"byline" poems
Picnic
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My friends laugh elsewhere on the beach
while I sit here, alone, counting the waves,
writing and rewriting your name in the sand ...
Confession
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your image overwhelmed my vision.
As the long nights passed, I became obsessed with your visage.
Then came the moment when I quietly placed my lips to your picture ...
Rain
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Why shiver alone in the rain, maiden?
Embrace the one in whose warming love your body and mind would be drenched!
There are no rains higher than the rains of Love,
after which the bright rainbows of separation will glow with the mysteries of hues.
My Body's Moods
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I long for the day when you'll be obsessed with me,
when, forgetting the world, you'll miss me with a passion
and stop complaining about my reticence!
Then I may forget all other transactions and liabilities
to realize my world in your arms,
letting my body's moods guide me.
In that moment beyond boundaries and limitations
as we defy the conventions of veil and turban,
let's try our luck and steal a taste of the forbidden fruit!
Moon
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
All of us passengers,
we share the same fate.
And yet I'm alone here on earth,
and she alone there in the sky!
Vanity
by Parveen Shakir
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
His world is so simple, so very different from mine.
So distinct—his dreams and desires.
He speaks rarely.
This morning he wrote: "I saw some lovely flowers and thought of you."
Ha! I know my aging face is no orchid ...
but how I wish I could believe whatever he says, however momentarily!
Keywords/Tags: Perveen Shakir, Urdu, translation, Pakistan, love, passion, picnic, beach, vision, confession, rain, rainbow, hues, forbidden fruit, body, *** orchid, mrburdu
What the Poet Sees
by Michael R. Burch
What the poet sees,
he sees as a swimmer
~~~underwater~~~
watching the shoreline blur
sees through his breath’s weightless bubbles ...
Both worlds grow obscure.
Published by ByLine, Mandrake Poetry Review, Poetically Speaking, E Mobius Pi, Underground Poets, Little Brown Poetry, Little Brown Poetry, Triplopia, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, PW Review, Neovictorian/Cochlea, Muse Apprentice Guild, Mindful of Poetry, Poetry on Demand, Poet’s Haven, Famous Poets and Poems, and Bewildering Stories
May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 11:29 PM UTC
I found my soul at 300 baud
in a world the world would one day come to adore
before there were webs
we were the spiders
before there were laws
nothing could be denied to us
we were wardialling before cybercrime
we were a virus before virii became a fake news byline
but if busted I'll deny I ever tried to
break a trunk through MCI jamaica
sat on ************ station for days
raking in creds like a madmuhfuhn rap master
with nothing greater than a pair of headphones
and a cheap cassette tape deck to take me there
kids today dont respect what they play with
back in the day we had to be outlaws
to connect to todays day to day bandwidth
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
Heart's cover sealed in burgeoning prime
Fading leaves folded in the book of time
Follicles of love blanched on the pages sublime
Billowy blades dulled with eroding sands that modulate and slime
Bleached, seamless threads spliced in the deep recesses of my mind
Glossy words overgrown, strangled with thistle and thyme
Each, dilated syllable devoid of reason and rhyme
Each segment underscored with a stagnating byline
Every, amorous allusion deconstructed; devoid of design
Each, sterile refrain resounds a doleful chime
Remaining, truncated edition a lapsing memory; requited pantomime
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 8:00 AM UTC
I'm not trending.
Have I lost my touch?
Has the flock departed my
exodus for greener pastures
or mountain testaments?
Do the rhymes not carry
the meaning like they used to,
like sailing ships in the steel ages?
I let the winds take me anyways,
take my life and scatter
syllable seedlings across the sites
of battles just old enough where
the ghosts are getting tired.
Maybe I need a touch of comedy?
A critique would be appreciated,
dear reader.
By the way, we made some mistakes
in the last issue you had with us.
On page seven, we established the fact
that I was confident. This was
proven false with a report card report
mailed to us by the fine folks in blue at the
Teacher's Union.
On page nineteen, there was a photo
made of words that sounded like
love song lyrics.
That romance is currently defunct and we
apologize to any soldiers and shippers who
attempted to invade that lost region
on the life map.
Page twenty-three had a mistake,
the byline citing a girl who died
inside.
Our apologies for installing her name on
the neon sign and reminding you all
of the casualties of existing in the first place.
Finally, there was an absence of malice
in the letter from the editor on the back cover,
his eulogizing of his overdosed career
hardly harsh enough a reprimand for
someone who will never listen.
Thank you for your understanding of
this, even if the rest is a mess.
Mar 20, 2014
Mar 20, 2014 at 9:24 AM UTC
Reflections on the Loss of Vision
by Michael R. Burch
The sparrow that cries from the shelter of an ancient oak tree and the squirrels
that dash in delight through the treetops as the first snow glistens and swirls,
remind me so much of my childhood and how the world seemed to me then,
that it seems if I tried
and just closed my eyes,
I could once again be nine or ten.
The rabbits that hide in the bushes where the snowflakes collect as they fall,
hunch there, I know, in the concealing snow, yet now I can't see them at all.
For time slowly weakened my vision; while the patterns seem almost as clear,
some things that I saw
when I was a boy,
are lost to me now in my advancing years.
The chipmunk who seeks out his burrow and the geese now preparing to leave
are there as they were, and yet they are not; and though it seems childish to grieve,
who would condemn a blind man for bemoaning the vision he lost?
Well, in a small way,
through the passage of days,
I have learned some of his loss.
For, as a young boy I endeavored to see things most adults could not—
the camouflaged nests of the hoot owls, the woodpecker’s favorite spots.
But now I no longer can find them, nor understand how I once could,
and it seems such a waste
of those far-sighted days,
to end up near blind in this wood.
Keywords/Tags: reflections, loss, vision, childhood, eyesight, perceptiveness, acuity, age, aging, cataracts, blindness, days, years, decades, near-sighted, far-sighted
What the Poet Sees
by Michael R. Burch
What the poet sees,
he sees as a swimmer
~~~underwater~~~
watching the shoreline blur
sees through his breath’s weightless bubbles ...
Both worlds grow obscure.
Published by ByLine, Mandrake Poetry Review, Poetically Speaking, E Mobius Pi, Underground Poets, Little Brown Poetry, Little Brown Poetry, Triplopia, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, PW Review, Neovictorian/Cochlea, Muse Apprentice Guild, Mindful of Poetry, Poetry on Demand, Poet’s Haven, Famous Poets and Poems, and Bewildering Stories
Apr 12, 2020
Apr 12, 2020 at 12:59 AM UTC
Those pen marks
That keep you up
Through nights are just a cure
For when you thought
They knocked and opened
And barged in through your door.
You feel lofty and lost
And so obscure,
That it fills you up with beauty
You end up carving on your own.
You never ask
You never tell
You're a byline
Underneath, unread.
Maybe that's why
When they were scared
They called for help
Didn't hear you yelp
No, no, no.
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 2:20 AM UTC
Life has many things to offer
The mistakes that make us better
The everyday that makes us wiser
The trials that prepare us for the future
The past to dwell on
The present to work on
The memories to treasure
The things that need closure
The grief that makes us stronger
The failure that makes victories sweeter
The dreams yet to come true
And the times I've had with you
The choices that made us to who we are
The reasons why we go so far
The sadness that made us hope
The joys that makes life a kaleidoscope
The joys that make the efforts worth it
The joys we can never omit
The joys that make life worth living
The joys that we dream of feeling
The joys that keep us moving
The joys that we keep on reliving
The joys I've hold on to
The joys I've shared with you
Sadly,
Life is a devious crime
Life didn't give us enough time
You were the greatest joy I ever had
You were the happiness that never was mine
Life gave us time to live under the byline
But life didn't let me call you mine
I never even got to call you mine...
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
Sanmati, my source, is equine
Arising year by year to twine.
Naming ceremony like a mine –
Mining gold, silver, bromine.
All averse to Sanmati divine
Time and again – old shrine.
I will support her – Him within
Jains as do by going byline.
All will succumb to Him by entwine.
I presume the same qualities spine
Neatly in the world which He assign.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 10:58 PM UTC
I want to sit and eat ice cream
Until I can’t eat any more.
I want wake up late each day
Until I can’t sleep any more.
I want to take people out to eat
At the most expensive places
And watch the joy spread out
All over each of their faces.
I don’t want to seem greedy
So don’t go off in a huff.
I don’t want an excess of things.
Really, I want just enough.
Just enough to buy presents
For the people I really like.
The rest of the salesmen
Can take a royal hike.
I want to go swimming in
A peaceful hidden lake.
I want to ride the bumper cars
And never hit the brake.
I’ll gladly clean up backstage
At a hit Broadway show.
I want to drive a fast car
As quickly as it will go.
I want to be in a big movie;
Have some speaking lines.
Be invited to the Academy awards;
The name on the card mine.
I want to perform at Carnegie Hall
So they hear me in the back row,
When I sing songs that I wrote
And receive a standing ‘O’.
I want some of my own poetry
To be printed in the NY Times
With plaudits and huzzahs
And a 12 point printed byline.
I want to have to sign autographs
When I got out to eat somewhere.
And, have lots of money in the bank.
And still have plenty to share.
As long as I am wishing here
I may as well tell the truth.
After all it would do no good
To wish for good looks and youth.
It’s not all that much different than
Making a list for Santa Claus.
So saying exactly what I want
Won’t give me a moment’s pause.
But if I get my fondest wishes
Everything I’d like the most
I want something huge and fun
And I am not trying to boast.
I wish everybody could get
At least a few of their list.
So, write your own list out today
And make sure nothing is missed.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 11:54 PM UTC
Sanmati, my source, is completely mine
As she never missed going to shrine.
Nor does she move slowly like a bovine.
Much was done to munch through byline
Against me or her to bypass or to confine.
Thanks to expedition that made her whine
Inner talents, flairs, bents and gifts fine.
Jain are we: active is she; before deadline
All her work is complete – quality divine.
Illegitimacy! Come thou and pour wine
Near those who still soar for heavenly design.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 10:55 PM UTC
As close as I would love to cling yet the further Iam from you is a sort of healing.
Being on the byline of obsession yet Iam trying to be on the verge of oblivion.
Custodian to your companionship yet I would love to be the cause of your hardship.
Dreams of you should be everlasting yet I can't wait to wake up and rid myself of the sting.
Eternal happiness is what I wish for you yet eternal hatred is what I wish upon you.
Fineness praising you yet I feel a sort of self -destruction when writing of you.
Grieving for my sort of delicacy yet
Iam addicted to you like Hennessy.
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 3:07 PM UTC
long to be with her
She wants someone else
Her actions is different frm her wrds
Wen she's with me
I find my haven in her
Re this all I wanted
Or dey're mirage
Wen she's with him
She becomes cold towards me
Get scared of calling cos her tone is scolding
She quickly wants to get off d phone
Soft talk in pace
Can I kip up in dis race
Crying becomes a routine
Can't find my rhythm
Tot she's drifting away
Didn't realise she's far gone
She came to say goodbye
Nw I see d bye bye
Guess she's my rabbi
Cos I can see d byline
She made her hair going to see him
Me she didn't even flinch
Asked our normal question
Are u ok/cool
Her response shocked me
Why the question
Do I expect her not to be ok
Cold feet I had
Tank God I didn't get struck by a truck
Told her I had issues
She didn't bother askin wat d issue was
I asked her to come on Friday
She said it was too early
Today she went to see him early
Am I a fool
Or i'm being taken as a full fool
Well she's with her love
Why shouldn't she be hapi
I guess dat's wat she meant
Do I mean anytin to her anymore
Or i'm a tool being taken along
She once told me
Dat I shouldn't repeat d same mistake
In my next relationship
Oh my should've read the hand written on the wall
Is dis d voice of Jacob and d hand of esau
Forgetting her I can't
She wants me to move on
Move on to wat
Guess to my masters
After 4yrs tot it was worth the wait
Guess i'll neva. Be loved d way I want
Who knows may be i'm paying for the sins of my ancestors
They worshipped ifa
Guess dey made some innocent peeps cried
And dose peeps are hunting me nw
Yet she said if I truly love her
I wouldn't cry any
I found a place to cry in apapa
Was asked if anyone died
I said YES my love's feeling for me is
Dey all laughed
And said even in t,ears I still hav my sense of humour
Didn't want to try out loving again
Aina made me too
Do I regret
NO she's been awesome all d way
Even wen she leaves
Or has she has left
She'll hav her place unoccupied as long as I live
She wants She'll hav her place unoccupied as long as I live
She wants to stick around till I make it
As wat I ask
She has suffered with me
She deserves to enjoy too
She said I should be ready for d worst
Guess she has made up her mind She'll hav her place unoccupied as long as I live
She wants to stick around till I make it
As wat I ask
She has suffered with me
She deserves to enjoy too
She said I should be ready for d worst
Guess she has made up her mind long before now
Well i'm prepared for just one tin
Which is notin
All my readiness is to love her always
Whether she leaves or stay
If she leaves she can always come back
I long for no one else
Until she tells me to live without her
Even @ dat
I won't give up
This is not the end
It's just d beginning.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 4:48 AM UTC
Do you have a byline?
Do you have a name?
I swear it's always changing
Why are you never the same?
Are you just a teaser
For something that lies beneath?
A shabby, broken prelude
Like chipped and shiny teeth
Maybe you're a template
Rigid, with fuck-ups here and there
Burried beneath the words assigned
That are too specific to spare
I bet you're just an issue
Filled with pages of opinions and concerns
Wishing to step away from your stand
But you're just too much to burn.
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 2:48 PM UTC
here comes the buzz
here comes the feed
don't bother with facts
there's really no need
if you're looking for stories
to sensationalize
if you need entertainment
just fill it with lies
and where we are going
is anyone's guess
as we fill in the byline
with anonymous
saying we heard it from sources
we can not confirm
but it still is our hope
you believe every word
though you may have your doubts
about what you just read
we've still placed that thought
inside of your head
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 8:38 AM UTC
Fame is a mask that eats up your face
Choking on the anonymity of celebrity
With all your eyes in a different place
Obscuring the last vestige of humility
Priorities rearranged in synchronicity
Shifting headlines matching duplicity
Life’s a duet with your own positivity
Decaying in lightbulbs of anonymity
That countenance divine is truly thine
For a whole fifteen minutes of nothing
But sound and a furiously hyped byline
On an empty face devoid of everything
There’s the shame and there’s the pity
There is no such thing as bad publicity.
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 9:40 AM UTC