there's nothing like being young
and starving,
living in a roominghouse and
pretending to be a
writer
while other men are occupied
with their professions and
their possessions.
there's nothing like being
young and
starving,
listening to Brahms,
your belly ******-in,
nary an ounce of
fat,
stretched out on the bed
in the dark,
smoking a rolled
cigarette
and working on the
last bottle of
wine,
the sheets of your
writing strewn across the
floor.
you have walked on and across
them,
your masterpieces, and
either
they'll be read in
hell,
or perhaps
gnawed at by the
curious
mice.
Brahms is the only
friend you have,
the only friend you
want,
him and the wine
bottle,
as you realize that
you will never
be a citizen of the
world,
and if you
live to be very
old
you still will never
be a citizen of the
world.
the wine and
Brahms mix well as
you watch the
lights
move across the
ceiling,
courtesy of
passing
automobiles.
soon you'll sleep
and
tomorrow there
certainly
will be
more
masterpieces.

I can remember starving in a
small room in a strange city
shades pulled down, listening to
classical music
I was young I was so young it hurt like a knife
inside
because there was no alternative except to hide as long
as possible--
not in self-pity but with dismay at my limited chance:
trying to connect.

the old composers -- Mozart, Bach, Beethoven,
Brahms were the only ones who spoke to me and
they were dead.

finally, starved and beaten, I had to go into
the streets to be interviewed for low-paying and
monotonous
jobs
by strange men behind desks
men without eyes men without faces
who would take away my hours
break them
**** on them.

now I work for the editors the readers the
critics

but still hang around and drink with
Mozart, Bach, Brahms and the
Bee
some buddies
some men
sometimes all we need to be able to continue alone
are the dead
rattling the walls
that close us in.

in loving memory of my mother

Three simple cello notes answered by horns,
rising and falling winds
shine like the dawn of a luminous day.
Emergent violins wash the hall
with mystic Austrian radiance.

Looking across the stage
I meet the eyes of my Philharmonic friends
uniting in affirmation
of the matchless largesse
of the Brahms' second -
our collective soul vaulting the Atlantic
to the azure Danube's shore.

          *It's 40 Christmas morns ago
          and I am "20-ish" tearing floral paper
          from a large green book and lean
          to give my Mom a thank you hug.

Three quarters of an hour
brush by like an autumn breeze
and I close that same green book
and turn to greet the audience -
searching beyond the walls
for that sacred somewhere
where Mom smiles down
from her eternal resting place.

*August, 2013

THROUGH MY EYES:        
BRAHMS’ S UNTITLED POEM  (1857) *
        
Women I love with my heart and soul
But I am not made for matrimony
A domestic life  and its trappings
Would destroy my creativity.    

Clara I would protect and worship
With my life—she is perfection-
Love I would blemish and defile
If I were to mention—‘Give me your affection’.

Ah, my beloved Robert is gone
In his tomb my heart is interned
My mentor, my friend, my inspiration  
Alas, how little I gave my master in return.

My music is Robert and Clara
Our souls are by destiny wrought
History shall remember
But would understand us not.



         * Robert Schumann (1810—1856)

        * Johannes Brahms (1833-1897)

        * Clara Schumann    (1819—1896)

A slow walk up Centennial
and I still can’t find the place
it's menacing cold, and muted
and the street sweeper and winter breeze
move the Turkish blend and dust pack

A novice mixed duet plays
Brahms on broken strings
the erhu and overcoat
veiling a blue heeler and sphinx

Maggianos is settled in the center block’s
luminance and seasonal drape
it's festive warmth bringing home Bedford Falls;
the flavour and character and social circles

Annie’s playing and the keeper's singing
(his word pool and slander
raising everyone in arms!)
the crowd chants and mayhem breaks
as crawlers and contemporaries
smash their steins

Dark alleys and dripping holes
hold a grim reminder of the pierced underside
paddies flutter and forge their words
with a broad manifesto

Night gardens come alive
(slowly sapping the respite)
hunched figures and ladies in lace
shuffle inside the big orange door

SONG-POEMS

These are poems that were written as songs, or as potential song lyrics, or that could easily become songs if someone were to set them to music (hint! hint!) …


Ave Maria
by Michael R. Burch

Ave Maria,
Maiden mild,
listen to my earnest prayer.
Listen, O, and be beguiled.
Ave Maria.

Ave Maria,
Maiden mild,
be Mother now to every child
beset by earth’s thorned briars wild.
Ave Maria.

Ave Maria,
Maiden mild,
embrace us with your Love and Grace.
Let us look upon your Face.
Ave Maria.

Ave Maria,
Maiden mild,
please attend to our earnest call—
When will Love be All in All?
Ave Maria.

Copyright © 2020 by Michael R. Burch



Faithless Lover
by Michael R. Burch

Well I met you darlin’ on a night like this;
the stars were fallin’ as I stole a kiss.

And I fell in love that very night,
as the moon above blessed us with its light.

But the moon was false, and your heart was, too.
Oh, I never dreamed you would be untrue.

'Cause you're a faithless lover, with a heart of stone.
One day you'll discover yourself all alone.

Well, we found a preacher and we said some words.
I should have noticed yours were well-rehearsed.

When I looked above, I saw the pale moon frown;
the sky burst open; I began to drown.

'Cause you're a faithless lover, with a heart of stone.
One day you'll discover yourself all alone.

Now, since that day, how you've run around.
You’ve been with every boy in town.

Well, I learned my lesson, and I learned it well:
how one night aflame left me cold as hell,
till my heart grew hard in its icy shell.

Now, I'm a faithless lover with a heart of stone.
I seek faceless lovers who leave with the dawn.

Copyright © 1991 by Michael R. Burch



Unlikely Mike
by Michael R. Burch

I married someone else’s fantasy;
she admired me despite my mutilations.

I loved her for her heart’s sake, and for mine.
I hid my face and changed its connotations.

And in the dark I danced—slight, Chaplinesque—
a metaphor myself. How could they know,
the undiscerning ones, that in the glow
of spotlights, sometimes love becomes burlesque?

Disfigured to my soul, I could not lose
or choose or name myself; I came to be
another of life’s odd dichotomies,
like Dickey’s Sheep Boy, Pan, or David Cruse:
as pale, as enigmatic. White, or black?
My color was a song, a changing track.

Copyright © 2001 by Michael R. Burch

Published by Bewildering Stories and selected as one of four short poems for the Review of issues 885-895



Through the fields of solitude
by Hermann Allmers
set to music by Johannes Brahms
translation by David B. Gosselin with Michael R. Burch

Peacefully, I rest in the tall green grass
For a long time only gazing as I lie,
Caught in the endless hymn of crickets,
And encircled by a wonderful blue sky.

And the lovely white clouds floating across
The depths of the heavens are like silky lace;
I feel as though my soul has long since fled,
Softly drifting with them through eternal space.

This poem was set to music by the German composer Johannes Brahms in what has been called its “the most sublime incarnation.” A celebrated recording of the song was made in 1958 by the baritone Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau with Jörg Demus accompanying him on the piano.



The Pain of Love
by Michael R. Burch

for T. M.

The pain of love is this:
the parting after the kiss;

the train steaming from the station
whistling abnegation;

every highways’ broken white bar
that vanishes under your car;

each hour and flower and friend
that cannot be saved in the end;

dear things of immeasurable cost ...
now all irretrievably lost.

Copyright © 2013 by Michael R. Burch
Originally published by The HyperTexts

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.” I've written the lyrics, now can someone provide the music?



Will There Be Starlight
by Michael R. Burch

Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
damask
and lilac
and sweet-scented heathers?

And will she find flowers,
or will she find thorns
guarding the petals
of roses unborn?

Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
seashells
and mussels
and albatross feathers?

And will she find treasure
or will she find pain
at the end of this rainbow
of moonlight on rain?

Copyright © 2001 by Michael R. Burch
Published by The Word (UK), The Chained Muse, Famous Poets and Poems, Grassroots Poetry, The HyperTexts, Inspirational Stories, Jenion, Starlight Archives, TALESetc, Writ in Water, Grassroots Poetry and Poetry Webring



Indestructible, for Johnny Cash
by Michael R. Burch

What is a mountain, but stone?
Or a spire, but a trinket of steel?
Johnny Cash is gone,
black from his hair to his bootheels.

Can a man out-endure mountains’ stone
if his songs lift us closer to heaven?
Can the steel in his voice vibrate on
till his words are our manna and leaven?

Then sing, all you mountains of stone,
with the rasp of his voice, and the gravel.
Let the twang of thumbed steel lead us home
through these weary dark ways all men travel.

For what is a mountain, but stone?
Or a spire, but a trinket of steel?
Johnny Cash lives on—
black from his hair to his bootheels.

Copyright © 2006 by Michael R. Burch
Originally published by Strong Verse



Flying
by Michael R. Burch


I shall rise
and try the ****** wings of thought
ten thousand times
before I fly ...

and then I'll sleep
and waste ten thousand nights
before I dream;
but when at last ...

I soar the distant heights of undreamt skies
where never hawks nor eagles dared to go,
as I laugh among the meteors flashing by
somewhere beyond the bluest earth-bound seas ...

if I'm not told
I’m just a man,
then I shall know
just what I am.

This is one of my very early poems, written around age 16-17. According to my notes, I may have revised the poem later, in 1978, but if so the changes were minor because the poem remains very close to the original.



Earthbound
by Michael R. Burch

Tashunka Witko, better known as Crazy Horse, had a vision of a red-tailed hawk at Sylvan Lake, South Dakota. In his vision he saw himself riding a floating and crazily-dancing spirit horse through a storm as the hawk flew above him, shrieking. When he awoke, a red-tailed hawk was perched near his horse.

Earthbound,
and yet I now fly
through the clouds that are aimlessly drifting ...
so high
that no sound
echoing by
below where the mountains are lifting
the sky
can be heard.

Like a bird,
but not meek,
like a hawk from a distance regarding its prey,
I will shriek,
not a word,
but a screech,
and my terrible clamor will turn them to clay—
the sheep,
the earthbound.

I believe I wrote this poem as a college sophomore, age 19 or 20. I did not know about the vision and naming of Crazy Horse at the time. But when I learned about the vision that gave Crazy Horse his name, it seemed to explain my poem and I changed the second line from "and yet I would fly" to "and yet I now fly." I believe that is the only revision I ever made to this poem.

Copyright © 1978 by Michael R. Burch
Originally published by The HyperTexts



Momentum! Momentum!
by Michael R. Burch

for the neo-Cons

Crossing the Rubicon, we come!
Momentum! Momentum! Furious hooves!
The Gauls we have slaughtered, no man disapproves.
War’s hawks shrieking-strident, white doves stricken dumb.

Coo us no cooings of pale-breasted peace!
Momentum! Momentum! Imperious hooves!
The blood of barbarians brightens our greaves.
Pompey’s head in a basket? We slumber at ease.

****** us again, great Bellona, dark queen!
Momentum! Momentum! Curious hooves
Now pound out strange questions, but what can they mean
As the great stallions rear and their riders careen?

Originally published by Bewildering Stories

NOTE: Bellona was the Roman goddess of war. The name "Bellona" derives from the Latin word for "war" (bellum), and is linguistically related to the English word "belligerent" (literally, "war-waging"). In earlier times she was called Duellona, that name being derived from a more ancient word for "battle."



Just Yesterday
by Michael R. Burch

Yesterday
she went a-way
and now I don’t know what to sa-ay,
'cause I loved her more than life
just yesterday.

[Descending notes: DUH Duh duh]

Yesterday
she held me tight
and our love lit up the night,
but then our flame was not as bright,
just yesterday.

[Descending notes: DUH Duh duh]

Yesterday
she left me a-lone
and now I don’t know what I wa-ant ...
I just listen to a song
called “Yesterday” ...

[Descending notes: DUH Duh duh]

Yesterday, oh Yesterday,
Yesterday, oh Yesterday,
I loved her more than life
just yesterday.

[Descending notes: DUH Duh duh]

Copyright © 2020 by Michael R. Burch
Originally published by The HyperTexts



Stay With Me Tonight
by Michael R. Burch


Stay with me tonight;
be gentle with me as the leaves are gentle
falling to the earth.
And whisper, O my love,
how that every bright thing, though scattered afar,
retains yet its worth.

Stay with me tonight;
be as a petal long-awaited blooming in my hand.
Lift your face to mine
and touch me with your lips
till I feel the warm benevolence of your breath’s
heady fragrance like wine.

That which we had
when pale and waning as the dying moon at dawn,
outshone the sun.
And so lead me back tonight
through bright waterfalls of light
to where we shine as one.

Copyright © 2019 by Michael R. Burch
Originally published by The Lyric



This Train
by Michael R. Burch

To be sung to the melody of "This Train is Bound For Glory" up-tempo.

This train is goin’ my way, this train.
This train is goin’ my way, this train.
This train is goin’ my way,
gonna take me back
to my baby,
This train is goin’ my way, this train.

This train is flyin’, flyin’, flyin’.
This train is flyin’, flyin’, flyin’.
This train is flyin’, flyin’,
and my heart is cryin’,
cryin’.
This train is flyin’, flyin’, flyin’.

This train is chuggin’ on down the tracks now.
This train is chuggin’ on down the tracks now.
This train’s chuggin’ down the tracks
and it’s gonna have to
take me back now.
This train is chuggin’ on down the tracks now.

This train is flyin’, flyin’, flyin’.
This train is flyin’, flyin’, flyin’.
This train is flyin’, flyin’,
and my heart is dyin’,
dyin’.
This train is flyin’, flyin’, flyin’.

This train is goin’ my way, this train.
This train is goin’ my way, this train.
This train is goin’ my way,
gonna take me back
to my baby,
This train is goin’ my way, this train.

This train must run a little longer.
Oh, this train must run a little longer.
And although I did her wrong, her
love is only gettin’ stronger.
This train must run a little longer.

Copyright © 2020 by Michael R. Burch
Originally published by The HyperTexts



The Vision of the Overseer’s Right Hand
by Michael R. Burch

“Dust to dust ...”

I stumbled, aghast,
into a valley of dust and bone
where all men become,
at last, the same color . . .

There a skeletal figure
groped through blonde sand
for a rigid right hand
lost long, long ago . . .

A hand now more white
than he had wielded before.
But he paused there, unsure,
for he could not tell

without the whip’s frenetic hiss
which savage white hand was his.

Copyright © 2001 by Michael R. Burch
Originally published by Poetry Porch



When I Think of You, I Think of Love
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

When I think of you, I think of Love.
Oh, when I think of you, I think of Love
as magical as the moon and stars above.
And when I think of you, I think of Love.

When I think of you, I start to cry.
Yes, when I think of you, I start to cry.
And I think you know the reason why.
For when I think of you, I think of Love.

When I think of you, I start to smile.
Oh, when I think of you, I start to smile.
I think of you and, dreaming all the while,
when I think of you, I start to smile.

When I think of you, I have to laugh.
Yes, when I think of you, I have to laugh
because it’s certain: you’re my better half!
So when I think of you, I have to laugh.

I think of you as Eve, and at your feet
blooms everything that’s equally as sweet,
as magical as the moon and stars above.
And when I think of you, I think of Love.

I think of you with babies at your breast,
and does and fawns that come at your behest,
as magical as the moon and starts above.
And when I think of you, I think of Love.

I think of you and find myself at peace.
I feed the ducks, the turtles and the geese,
all as magical as the moon and stars above,
and when I think of you, I think of Love.

I think of you as Love, a Love that heals ...
the gentlest Dove that soars and flies and wheels
then looks down on the earth from high above.
And when I think of you, I think of Love.

Copyright © 2020 by Michael R. Burch
Originally published by The HyperTexts



Hill Down the Road
by Michael R. Burch

I imagine this song being sung to an upbeat tune like “Afternoon Delight” with an emphasis on the last word in each line. The song would come out as a sort of breathless rush — one long, run-on sentence.

There’s a hill down the road
where my babe and me would go
when the sun was sinking low
where the sparkling waters flow

and we’d sit there in the grass
and we’d watch the sunsets pass
and then I’d walk her home,
but we’d never walk too fast

and we’d sit there in the summer
when the sun was in the sky
and we’d talk of our tomorrows
and we’d watch the butterflies

and I loved her even then
although I was so young
and I’ll love her till the time
that my time on earth is done

I wrote this poem as an aspiring songwriter, around age 14. But alas, I was too shy to show my compositions to anyone!

Copyright © 1974 by Michael R. Burch
Originally published by The HyperTexts



Moon Lake
by Michael R. Burch

Starlit recorder of summer nights,
what magic spell bewitches you?
They say that all lovers love first in the dark . . .
Is it true?
Is it true?
Is it true?

Starry-eyed seer of all that appears
and all that has appeared—
What sights have you seen?
What dreams have you dreamed?
What rhetoric have you heard?

Is love an oration,
or is it a word?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?
Have you heard?

Copyright © 1976 by Michael R. Burch
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly



Tomb Lake
by Michael R. Burch

Go down to the valley
where mockingbirds cry,
alone, ever lonely . . .
yes, go down to die.

And dream in your dying
you never shall wake.
Go down to the valley;
go down to Tomb Lake.

Tomb Lake is a cauldron
of souls such as yours —
mad souls without meaning,
frail souls without force.

Tomb Lake is a graveyard
reserved for the dead.
They lie in her shallows
and sleep in her bed.

I believe this poem and "Moon Lake" were companion poems, written around my senior year in high school, in 1976.

Copyright © 1976 by Michael R. Burch
Originally published by The HyperTexts



How Long the Night
(Anonymous Middle English Lyric, circa early 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song ...
but now I feel the northern wind's blast—
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong
now grieve, mourn and fast.

Copyright © 2013 by Michael R. Burch
Published by Measure, Setu (India), Poet’s Corner, Glass Facets of Poetry, Better Than Starbucks, Chanticleer, Poetry Brevet and Deviant Art



Sappho’s Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys
sleep unaware of the nightingale's call
while the dew-laden lilies lie
listening,
glistening . . .
this is their night, the first night of fall.

Son, tonight, a woman awaits you;
she is more vibrant, more lovely than spring.
She'll meet you in moonlight,
soft and warm,
all alone . . .
then you'll know why the nightingale sings.

Just yesterday the stars were afire;
then how desire flashed through my veins!
But now I am older;
night has come,
I’m alone . . .
for you I will sing as the nightingale sings.

Copyright © 2020 by Michael R. Burch
Originally published by The HyperTexts



Lullaby
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

Cherubic laugh; sly, impish grin;
Angelic face; wild chimp within.

It does not matter; sleep awhile
As soft mirth tickles forth a smile.

Gray moths will hum a lullaby
Of feathery wings, then you and I

Will wake together, by and by.

Life’s not long; those days are best
Spent snuggled to a loving breast.

The earth will wait; a sun-filled sky
Will bronze lean muscle, by and by.

Soon you will sing, and I will sigh,
But sleep here, now, for you and I

Know nothing but this lullaby.

Copyright © 2020 by Michael R. Burch
Originally published by The HyperTexts



Let me sing you a lullaby
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy (written from his mother’s perspective)

Oh, let me sing you a lullaby
of a love that shall come to you by and by.

Oh, let me sing you a lullaby
of a love that shall come to you by and by.

Oh, my dear son, how you’re growing up!
You’re taller than me, now I’m looking up!

You’re a long tall drink and I’m half a cup!
And so let me sing you this lullaby.

Oh, my sweet son, as I watch you grow,
there are so many things that I want you to know.

Most importantly this: that I love you so.
And so let me sing you this lullaby.

Soon a tender bud will ****** forth and grow
after the winter’s long ****** snow;

and because there are things that you have to know ...
Oh, let me sing you this lullaby.

Soon, in a green garden a new rose will bloom
and fill all the world with its wild perfume.

And though it’s hard for me, I must give it room.
And so let me sing you this lullaby.

Copyright © 2020 by Michael R. Burch
Originally published by The HyperTexts



Swan Song
by Michael R. Burch

The breast you seek reserves all its compassion
for a child unborn. Soon meagerly she’ll ration
soft kisses and caresses—not for Him,
but you. Soon in the night, bright lights she’ll dim
and croon a soothing love hymn (not for you)
and vow to Him that she’ll always be true,
and never falter in her love. But now
she whispers falsehoods, meaning them, somehow,
still unable to foresee the fateful Wall
whose meaning’s clear: such words strange gods might scrawl
revealing what must come, stark-chiseled there:
Gaze on them, weep, ye mighty, and despair!
There’ll be no Jericho, no trumpet blast
imploding walls womb-strong; this song’s your last.

Copyright © 2006 by Michael R. Burch
Originally published by The HyperTexts



This is my translation of one of my favorite Dimash Kudaibergen songs, the French song "S.O.S." ...

S.O.S.
by Michel Berger
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Why do I live, why do I die?
Why do I laugh, why do I cry?

Voicing the S.O.S.
of an earthling in distress ...

I have never felt at home on the ground.

I'd rather be a bird;
this skin feels weird.

I'd like to see the world turned upside down.

It ever was more beautiful
seen from up above,
seen from up above.

I've always confused life with cartoons,
wishing to transform.

I feel something that draws me,
that draws me,
that draws me
UP!

In the great lotto of the universe
I didn't draw the right numbers.
I feel unwell in my own skin,
I don't want to be a machine
eating, working, sleeping.

Why do I live, why do I die?
Why do I laugh, why do I cry?

I feel I'm catching waves from another world.
I've never had both feet on the ground.
This skin feels weird.
I'd like to see the world turned upside down.
I'd rather be a bird.

Sleep, child, sleep ...



"Late Autumn" aka "Autumn Strong"
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
based on the version sung by Dimash Kudaibergen

Autumn ...

The feeling of late autumn ...

It feels like golden leaves falling
to those who are parting ...

A glass of wine
has stirred
so many emotions swirling in my mind ...

Such sad farewells ...

With the season's falling leaves,
so many sad farewells.

To see you so dispirited pains me more than I can say.

Holding your hands so tightly to my heart ...

... Remembering ...

I implore you to remember our unspoken vows ...

I dare bear this bitterness,
but not to see you broken-hearted!

All contentment vanishes like leaves in an autumn wind.

Meeting or parting, that's not up to me.
We can blame the wind for our destiny.

I do not fear my own despair
but your sorrow haunts me.

No one will know of our desolation.

Keywords/Tags: song, songs, songs of life, lyric, lyrics, music, rock, love, lover, lovers

Take a butchers at this me old Chinas.
Slip ya Plates o' Meat into ya Jacks,
brew up a nice cup o' Rosy,
and if you haven't got a ****** what I'm on about,
feel free to fire me off a Jimmy Nail
and tell me it's a load of old cobblers.

Can you Adam an' Eve it,
I left me Dog 'n' Bone on the Apples
and when I went to call the Trouble 'n' Strife
some joker had Half-Inched it.

But that's not the worst of it.
When I got back to the Cat and Mouse
she'd done a bunk in me shiny new Jam Jar.
I couldn't believe me Pork Pies!

So here I am all on me Todd,
me only transport a ****** old **** van ****.
Gordon Bennett!
I'm goin' down the ****** for a few Britneys,
gonna get totally Brahms and List
and blow a big fat raspberry at the whole thing.

Tomorrow's another bale 'o' hay.

An Old Soul, you said. What does that mean? My Soul's not old, it's gently used, like that song that was a hit a couple years ago, you heard it on the radio and you can't remember the title but you can hum the tune. That's me, a hummable tune with no title cruising the electric air for a million miles right to your ears.

An Old Soul, you said, like it was a compliment that my Soul has yet to succumb to the withering humbleness of that great equalizer, The End.

How do you know? You don't know my Soul. Souls have shapes, and shapes don't get old. Mine's shaped like a ******, kind of like an open flower, like that last hour before bedtime when you sneak that sliced orange even though your dad told you NO, but your mama gently scolds, "just one more" as she (soft as the comforter she tucks in around you all
singing that song that drips like molasses in the gathering dew), and she winks at Dad, who's pretending to be mad like the rain that's pouring and flooding the gutter.

It's a kid who stutters who has mastered Bach and has moved straight onto Brahms, while across town it's beer and people singing along.

No one these days to wants to sing to Brahms, but that's okay; she loses herself alone in its sparkling and prefers it that way.

My Soul (well not just mine, it's in heart of the hum, the mirror firmly reflecting our collective soap ****), is a kind of Boo Radley in his broke down joint and his sad soap dolls in the tree, in the knoll. Shut in an old house uncertain of who he was or where he belonged or what he might even one day become, he built a world for those kids the only way he knew how.

Drowning in a lonesome sea, where the only moments of freedom behind the pecan tree were a broken stopwatch full of frozen moments and some hand whittled soap and some gum. Boo Radley, no he was the shut-in son. Better than that inside-out drainage ditch who still walks the streets with the air of a rabid ***** who was shot at and missed by The One and Only One-Shot Finch. In the dusty 30s, in that vast, hot expanse, Poor Old Tom never even had a chance.

Now Scout, that kid is my kind of gal, all smart within and smart without. THOSE are the ones with the curious minds who stay young forever and laugh at time, who find gum in a tree and call it sublime, who worry about freedom and all it implies. Yeah, man. Jean Louise. And she'll never get old.

So don't you dare talk about what you don't know.

I've spent my short life knowing that god isn't the goal.

It's the dead dog in the street, and the man walking free, and a dying old lady who can't help but be mean. It's the girl with her ears and the kid with his orange and his mom singing softly as she closes the door.

It's the song that you heard, you don't know the words, but you sing in the car to the telephone poles.

There are so many roads to the idea of "whole." I have so far to travel, such long way to go, there isn't any certain number for the rest of my days. My Soul is eternity.

I'm still making my way.

Eres mi amor, Paula, mi amor, Paula, Clara quise decir.
Y cuánto tiempo, Paula, digo Clara,
sin ti y sin mí. Las diligencias
parten sin mí y sin ti.
O a ti te llevan hacia el norte, hacia el pobre Roberto.
A mí, hacia el sur, contigo hacia el sur, donde ya no estabas,
donde nunca estarías. Ahora he tomado el tren
para decirte adiós. Y sueño, sueño mío.

Cerré los ojos, deslumbrado por la memoria.
Apreté la cintura del paisaje, recorrí sus caderas,
miré sus ojos verdes, ceniza con sentido.
Tendía el cielo su metal hermético.
Y se superpusieron mediterráneos y cantábricos,
cipreses respirados desde un sótano,
casi a vista de muerto, y jazmineros.
Después, las cosas y sus nombres
perdieron sus contornos, su significación
y fueron nada más que ritmo, armonía viajera
liberada de los instrumentos que le dieron su carne.
No queda nadie ya que pueda perdonarte,
que pueda perdonarme, perdonarnos.
Nadie que pueda rescatar los besos que se pudren
sobre Roberto y su locura piadosa.
Ahora que voy a ti, a encontrarte en la aduana de la muerte
pienso, Clara, amor mío, que cuando nos besábamos
era a Roberto a quien besábamos, al engañado
hijo de nuestro amor. Él murió un día.
Su esposa, tú, amor mío, Clara, también has muerto ahora.
Yo tomé el tren para encontrarme en la frontera,
para decirte adiós desde el lado acá de la muerte, amor de mi vida.

Pero nunca llegaré a ti.
El viejo Brahms es viejo, y está gordo.
Me he quedado dormido y me he pasado de estación.
¿Comprendes, amor mío, que nunca llegaré a tu lado
por culpa de este sueño, que es mi bálsamo y mi enemigo?
Ya nunca llegaré a tu lado.
Puede ser, amor mío, que no te amara ya,
que no te hubiese amado nunca,
que sólo hubiese amado a mi propio amor,
el amor que te tuve, Clara, amor mío.

i never quiet knew
why brahms’
allegro non troppo
of the 2nd. symphony d-dur op. 73
sounded so much like an
extended and loosely interpreted
version of the lullaby: go to sleep, go to sleep.

THROUGH MY EYES -
BRAHMS’S HIDDEN POEM (1857)

Women I love with my heart and soul
But I am not made for matrimony
A domestic life and its trappings
Would destroy my creativity.

Clara I would protect and worship
With my life - she is perfection -
Love I would blemish and defile
If I were to mention - ‘Give me your affection’.

Ah, my beloved Robert is gone
In his tomb my heart is interned
My mentor, my friend, my inspiration
Alas, how little I gave my master in return.

My music is Robert and Clara
Our souls are by destiny wrought
History shall remember
But would understand us not.

[The reference to Robert is Robert Schumann (1810- 1856) and Clara, his wife (1819-1896). Johannes Brahms lived from 1833-1897.]

by Ramond Carver**

You don't know what love is Bukowski said
I'm 51 years old look at me
I'm in love with this young broad
I got it bad but she's hung up too
so it's all right man that's the way it should be
I get in their blood and they can't get me out
They try everything to get away from me
but they all come back in the end
They all came back to me except
the one I planted
I cried over that one
but I cried easy in those days
Don't let me get onto the hard stuff man
I get mean then
I could sit here and drink beer
with you hippies all night
I could drink ten quarts of this beer
and nothing it's like water
But let me get onto the hard stuff
and I'll start throwing people out windows
I'll throw anybody out the window
I've done it
But you don't know what love is
You don't know because you've never
been in love it's that simple
I got this young broad see she's beautiful
She calls me Bukowski
Bukowski she says in this little voice
and I say What
But you don't know what love is
I'm telling you what it is
but you aren't listening
There isn't one of you in this room
would recognize love if it stepped up
and buggered you in the ***
I used to think poetry readings were a copout
Look I'm 51 years old and I've been around
I know they're a copout
but I said to myself Bukowski
starving is even more of a copout
So there you are and nothing is like it should be
That fellow what's his name Galway Kinnell
I saw his picture in a magazine
He has a handsome mug on him
but he's a teacher
Christ can you imagine
But then you're teachers too
here I am insulting you already
No I haven't heard of him
or him either
They're all termites
Maybe it's ego I don't read much anymore
but these people w! ** build
reputations on five or six books
termites
Bukowski she says
Why do you listen to classical music all day
Can't you hear her saying that
Bukowski why do you listen to classical music all day
That surprises you doesn't it
You wouldn't think a crude ******* like me
could listen to classical music all day
Brahms Rachmaninoff Bartok Telemann
**** I couldn't write up here
Too quiet up here too many trees
I like the city that's the place for me
I put on my classical music each morning
and sit down in front of my typewriter
I light a cigar and I smoke it like this see
and I say Bukowski you're a lucky man
Bukowski you've gone through it all
and you're a lucky man
and the blue smoke drifts across the table
and I look out the window onto Delongpre Avenue
and I see people walking up and down the sidewalk
and I puff on the cigar like this
and then I lay the cigar in the ashtray like this and take a deep breath
and I begin to write
Bukowski this is the life I say
it's good to be poor it's good to have hemorrhoids
it's good to be in love
But you don't know what it's like
You don't know what it's like to be in love
If you could see her you'd know what I mean
She thought I'd come up here and get laid
She just knew it
She told me she knew it
**** I'm 51 years old and she's 25
and we're in love and she's jealous
Jesus it's beautiful
she said she'd claw my eyes out if I came up here
and got laid
Now that's love for you
What do any of you know about it
Let me tell you something
I've met men in jail who had more style
than the people who hang around colleges
and go to poetry readings
They're bloodsuckers who come to see
if the poet's socks are *****
or if he smells under the arms
Believe me I won't disappoint em
But I want you to remember this
there's only one poet in this room tonight
only one poet in this town tonight
maybe only one real poet in this country tonight
and that's me
What do any of you know about life
What do any of you know about anything
Which of you here has been fired from a job
or else has beaten up your broad
or else has been beaten up by your broad
I was fired from Sears and Roebuck five times
They'd fire me then hire me back again
I was a stockboy for them when I was 35
and then got canned for stealing cookies
I know what's it like I've been there
I'm 51 years old now and I'm in love
This little broad she says
Bukowski
and I say What and she says
I think you're full of ****
and I say baby you understand me
She's the only broad in the world
man or woman
I'd take that from
But you don't know what love is
They all came back to me in the end too
every one of em came back
except that one I told you about
the one I planted We were together seven years
We used to drink a lot
I see a couple of typers in this room but
I don't see any poets
I'm not surprised
You have to have been in love to write poetry
and you don't know what it is to be in love
that's your trouble
Give me some of that stuff
That's right no ice good
That's good that's just fine
So let's get this show on the road
I know what I said but I'll have just one
That tastes good
Okay then let's go let's get this over with
only afterwards don't anyone stand close
to an open window

In the morning
before the day gets too distracting
your piano’s at its very best.
 
Say Hello! to it with a scale or two.
Nothing quite like the harmonic minor
(in contrary motion – 3 octaves please)
to get its hammers hammering,
the pedals pedalling, and those
black and white keys
to skip under your fingers.
 
Bach today or shall it be Brahms?
Gershwin maybe, or just a little Grieg?
No matter what, they’re all your friends.
Nice people composers, no trouble to anyone.
All they do all day is sit in their studios
and dream about music.
Sometimes they write it down,
​carefully,
measuring every note and rhythm
​for your piano to play
before the day gets too distracting.

Reach out your hand, take me into your palms
for one second or a minute of the leaking time,
listen to the rhythm of my heart from reckless Brahms
losing me in the labyrinth that touches me with its eye.

Open my heart's buttons to see its full nakedness,
loving me as if tomorrow morning you would lose the bets,
give him a spark, for his passion to reanimate, making us
forget about you, about me, about all our regrets.

Take me into that chamber bathing in the nuances of fire,
take the body that now is incapable of self-control,
let the music in the background comfort my hearing and inspire,
waiting until the ice melts in my heart and my soul.

Love me with a body that no longer thinks of anything new
bearing the mark of an acute and fine sensuality of a dove,
enveloped by the appetizing flavour that worries you
in this ritual of the pantomime from the game of love.

Dare me with your fingers that traces on my shoulders
lines that for a few moments are burning me, consuming me
with the intensity of the eye that fixes me, it marks me,
making me lose the last morsel of my mind, foolishly.

I would not resist your spontaneous urge to touch my bust
with your penetrating glance or emotions, awakening, letting me be,
with a burning temptation that's not extinguishing that crazy lust,
nor under the breath of night that would sneak in unconsciously.

through my microscope, I spend hours
looking at the interstices of a plant cell wall;
if the earth did not spin, I could endure the whole
frigid night staring through my telescope at one violently still
crater on the moon

but I eat only soggy cheerios for breakfast,
ramen--chicken flavor--for lunch, EVERY day,
and either Dinty Moore stew or cheese ravioli
for my evening repast

my toothbrush must be blue, the paste pure white
and I could never tolerate the plight, of socks slipping
down past my ankles

I love Vivaldi, Brahms, and the sound of soft rain,
but hail batters my brain like a billion ball bearings
on an defenseless tin ***

my alarm must face due north
and my bed sunset west, beyond those things
I have no peculiar request

except
that things remain EXACTLY the way they are/were
for eternity

I can't play a savant symphony
like some would expect, or do cataclysmic calculations
in my head

though I can recall,
two years and four months ago today, a gold thumbtack sitting alone
on my dead granddad’s wood work bench, and the gray smelling roll of duct tape I placed precisely three inches from it, to keep it company

and if I ever again travel 365.26 miles to visit Granny
in Milwaukee, Wisconsin USA, it better be there, not having dared
to move a nightmarish nanometer

Bones in the rye field they sang, brittle stems of iron spreading leaves of
rust
A hidden look in watery eyes, secret sickness, ripping my guts
asunder
That space between midnight and morning when the world has been reduced
to monotone
In the blue-gray lucidity we sit, absorbed in cigarettes and gusting
wind
A few notes of Satie and I’m sitting in that blue room again, bamboo out the
window
Your voice like a finger running up my spine, singing to me, drowned out by
spring showers
Clay pots on the shelves, wilted sunflowers on the floor, grass pushing its way
through the floorboards
I step into falling rain, dream of sleep, dream of nothing, the blankness between
wakefulness
Hands carrying the scars of a thousand days, much like the day before, unconscious of
its passing
In tired two syllable words we exchange our hearts
In smiling kisses we pass each other breath, fresh like fertile ground split by
rugged plow
Black and white photographs in odd fitting drawers with cheap brass
handles
A pocket watch carried by many men before me, strewn upon stained counters
and newspaper clippings
I will these tired eyes to come to their senses, absorbed in a single word in a single
line
Losing their focus for minutes at a time, the sensation of drifting, the feeling of
fading
Like watercolor or lines in well-trod earth, shuffled into meaningless
harmonics
I still miss the sound of your violin, though you thought no one listened through
that ***** window
Scraps of Scriabin and Brahms, your symphonies saved me many a night
Such frail hands and white scalp, but you did not shake when bow met
fingers
Those nights of cheap Merlot, secretly stealing a moment of calm from your
skilled hands
The records never quite rivaled those nights, my unknown
friend

let me elaborate... like a tender realisation: why do i abhor Strauss and Brahms? waltzes... classical music composed for dancing... and not thinking and going mad... classical music intended for dancing! seigl ******* heil! nein nein nein! scheisse... little operas and even littler: loitering theatricals with intended amusement uplifting with song no desired existential pangs... blah! ah... long the days of rivalry between the gemeinsamvolk songs of the tavern and Teutonic monks... ugh... classical music dedicated to waltzes... Germans dancing, back then, even now... conjures up a concoction of vomiting, diarrhea ******, scratching one's ***, picking one's nose and lighting a match with devilish insinuation of arson. Valkyries screerching...

because living among
the English is
never, ever so rarely
as demeaning as
living among the Germans,
ironically
maybe not...
maybe not in how
i so abhor German opera
sung in the 'Leash...
such a terrible tongue
to sing opera: perhaps church
alms of praises...
but so welcome to learn
that i abhor Strauss as much
as Brahms...
can't help myself:
withheld at Schumann and
Schubert...
**** deutsche vox...
but then how much
of the English is deutsch'
if i find the isles of these
morose fabric
an extension of Scandinavia
like Denmark is: too?
among the Britons
those Velches and Scoots
and Ires of the green land...
an Anglo-Slav among
the mongrels of alt pocket
of Saxony.
geographically, though...
if Denmark is Scandinavia...
then England isn't?
peculiar... that concept of
"west": Europe...
as far west and uninhibited
as France and Spain...
as far "east" as the centrality
of Poland? Bohemia and Germany...
England is a Scandinavian
country... the miserably-happy
platitude of workaholics:
arbeit macht frei: poignant:
more than ever.

I enjoy a good band with its
Drums and fine guitars,
A keyboard and a couple of singers
At concerts, clubs, and bars.
A mellow band with harmonizing
Voices is a treat—
Not a loud rambunctious one
That blasts me out of my seat.
An exciting band can really send me—
That I will concede.
But an acoustic guitar, a pleasant voice,
And a song are all I need.
 
Take me to a symphony;
That can be exciting.
Beethoven, Brahms, and Mozart
All can be inviting.
Chamber music with a string quartet
Can often do the trick;
A grand concerto that gives me goose bumps
Has a definite kick.
Big band, pop, or classical
Music are fine indeed;
But an acoustic guitar, a pleasant voice,
And a song are all I need.
 
Opera can be scintillating
If you like the score.
A giant chorus or a plaintive aria
Makes your spirits soar.
Mozart, Wagner, Puccini, Verdi
Massenet and the rest
Make me realize that I am
Listening to the best.
But as much as I like opera
When it's up to speed,
An acoustic guitar, a pleasant voice,
And a song are all I need.
 
I like music from all around
The world as a rule.
Both modern and traditional
Sounds to me are cool.
German, Japanese, Norwegian,
Mexican, and Chinese
Music makes me feel good;
It puts my mind at ease.
But as much as I like all music,
One thing's guaranteed:
An acoustic guitar, a pleasant voice,
And a song are all I need.
 
- by Bob B

If I were to compare you to food
you would be ice cream
I can't eat ice cream
wild orange ice cream
or passion fruit and mango
exotic and forbidden

If I were to compare you to music
it would be violin Brahms
you look like Joshua Bell, you know
The sweetest music I've heard,
though you certainly don't calm me

If I were to compare you to flora,
You would be orange and purple roses
excitement and enchantment
love at first sight

If I were to compare my affections to reality
they would only inhabit a book
an uninspired novel
*which I should put down right away

Miss Pinkie (she dropped
the title Mrs from
her name ages ago)
lay on the sofa

and said
take me if you want
spank me if you will
and he stood

looking at her
a glass of scotch
in his hand
the music of Mahler’s

symphony number 4
coming through the door
from an outer room
she lay **** naked

her amble flesh
spread out
her hands resting
on her *******

who’s the orchestra
on the Mahler piece?
he asked
can’t remember

she said shifting slightly
her blue eyes searching him
aren’t you going to oblige?
she said

he drank back
the scotch
and put the glass down
on the small coffee table

can I sit first?
sure
she said and sat up
and moved over

to allow him room
beside her
he gazed at her
at her dyed blonde hair

at her eyes deep
like oceans of blueness
knowing she had
19 years upward on him

and all she wanted
was a few hours
of talk and laughter
and a leisurely *****

one of the old guys
died at the home today
he said
out of the blue

oh which one?
she asked
the one who sat
in his room each day

and looked out
the window
and said next to nothing
oh him

she said
think he was
broken hearted
she added

he took in
the beauty spot
on her cheek
like Marilyn used

to have years ago
so how about it?
she asked
are you ready for it?

the Mahler piece softened
some moving movement
well?
she said placing

a hand on his thigh
maybe you could put
on Brahms for a change
he said

sensing her hands
move upwards
maybe
she said softly

if you’re a good boy
the lights were low
the lights from the street
added a different shade

of glow
ok
he said
and her hands moved

and did their work
and so did his
bit by bit
time over time

the music playing on
in the background
that and flesh slapping
and the sofa squeaking

was the symphony
of a ****** sound.

The professor's voice fades away
As I notice a brown, flat-footed spider
Tiptoeing
Along our classroom floor.
I watch it,
Invested.
It moves closer to my feet.

I hope it comes my way,
But it moves to the ******* my right.
When I advise her to move her bags,
Spotting the spider, she and her empty eyes say,
"I kind of want to **** it."

I whisper, taken aback,
Don't **** it!
Her boot lifts,
Don't **** it! I say again.

I look away,
Opening my ears to Brahms.
I blink and glance to my right.
She's looking blankly at the teacher.
I can't see the spider anywhere, and
I demand, "Did you **** it?"

She turns her empty eyes,
"Sorry. I think it's sort of dead."
My eyelids tighten, eyebrows squished up,
"Why??"
There is no answer, and
I turn away with a heavy conscious.

More wisdom than the psalms,
voice soothing like swaying palms
or the sweet melodies of Brahms.

Reminds me to wear long johns,
and that what is gold
once was bronze.
Taught me to be strong,
and to accept being wrong.

Has so much class,
but she's still such a bad-***
(even when I give her sass).
She's surely first class.
All the others she does surpass.

Through riot and loss,
she wore the cavalry's cross.
She'll show you who's boss,
all while reminding you to floss.

To My Piano...

I spill out the good tunes
high octaves and silence
the silence not even Brahms
can play out
two sharps one flat
crossover crossover
do you hear the sadness
tremble the pain roar
I feel it
I feel it
steady on the pedal
wandering hands
my eyes skip a beat
putting these keys
to such warmth
push the words
to melody
my unforgiving chant
I want to crawl
slither up your spine
can you feel me
can you hear me
because I sing for you

co. 1999 Bellabloom
Apr 16, 2005, 6:02:44 PM

Through my eyes: From Brahms's secret diary (1857):



Let's  keep this purity

Robert is not dead--deeply

he dwells in our being--we

do him wrong if our memory



should fail him---he will weep

for our lack of fidelity- ah, how deep

indeed is our affection-- his legacy

I'll immortalise in each my symphony.

When you are in love
Daybreak brings you fairy dust
Glittering on fields of four-leaf clover.

When you are in love
Crows take music lessons
And sing to you Brahms Lullabies

When you are in love
The clock turns into Jello
And time loses all meaning when together

When you are in love
The Moon becomes your closest friend
And you can tell her all your secrets.

When you are in love
The world becomes a magic place
And you’re the Head Magician.
                 ljm

it's familiar trickery
in a master's hands -
the ever falling melody
occasionally lifted
just enough
to let the sunlight
shine through

'If we are still talking',
Its just something that we say,
Not wanting to presume each others heart is here to stay.

A comfortable silence,
Lying side by side in tender loves embrace.
Wrapped tightly in your arms,
This is my happy place.

My head upon your chest,
Your heart a lullaby like Brahms.
Secure with your love,
Protecting me from harm.

If we are still talking,
For just five minutes more,
My hope is that when you read my words,
With my love,
You will feel sure.

If we are still talking,
when the midnight hour has struck,
I promise you my smile,
Even though at times,
we may be down on luck.

If we are still talking,
In the months from now,
When you have your 'thinking face',
perhaps a furrowed brow.
For the moments we may disagree,
I hope no petty rows.

I promise to be patient,
And will try to understand,
I promise to be honest with my thoughts,
To stay true and hold your hand.

For times when we're both tired
For times you may feel unease,
I hope with love and gentle humour,
The uneasiness will appease.

My hope is that when you read my words again a second time,
May your eyes deliver them to your heart,
May they secure your soul with mine.

If we are still talking,
In the future, I see with you
I hope you'll share your hopes with me,
With me a future,
Is what I hope you wish for too.

I'm certain we'll still be talking,
Often without the need for words.
Softly our souls are whispering,
Only by one another's,
Can be heard.

If we are still talking',
Its just something that we say,
Not wanting to presume each others heart is here to stay.

Bellissimo, Ti amo,
One moment at a time lets take each day,
Perfection of the here and now,
If we are still talking,
Come what may.

Eternal Schumann:
Your head was born
Between the shadow
Of your  ghost
Daffodil and echo
Always running around
into the wrong guideline
Of your love for Brahms
I think of you in the madhouse
Skinned by demons
And raised by the angels
You remind me of the gloomy manifestation
Of pure love
And every note
From the concert in La
Gloriously dragging
All that energy and ceiling,
All that contained love
Haunting your holy peace
Snatching the muse
Of the sublime and vertical fabric
From the truth ground to sticks.
It's a heartbreaking era
And the corpse of Schumann the terrible
Has been resting for a century
In dizzying memory
Of the human
Already impoverished
For the departure of God
And abandoned
To their fate
To the last cadence
That you did not write
In the first delirium
From schizophrenia




R.

Clouds loiter outside
stained-glass
equally pigment and
dust
blurring pews strewn
with gaping song books,
silent mouths amid
sprouts of green.
Forgotten cathedral,
await the breach of
sun, her voice a
horn, pleading
to paint stone
tiles in shades
of biblical stories.
Your longing
echoes, an
ache in
under-rhythms
felt across time
by those who
reach.

Forget your petty woes and gripes
0f who said what- to whom and why.
there is another life beyond
where millions all live and die.
He loves me or he loves me not,
does it matter? not one jot.
Get out there gal and sieze the day.
your heart is broken, it will heal.
You were betrayed,
come on, get real!
Rejoice and live,
you will feel pain.
but think of what you stand to gain!
life and love, all interwoven,
ballet, opera, Brahms, Beethoven!
think how fortunate you are,
how insignificant your woes,
think of children without love
lacking shelter, food and clothes.
put it all into perspective
seek a friend that you can trust,
friendship is so all important,
without it love is only lust!
Don't marry the one that you can live with,
marry the one you can't live without.
Life is there just for the taking,
Time is passing don't delay.
A leap of faith, a little courage,
Lookout gal your'e on your way....!