamlets without roosters, without anvils. The sluice gate is raised, the waters rise. O the wilderness’s crosses and windmills, its islands and millstones!

Magic flowers buzzed. Embankments cradled him. Creatures of fabulous elegance encircled him. Clouds accumulating over open seas unleashed an eternity of warm tears.

IV.

I am the saint praying on the portico, watching docile beasts graze down to Palestine’s sea.

I am the scholar in the dark armchair as whipping branches and rain hurl themselves at the library’s shutters.

I am the pedestrian on the path through stunted woods; the ****** of clicking locks anticipates my steps. For a long time I pause to ponder the sunset’s melancholy golden demise.

I am the child abandoned on the jetty jutting out toward the high seas, the small valet whose forehead brushes the sky as he navigates an alley.

The trails are rough, their mounds haired with broom. The air is so still, so silent! How distant, the birds and the rills! The end of the world must lie ahead.



Illuminations VIII: Départ (“Departure”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I’ve seen enough: the same vision encountered under all skies.

I’ve had enough: the rumors of cities, by night and by day, the same light, always.

I’ve known enough: life’s tedious decrees, its rumors and visions!

It’s time for departure into new affections, new noises!



Sensation
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

On blue summer evenings, I’ll stroll the paths,
Pricked by the wheat, tickled by the grass;
Dreamily, I’ll feel the freshness at my feet,
Breathe the wind, then sigh, complete.

I will not speak, nor think, nor muse at all,
Yet boundless love will surge within my soul.
And I will wander far away, like a gypsy,
As happy with Nature as any woman’s company.



Antico (“Ancient” or “Antique”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Graceful son of Pan! Around your brow, crowned with flowers and berries, your eyes, lustrous spheres, revolve. Your cheeks, stained with wine sediments, seem hollow. Your white fangs gleam. Your lyre-like chest! Chords pour from your blonde arms! Strong heartbeats resound in the abdomen where the double *** sleeps! You stalk the night, gently moving first this thigh, then the other, then the left leg.



Song of the Highest Tower
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let it come, let it come,
The day when all hearts love as one.

I’ve endured so long
That I’d even forgotten
The pain and the terror.
I’ve visited heaven,
And yet a morbid thirst
Still darkens my veins.

Let it come, let it come,
The day when all hearts love as one.

Thus the neglected meadow
Given over to oblivion
Flowered, overgrown
With weeds and incense
As hordes of filthy flies
Buzzed nearby.

Let it come, let it come,
The day when all hearts love as one.



Rêvé Pour l'hiver (“Winter Dream”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come winter, we’ll leave in a little pink carriage
With blue cushions. We’ll be comfortable,
snuggled in our nest of crazy kisses.
You’ll close your eyes, preferring not to see, through the darkening glass,
The evening’s shadows leering.
Those snarling monstrosities, that pandemonium
of black demons and black wolves.
Then you’ll feel your cheek scratched...
A little kiss, like a crazed spider, will tickle your neck...
And you’ll say to me: "Get it!" as you tilt your head back,
and we’ll take a long time to find the crafty creature,
the way it gets around...



Dawn
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I embraced the august dawn.

Nothing stirred the palaces. The water lay dead still. Battalions of shadows still shrouded the forest paths.

I walked briskly, dreaming the gemlike stones watched as wings soared soundlessly.

My first adventure, on a path now faintly aglow with glitterings, was a flower who whispered her name.

I laughed at the silver waterfall teasing me nakedly through pines; then on her summit, I recognized the goddess.

One by one, I lifted her veils, in that tree-lined lane, waving my arms across the plain, as I notified the ****.

Back to the city, she fled among the roofs and the steeples; scrambling like a beggar down the marble quays, I chased her.

Above the road near a laurel thicket, I caught her in gathered veils and felt her immense body. Dawn and the child collapsed together at the edge of the wood.

When I awoke, it was noon.

Epiphanies on Woman as Divine Love Incarnate
by Hildegard von Bingen

Hildegard of Bingen (1098-1179), also known as the Sibyl of the Rhine and Hildegardis Bingensis, was a German christian mystic who had visions of the Love of God beginning at age three. She was a German Benedictine abbess and polymath: a poet, writer, songwriter, composer, philosopher and medical writer/practitioner.  remains one of the best-known composers of sacred monophony, as well as the most recorded in modern history. She has been considered by scholars to be the founder of scientific natural history in Germany and perhaps the first notable environmentalist as well. She wrote poems and song lyrics in Latin.

These translations are dedicated to the most loving of mothers, my praiseworthy wife Beth.  

“Every good mother is the embodiment of Love.”—Michael R. Burch

“Cry out, therefore, and compose!”—Hildegard von Bingen, Scivias, translation by Michael R. Burch

HILDEGARD VON BINGEN TRANSLATIONS

I behold you,
noble, glorious and complete Woman,
locus of innocence and purity,
the Sacred Matrix
in whom God delights.
—Hildegard von Bingen, “Ave, generosa” translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You appeared as a luminous white lily,
as God imagined You eons before Creation,
requiring Creation.
—Hildegard von Bingen, “Ave, generosa” translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now in her
lovingkindness, the deepest tenderness,
abounds for all,
from the Least
to the most Eminent
of those abiding beyond the stars!
—Hildegard von Bingen, “Caritas abundat” translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Exquisitely loving All,
she bequeaths the kiss of peace
upon both Pauper and King.
—Hildegard von Bingen, “Caritas abundat” translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fashioned by God’s fingertips,
made in the image of God,
Height of Creation, held
within a womb of mingled blood,—
though heiress to Adam's exiled wanderings,
still the elements rejoiced to behold You,
O praiseworthy Woman,
as the heavens illumed
and thundered with praise at Your birth!
—Hildegard von Bingen, “*** processit factura” translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A once-closed portal has been reopened
in the wise Woman
now revealed to us,
for the Flower of Creation
blossoms sun-bright in the dawn.
—Hildegard von Bingen, “Hodie aperuit” translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O blessed child,
the Chosen One,
whom God so inspired.
that in time your sacred womb
produced the manifestations of God,
wafting like the gentlest scents
of frankincense, lavender and rose.
—Hildegard von Bingen, “O beata infantia” translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O glittering starlight,
O most brilliant, exceptional figure
of the royal marriage,
O bright-faceted gem,
arrayed like a Queen
without flaw ...

You have become an angel's consort
and a priestess of sacredness.

Flee the ancient destroyer's dungeon!
Take your rightful place in the palace of the King.
—Hildegard von Bingen, “O choruscans lux stellarum” translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Keywords/Tags: Hildegard von Bingen, English translations, Latin poems, mystic, god, love, woman, womanhood, women, Divine Feminine, mother, son, Mary, Jesus

These are English translations of Voltaire, one of the world's most prolific, best and most influential writers. Voltaire, born François-Marie Arouet (1694-1778), was an amazingly prolific writer who produced works in nearly every literary genre, including poems, plays, novels and novellas, satires, parodies, essays, histories, Bible criticism, and even early science fiction!

Les Vous et Les Tu (“You, then and now”)
by Voltaire
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Phyllis, whatever became of those days
We spent riding in your carriage,
Lacking both lackeys and trappings,
Accompanied only by your graceful charms
And content with a humble supper
Which you (of course) transformed into ambrosia …
Days when you abandoned yourself in your folly
To the happily deceived lover
Who so earnestly pledged you his life?

Heaven had bequeathed you, then,
In lieu of prestige and riches,
The enchanting enticements of youth:
A tender heart, an adventurous mind,
An alabaster breast and exquisite eyes.
Well, with so many luring allurements,
Ah! what girl would have not been mischievous?
And so you were, graceful creature.
And thus (and may Love forgive me!)
You know I desired you all the more.

Ah, Madame! How your life,
So filled with honors today,
Differs from those lost enchantments!
This hulking guardian with the powdered hair
Who lies incessantly at your door,
Phyllis, is the very avatar of Time:
See how he dismisses the escorts
Of tender Love and Laughter;
Those orphans no longer dare show their faces
Beneath your magnificent paneled ceilings.
Alas! in happier days I saw them
Enter your home through a glassless window
To frolic in your hovel.

No, Madame, all these carpets
Spun at the Savonnerie
And so elegantly loomed by the Persians;
And all your golden jewelry;
And all this expensive porcelain
Germain engraved with his divine hand;
And all these cabinets in which Martin
Surpassed the art of China;
And all your white vases,
Such fragile Japanese wonders!;
And the twin chandeliers of diamonds
Dangling from your ears;
And your costly chokers and necklaces;
And all this spellbinding pomp;
Are not worth a single kiss
You blessed me with when you were young.

TRANSLATIONS OF VOLTAIRE EPIGRAMS AND QUOTES

Once fanaticism has gangrened brains
the incurable malady invariably remains.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Love is a canvas created by nature
and completed by imagination.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If God did not create us, it was necessary for us to create him.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My only prayer to God was, “Lord, make my enemies ridiculous.” And he granted it.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

God is a jester performing for an audience too frightened to laugh.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Doubt is an undesirable condition, but preferable to ludicrous certainty.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Faith is believing what reason cannot countenance.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

‎Life is a shipwreck, yet we must sing in the lifeboats.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Every man is a product of his age and few are able to rise above its misconceptions.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Judge a man by his doubts rather than his certainties.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The secret of being a bore is to reveal everything.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Common sense is uncommon.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Once fanaticism has gangrened brains the malady is usually incurable.
—Voltaire, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Keywords/Tags: Voltaire, Voltaire English Translations, Voltaire Poems, Voltaire Epigrams, Voltaire Quotations

These are poems about dogs and doggerel about dogs...

Dog Daze
by Michael R. Burch

Sweet Oz is a soulful snuggler;
he really is one of the best.
Sometimes in bed
he snuggles my head,
though mostly he plops on my chest.

I think Oz was made to love
from the first ray of light to the dark,
but his great love for me
is exceeded (oh gee!)
by his Truly Great Passion: to Bark.



Epitaph for a Lambkin
by Michael R. Burch

for Melody, the prettiest, sweetest and fluffiest dog ever

Now that Melody has been laid to rest
Angels will know what it means to be blessed.

Amen



This Dog
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz     ation by Michael R. Burch

Each morning this dog,
who has become quite attached to me,
sits silently at my feet
until, gently caressing his head,
I acknowledge his company.

This simple recognition gives my companion such joy
he shudders with sheer delight.

Among all languageless creatures
he alone has seen through man entire—
has seen beyond what is good or bad in him
to such a depth he can lay down his life
for the sake of love alone.

Now it is he who shows me the way
through this unfathomable world throbbing with life.

When I see his deep devotion,
his offer of his whole being,
I fail to comprehend...

How, through sheer instinct,
has he discovered whatever it is that he knows?

With his anxious piteous looks
he cannot communicate his understanding
and yet somehow has succeeded in conveying to me
out of the entire creation
the true loveworthiness of man.



My Dog Died
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My dog died;
so I buried him in the backyard garden
next to some rusted machine.

One day I'll rejoin him, over there,
but for now he's gone
with his shaggy mane, his crude manners and his cold, clammy nose,
while I, the atheist who never believed
in any heaven for human beings,
now believe in a paradise I'm unfit to enter.

Yes, I somehow now believe in a heavenly kennel
where my dog awaits my arrival
wagging his tail in furious friendship!

But I'll not indulge in sadness here:
why bewail a companion
who was never servile?

His friendship was more like that of a porcupine
preserving its prickly autonomy.

His was the friendship of a distant star
with no more intimacy than true friendship called for
and no false demonstrations:
he never clambered over me
coating my clothes with mange;
he never assaulted my knee
like dogs obsessed with ***.

But he used to gaze up at me,
giving me the attention my ego demanded,
while helping this vainglorious man
understand my concerns were none of his.

Aye, and with those bright eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd gaze up at me
contentedly;
it was a look he reserved for me alone
all his entire sweet, gentle life,
always merely there, never troubling me,
never demanding anything.

Aye, and often I envied his energetic tail
as we strode the shores of Isla Negra together,
in winter weather, wild birds swarming skyward
as my golden-maned friend leapt about,
supercharged by the sea's electric surges,
sniffing away wildly, his tail held *****,
his face suffused with the salt spray.

Joy! Joy! Joy!
As only dogs experience joy
in the shameless exuberance
of their guiltless spirits.

Thus there are no sad good-byes
for my dog who died;
we never once lied to each other.

He died, he's gone, I buried him;
that's all there is to it.



Bed Head, or, the Ballad of
Beth and her Fur Babies
by Michael R. Burch

When Beth and her babies
prepare for “good night”
sweet rituals of kisses
and cuddles commence.
First Wickett, the eldest,
whose mane has grown light
with the wisdom of age
and advanced senescence
is tucked in, “just right.”

Then Mary, the mother,
is smothered with kisses
in a way that befits
such an angelic missus.

Then Melody, lambkin,
and sweet, soulful Oz
and cute, clever Xander
all clap their clipped paws
and follow sweet Beth
to their high nightly roost
where they’ll sleep on her head
(or, perhaps, her caboose).



Excoriation of a Treat Slave
by Michael R. Burch

I am his Highness’s dog at Kew.
Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?
—Alexander Pope

We practice our fierce Yapping,
for when the treat slaves come
they’ll grant Us our desire.
(They really are that dumb!)

They’ll never catch Us napping —
our Ears pricked, keen and sharp.
When they step into Our parlor,
We’ll leap awake, and Bark.

But one is rather doltish;
he doesn’t understand
the meaning of Our savage,
imperial, wild Command.

The others are quite docile
and bow to Us on cue.
We think the dull one wrote a poem
about some Dog from Kew

who never grasped Our secret,
whose mind stayed think, and dark.
It’s a question of obedience
conveyed by a Lordly Bark.

But as for playing fetch,
well, that’s another matter.
We think the dullard’s also
as mad as any hatter

and doesn’t grasp his duty
to fling Us slobbery *****
which We’d return to him, mincingly,
here in Our royal halls.



Wickett
by Michael R. Burch

Wickett, sweet Ewok,
Wickett, old Soul,
Wicket, brave Warrior,
though no longer whole . . .

You gave us your All.
You gave us your Best.
You taught us to Love,
like all of the Blessed

Angels and Saints
of good human stock.
You barked the Great Bark.
You walked the True Walk.

Now Wickett, dear Child
and incorrigible Duffer,
we commend you to God
that you no longer suffer.

May you dash through the Stars
like the Wickett of old
and never feel hunger
and never know cold

and be reunited
with all our Good Tribe —
with Harmony and Paw-Paw
and Mary beside.

Go now with our Love
as the great Choir sings
that Wickett, our Wickett,
has at last earned his Wings!



The Resting Place
by Michael R. Burch

for Harmony

Sleep, then, child;
you were dearly loved.

Sleep, and remember
her well-loved face,

strong arms that would lift you,
soft hands that would move

with love’s infinite grace,
such tender caresses!

...

When autumn came early,
you could not stay.

Now, wherever you wander,
the wildflowers bloom

and love is eternal.
Her heart’s great room

is your resting place.

...

Await by the door
her remembered step,

her arms’ warm embraces,
that gathered you in.

Sleep, child, and remember.
Love need not regret

its moment of weakness,
for that is its strength,

And when you awaken,
she will be there,

smiling,
at the Rainbow Bridge.



Oz is the Boss!
by Michael R. Burch

Oz is the boss!
Because? Because...
Because of the wonderful things he does!

He barks like a tyrant
for treats and a hydrant;
his voice far more regal
than mere greyhound or beagle;
his serfs must obey him
or his yipping will slay them!

Oz is the boss!
Because? Because...
Because of the wonderful things he does!



Xander the Joyous
by Michael R. Burch

Xander the Joyous
came here to prove:
Love can be playful!
Love can have moves!

Now Xander the Joyous
bounds around heaven,
waiting for his mommies,
one of the SEVEN ―

the Seven Great Saints
of the Great Canine Race
who evangelize Love
throughout all Time and Space.

Amen



Mary, Mary
by Michael R. Burch

Mary, Mary,
sweet yet contrary,
how do your puppies grow?
With sugar and spice
and everything nice,
and Mama Beth loving them so!



Lady’s Favor: Ye Noble Ballade of Sir Dog and the Butterfly
by Michael R. Burch

Sir was such a gallant man!
When he saw his Lady cry
and beg him to send her a Butterfly,
what else could he do, but comply?

From heaven, he found a Monarch
regal and able to defy
north winds and a chilly sky;
now Sir has his wings and can fly!

When our gallant little dog Sir was unable to live any longer, my wife Beth asked him send her a sign, in the form of a butterfly, that Sir and her mother were reunited and together in heaven. It was cold weather, in the thirties. We rarely see Monarch butterflies in our area, even in the warmer months. But after Sir had been put to sleep, to spare him any further suffering, Beth found a Monarch butterfly in our back yard. It appeared to be lifeless, but she brought it inside, breathed on it, and it returned to life. The Monarch lived with us for another five days, with Beth feeding it fruit juice and Gatorade on a Scrubbie that it could crawl over like a flower. Beth is convinced that Sir sent her the message she had requested.



Solo’s Watch
by Michael R. Burch

Solo was a stray
who found a safe place to stay
with a warm and loving band,
safe at last from whatever cruel hand
made him flinch in his dreams.

Now he wanders the clear-running streams
that converge at the Rainbow’s End
and the Bridge where kind Angels attend
to all souls who are ready to ascend.

And always he looks for those
who hugged him and held him close,
who kissed him and called him dear
and gave him a home free of fear,
to welcome them to his home, here.



Buffy
by Michael R. Burch

Buffy is fluffy
but never stuffy.
Though she runs forever,
she never gets huffy.
The perfect puppy.



Prince Kiwi the Great
by Michael R. Burch

Kiwi’s
a ***-wee
but incredibly bright:
he sleeps half the day,
pretending it’s night!

Prince Kiwi
commands us
with his regal air:
“Come, humans, and serve me,
or I’ll yank your hair!”

Kiwi
cries “Kree! Kree!”
when he wants to be fed ...
suns, preens, flutters, showers,
then it’s off to bed.

Kiwi’s
a ***-wee
but incredibly bright:
he sleeps half the day,
pretending it’s night!

Kiwi is our family’s green-cheeked parakeet. Parakeets need to sleep around 12 hours per day, hence the pun on “bright” and “half the day.”

Keywords: dog, dogs, canine, love, loyal, loyalty, friendship, companionship, bark, barking, soul, soulful, sweet, bossy, angel, angels, heaven, Rainbow Bridge

These are modern English translations of Eihei Dogen Kigen, a master of the Japanese waka/tanka poetic form. Eihei Dogen Kigen (1200-1253), also called Dogen Zenji, was born in Kyoto, Japan. He was a Japanese Buddhist monk and a prolific poet, writer and philosopher. He was also the founder of the Soto Zen sect (or Sotoshu) and the Eiheiji monastery in early Kamakura-era Japan. In addition to writing Japanese waka, Dogen Kigen was well-versed in Chinese poetry, which he learned to read at age four.

This world?
Moonlit dew
flicked from a crane’s bill.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Seventy-one?
How long
can a dewdrop last?
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation of his jisei (death poem) by Michael R. Burch

Dewdrops beading grass-blades
die before dawn;
may an untimely wind not hasten their departure!
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Outside my window the plums, blossoming,
within their curled buds, contain the spring;
the moon is reflected in the cup-like whorls
of the lovely flowers I gather and twirl.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unaware it protects
the hilltop paddies,
the scarecrow seems useless to itself.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The cluttered bucket's bottom broke;
now neither water nor the moon remains.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I won't stop
at the valley brook
for fear my shadow
may be swept into the world.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Although I may
see it again someday,
how can I sleep
with the autumn moon intruding?
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Like a frail blade of grass,
I pass
over Mt. Kinobe,
my feelings drifting with the clouds.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How meaningless birth-death with its ceaseless ebbing and rising!
I struggle to find my path as if walking in a dream.
And yet there are things I cannot forget:
the lush grass of Fukakusa shimmers after an evening rain.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Living so long without attachments,
having given up paper and pen,
I see flowers and hear birds while feeling very little;
dwelling on this mountain, I’m embarrassed by my meager response.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Peach blossoms begin to fall apart
in a spring wind:
doubts do not grow
branches, leaves and flowers.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ebb tide.
Not even the wind claims
an abandoned boat.
The moon is a bright herald of midnight.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

ALTERNATE TRANSLATIONS

Dewdrops beading blades of grass
have so little time to shine before dawn;
let the autumn wind not rush too quickly through the field!
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

To what shall we compare this world?
To moonlit dew
flicked from a crane’s bill.
—Eihei Dogen Kigen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Keywords/Tags: Eihei Dogen Kigen, English translation, waka, tanka, haiku, Japan, Japanese, nature, dew, dewdrop, dewdrops, grass, crane, scarecrow, rice paddies, dawn