POEMS ABOUT EROS AND CUPID

These are translations of ancient Greek poems about Eros. Eros was the Greek counterpart of the Roman god Cupid. While today we tend to think of Cupid as an angelic cherub shooting arrows and making people fall in love, the ancient Greek and Roman poets often portrayed Cupid/Eros as a troublemaker who was driving them mad with uncontrollable desires.


Sappho, fragment 42
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eros harrows my heart:
wilds winds whipping desolate mountains,
uprooting oaks.



Sappho, fragment 130
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eros, the limb-shatterer,
rattles me,
an irresistible
constrictor.



Sappho, fragment 54
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eros
descends from heaven,
discarding his imperial purple mantle.



Preposterous Eros
by Michael R. Burch

“Preposterous Eros” – Patricia Falanga

Preposterous Eros shot me in
the buttocks, with a Devilish grin,
spent all my money in a rush
then left my heart effete pink mush.



Sappho, fragment 22
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

That enticing girl's clinging dresses
leave me trembling, overcome by happiness,
as once, when I saw the Goddess in my prayers
eclipsing Cyprus.



Sappho, fragment 102
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mother, how can I weave,
so overwhelmed by love?



Sappho, fragment 10
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I lust!
I crave!
Take me!


Around the same time Sappho was writing in ******, in nearby Greece, circa 564 B.C., we have another poem about the power of Eros:

Ibykos Fragment 286
translation by Michael R. Burch

Come spring, the grand
apple trees stand
watered by a gushing river
where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver
and the blossoming grape vine swells
in the gathering shadows.

Unfortunately
for me
Eros never rests
but like a Thracian tempest
ablaze with lightning
emanates from Aphrodite;
the results are frightening―
black,
bleak,
astonishing,
violently jolting me from my soles
to my soul.



I hate Eros! Why does that gargantuan God dart my heart, rather than wild beasts? What can a God think to gain by inflaming a man? What trophies can he hope to win with my head?
―Alcaeus of Messene, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Have mercy, dear Phoebus, drawer of the bow, for were you not also wounded by love’s streaking arrows?
―Claudianus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In Greek mythology, Cupid shoots Phoebus Apollo to make him fall in love with Daphne, then shoots Daphne with an arrow that prevents her from falling in love with her suitor.



Matchmaker Love, if you can’t set a couple equally aflame, why not ***** out your torch?
―Rufinus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



I have armed myself with wisdom against Love;
he cannot defeat me in single combat.
I, a mere mortal, have withstood a God!
But if he enlists the aid of Bacchus,
what odds do I have against the two of them?
―Rufinus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Love, if you aim your arrows at both of us impartially, you’re a God, but if you favor one over the other, you’re the Devil!
―Rufinus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Either put an end to lust, Eros, or else insist on reciprocity: abolish desire or heighten it.
―Lucilius or Polemo of Pontus, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Steady your bow, Cypris, and at your leisure select a likelier target ... for I am too full of arrows to take another wound.
―Archias, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cypris was another name for Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love. Here the poet may be suggesting, “Like mother, like son.”



Little Love, lay my heart waste;
empty your quiver into me;
leave not an arrow unshot!
Slay me with your cruel shafts,
but when you’d shoot someone else,
you’ll find yourself out of ammo!
―Archias, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



You say I should flee from Love, but it’s hopeless!
How can a man on foot escape from a winged creature with unerring accuracy?
―Archias, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Many centuries later, poets would still be complaining about the overpoweringness of ****** desire, and/or the unfairness of unrequited love, by which they often meant not getting laid!



Spring
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Young lovers,
greeting the spring
fling themselves downhill,
making cobblestones ring
with their wild leaps and arcs,
like ecstatic sparks
drawn from coal.

What is their brazen goal?

They grab at whatever passes,
so we can only hazard guesses.
But they rear like prancing steeds
raked by brilliant spurs of need,
Young lovers.


Fast-forwarding again, we find the great Scottish poet William Dunbar, who was born around 1460:

Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar
translation by Michael R. Burch

Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that is held most dear,
except only that you are merciless.

Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently,
yet everywhere, no odor but rue.

I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose of pallid and gentle cast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that, if I could, I would compose her roots again,
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.

Keywords/Tags: Eros, Cupid, Phoebus Apollo, Cypris, Aphrodite, love, blind love, cute love, love god, love goddess, bow, arrow, arrows, desire, passion, lust, heart

My father taught me five:
He taught me
1. That it is okay to be late to dinner or not show up at all as long as you have a good reason.
taught me
2. That everyone makes mistakes and either you live with them or you runaway from them leaving only a voicemail and a forwarding address.
taught me
3. That you'll never have to be disappointed by others if your the disappointment and if you leave before the introductions.
taught me
4. That names are fickle, and there is never any point of telling someone yours if you have no plans to remember theirs.
taught me
5. That you have to give a little to get a little but that sometimes you give a little and get a lot of something you don't want.

My mother taught me five:
She taught me
5. That somedays you'll wake up and want to die because life is hard and no one will be on your side if you're against yourself.
taught me
4.  That it is hard to forgive and forget and it is even harder when you're 19 and all you're left with is a swelling abdomen, a voicemail and a forwarding address.
taught me
3. That good deeds don't make the person, that sacrifices make the person, that waking up alone at 4am to a crying baby makes the person.
taught me
2. That it's healthy to cry, but it's not healthy to cry yourself to sleep at night and cry yourself into productivity in the morning.
taught me
1. That it is okay to be late to dinner or not show up at all as long as you have a good reason.

I think that I shall never see
A thing as odd as eight baby
Eight baby from a single mother
Makes me roll my eyes- oh brother
Oh sister oh brother oh sister oh yeah
Mother looked like a Guernsey cow
Is there milk enough- I don't see how?

Eight colic'd infants wailing in the night-
Draw back, draw back- go fly a kite
Eight fitful babies screaming in duress-
Moved far away left no forwarding address
Eight poopy babies dragging two pound diapers
Went to the car wash and used the windshield wipers
Eight teething babies wrangling on the bed-
Picked up a gun and blew off her head.

CROSSROADS
by Beth Faulkner

When you know I'm dead, don't say my name
for I will never move on.
I would hear your voice and return.
I'd live in this eternal waiting room
Watching memories like home videos.
Pausing at the wonderful times,
fast forwarding through the hard,
rewinding and playing over and over
to hear you ask if I shall love you always
,and myself answer "till the end of days"
I need to leave,but I make every excuse not to
Watching the memories until our last moments
Then I hear you call my name and begin again..

******

I know you're dead, and I still whisper your name
for I will never move on.
I hear your voice and beg for you to return
to the eternal waiting room of my mind.
Watching my memories like home videos,
pausing at the time where you belonged to me
fast forwarding through my times without you
rewinding and playing over and over
knowing that I shall love you always
'Til the end of days.
I need to leave, move on.
But every memory is a reason not to.
Watching them until my last moment,
until I whisper your name, and begin again..

Virginia,
bathed in the misty Ouse
overcoat pockets filled with the hard grey stones of life
dark rocks to match the shadows
of the mountain heaped upon her back
until she could not bear the load
so she swam, and did not leave a forwarding address
or bring a towel and sandwiches for a picnic

allowing for a two part volume
of Proust's À la recherche du temps perdu...
is unforgiving... it's asking a meat-head
to read such a body like exploring a woman's...
a gay-man's psyche is pretty much a woman...
or what a woman thinks in secret,
gay men merely vocalise what a woman does
not say... and yes, that a with a diacritical
mark... that grave above the a? the à?
it works like a comma... à! a surprise kindred
an eureka that's not really original,
an: ah! and then you say the rest of the title...
iconic pause: in search of lost time...
          it took me about five minutes to figure
that one out... lost time, but occupied a space...
  and so much political vanity is consecrated
upon the reverse.. ineffective space:
thus gained time... for all that protests are worth.

i know i go on about this a lot, surprise surprise,
i'm actually engaging in systematisation...
once you enjoy writing as much as walking
you get to reach a systematisation,
     it's a painful process, i'd never do the editing process
of a Hemingway... write something: shoot some
camels and reindeer and go back and revise a piece
of writing: drink a *death in the afternoon -
a shot of absinthe inside a champagne glug
or the modern: shot of Jägermeister inside a glass
of red bull... (yay-gay-mr.) -
                       or how do you make snakebite?
half a láger half a çíder - and a head of blackcurrant
squash... scoot meine good look.
  but diacritical marks are what punctuation marks
are... it's only that they've become elevated,
and unlike punctuation marks governing paragraphs
and sentences... they govern the words,
         they are syllable incision indicators...
  i mean: i don't revise something i've already written,
unless it's a spelling mistake... i just write
something new... it's sadistic in my mind's eye to
revise and revise a single effort of writing...
                i'd rather centralise a theme of the paradox
of re-, in the year 2018 i will still experience
the tetratempus - containing four seasons -
         and i will never return toward making a piece
of writing become a morbidly corrected statue...
     what's done is done, let us move toward another
circumstance of being able to acquire a new kind
of observation... i can't be a sadist in terms of also
being a perfectionist... i break a leg, i break a leg...
if i write a ****** poem, i'll write a ****** poem...
but i won't be bothered like human history has been
by preoccupying itself in forwarding the drama
on Golgotha Street...
    the newest addition to the vogue scene is a corset
paired with a waistcoat...
   the snooker championships are taking place,
and i says to my father: 'a bit like chess, ain't it?'
   'sure is', he replies, 'you have to think 3 moves ahead.'
and it is... a smart sport, actually the most intelligent
sport there is... ****** boring obviously,
unless you fake the boredom and think about angles
and triangles and Newton...
   and cover the game with such congestions of
pretending to hallucinate it all...
                or take to thinking about rebellious
Saturn spinning out of orbit and doing a Mike Tyson
to Jupiter...
          but it's very much like chess...
                   it's sporty chess... snooker is chess...
  and it definitely ain't pool...
         you could actually have a ******* on a snooker table...
while either doggy or missionary positioning on
the snooker table... so what are the odds?!
         but i'll tell you one thing... snooker beats golf...
i don't know why... but once colour televisions came into
existence: it made much more sense for both
spectator and commentator... and how dare you
not cling to the 20th century if you were born in it
to translate to the 21st androids how we experienced
an evolution of technology, that made much more sense
after what i just heard...
      so there's this woman in the U.S., and this is before
president-elect and whatnot...
  and she's 22, and it's all over vice news,
and she's scared, and she's a mother of a 1 year old...
    and then this picture emerges
(don't worry, it's not anything like playing the Sims
   and moving your Sim to play computer games
and seeing a wormhole, or the infinity mirror effect)...
and there's a scene when she's talking Donald Duck
to the child... there are no meaningful words being
said... merely sounds... onomatopoeias...
and yes... this makes perfectly good sense when
stressed as a cut-off capsule...
because Darwinism doesn't really provide much
history... Darwinism is a historical erasure:
the past 2000 years could have happened,
but not really...
  but it just fascinated me...
         when did we learn or who did we learn it from
given we were placed at so many different
plots of the globe and became convergent -
anyway - the woman is teaching the child
words via the onomatopoeia of a hoarse quacking
of a duck! i probably will not find an answer
(primarily because i'm not supposed to,
if i am to perpetuate what Aristotle taught, i.e.:
be wrong and continually circumstance being in awe,
given the mundanity that nonetheless
everything keeps repeating itself over and over again,
for sustenance, and you are not sustenance bound
as corrected by your language deficiency to
ever merge into an unconsciously organised module
that might also argue an ego) -
    but i wonder how difficult it must have been
to extract something beyond the minimalism of animals
that identifies a duck with a quack, a cow with a moo,
an serpent with a sss... a cat with a meow, a dog with a bark...
    i cannot conceive how difficult this explanation
will be... but given the timeframe, i'm more awe-stricken
by this than merely being awe-bound by the time-scale...
which becomes the least affordable option of being
struck by awe, because one becomes merely awe-bound
by it, and therefore apathetic towards such a time-scale.
       how did we suddenly extract an understanding
of an onomatopoeia to distinguish our own ontological
basis for making a sound by infusing a sound that
doesn't resemble us? when did the first ape bark like
a dog? but then again, looking at the canvas already
apparent to us... what was the point of such an adventure?
hippy culture says: monkey accidently ate a mushroom,
monkey suddenly was blown away and reasoned of
a higher purpose other than a tree and a coconut...
     mudvayne quotes the guy on l.d. 50...
what's the guys name... uggh! not Timothy Leary...
ah ****! Terence McKenna! that's it!
        am i high? nope... my respectability of argument
comes from the mystical properties of... whiskey.
hmm...      that rarely happens to people.
                   it's what's called being earthbound, or gravity
prone... sink like a skipping pebble across the lake...
          and like a tonne of lard.
             tomorrow i'll wake once more and still
think about how we encouraged the discovery of
onomatopoeia to teach our children the multiplicity of
sounds, and later deconstruct such a multiplicity to
create meaningful words that go beyond knock knock! jokes
and grunts and barking...
                     but i will never know the man who
created the fermentation process from potatoes to make
*****...
                or the guy who brewed the first pint...
or the guy that smoked the first marijuana bush ensemble
while clearing the land for a place to harvest wheat...
   all the fame that exists is simply scholastic...
  schoolboy fame... which is why so much attention
goes into becoming famous in school...
                        but still that woman teaching her child how
to speak by going down into the blobby-gurgling
  tongue of the toddler, stiffening it,
      and tightening the **** and bladder too...
  by talking Donald Duck to it...
                        i probably could have had a family myself...
but can you imagine someone writing this load of
******* and having a family? there wouldn't be any time!
           still (god, what a need to repeat!)
         how did we progress from saying ape-****?
surely if we started to imitate other animals they'd join us
in our need to usurp those ******* lions!
  lo and behold... we managed to pet dogs (so they were
in on it all along)... and cats (who came from Japan,
if **** sapiens came from Africa... cats came from Japan...
bonsai frocked and all) -
                            but you have to admit...
from what is written history, to what is history and
a gap in history going back to a similitude of form -
      you can write as much historical fiction as you want...
    and you'll never have to write a bestseller about
some centurion in the Roman Empire...
   or a quo vadis by Sienkiewicz (nobel prize winner)
for the depiction of emperor Nero...
                               ******* Sesame St. giggles...
still, the question beckons... if animals can behave in
an ultra-intuitive way as if fashioned by a telepathy...
then telepathy can only exist upon a very simple,
atomic, terse vocalisation of an identity...
   a dog barks... a man can bark too...
                                but we have completely lost our
intuitive talent (if it can be called that)...
          to have sacrificed intuition is to have created
cults or counter-intuitive hierarchies...
  so a 1000 blah blahs later i still prefer to write what
i like... than write what people "might" understand
and talk to a girl about...
                                     a bit like a woman discovering
you faked writing a poem 20 years into a marriage...
                  obviously the setbacks to boot...
                            dyslexia is an optical dimension...
no one dyslexic says a word they don't understand
a meaning of... dyslexia seemingly came from
finally having enshrined the "secret" to the monopoly
of writing sounds...
                          nonetheless... at the end of the day...
it's just too much history... there's too much of it...
            there was never going to be a world
where carpe diem ruled it...
                               it was a question how we clung to
certain things, within a framework of
                                             salmon dye omni:
sure sure... piglet pink and innocent for the rest
of our lives... once Darwinism pointed at the ape,
and once physicists dropped the bomb and the bang...
no day has had any significance at all...
   + the 24h news channels...           snuggle up to a hog
             and say: fog over Heathrow... all flights are grounded.

. bye bye, ms. american pie...

ever find a hallucination
of a strawberry in a cigarette?
or a vanilla ice-cream cone
in a bottle of rye?

dear ms. amber, dear ms. amber,
dear mr, john smithy...
could i possibly take ylur daughter
to the dance?

may you be the beauty i sometimes
expected as a wife...
who heeds ****...
just listen to teenage girls prior
to the "ultimate" loss
of virginity...

to name but one...
she clearly lost her sort of bit,
Madonna music immunity....
to boot...
       abooktopia...

does that word mean anything
without a children's book
contracts by publishers?
or therefore, with?

                 i forgot to ensure
curating an interest in...
    to overcome the summary
of the crude encompassing of...
klaus doldinger....

              erinnerung...

    tod spricht vorausgehend
       zu leben...

it's almost funny...
people with the sole capacity to
recite...
merely ******,
  Himmler,
        Göring,
                   Goebbels...
      
               but i thought Nazis were
in season?
i thought society required Nazis?!
   such a pithy...
such puny recitals!
               almost all of the WWI soldiers
under Wilhelm were
deemed heroes...
      thank **** that i'm not even
a quarter German...
given... what the united powers
did converging over
Berlin... with the ***** epidemic...

    even though i'm Polish...
and i remember my great-grandmother
hiding from both the Nazis and
the Red Army...
you want a ******* villain...
i'll be a **** for you...
no problem...

                      i sort of have a fetish
for the Dritte ***** uniforms...
       lodged in a Indiana Jones movie...
**** it...
suit up and boot me in into
the act...
            i don't mind...
what you can't take away
from the Nazis that you can take
away from all other antagonists...
pristine tailoring!
     you can't match up
to whatever axis / empire of evil...
and "think"
you can out-compete
the tailoring of **** uniforms...
no chance in hell...
however many
pineapples harvey keitel
shoves up Adolf ******'s ***...
  
it's still Armani grey when it comes
to the uniformed officers
of the the Wehrmacht...
as it is the: sly "little" number...
for the Coco Chanel... SS
splinter, base, bias, *****.

if people are so desperate for
a ****?  
  can you really starve the people?
and not give them one?!
that would be most cruel...
i think people deserve a bull's eye!

you're most welcome...
   there i was, suffocating on the fact...
that you were disorientated...
and pointing at false actors of...
what you expected to be
the motivational enzyme -
sole curator,
               of forwarding history;

why didn't these people come to
me sooner?
  i would have played the **** sooner!

Hath thou seen Queen Mab to-day?
in that bitter carriage, with her dreams
         Forwarding to the cursèd fray
with unhallowed thoughts, or so ’twould seem
         And creeping under willow’s bough
’pon rotting leaves and sick’ning scents
         Of fretting unborn babes and now
she peddles with a marred intent
         With foreign faeries in the leaves
who show broken wares and scattered souls
         They hide amongst the dripping reeds
while dying rays reflect on shoals
         And here, on the last hour of light
mab cursed the world into the night.

I have Scratched your name
into my Calendar

Your name sits on the lined of my diary
poised for consistent use

At what point did you become
so natural to me

So that when I said your name,
it tasted like nostalgia and hope

and the Cool Fire of our words
warms me to contentment

It wasn't until you spoke and
I smiled

That I knew I missed you when you
were gone

But how can I miss you
When you're only an hour away

Still
I'm regretting the wasted July Mornings

When my nerves swallowed up the sentiments that said
that I think of you sometime, even when you aren't around

It sounds frivolous to say that I'd hope for events
that would draw your lens near

But now I'm budgeting you into my time
and Just hope that it's not wasted

The effort it takes to write these sentiments down is
Nearly incomparable to that effort which must be taken

to Remind the heart on my Sleeve to stay put
and not seep into that vein that will Surely carry dreams across my body

The word that I could entitle
Perfect

And since that word is unattainable here

I'll only say all the others  

You're that feeling right after a pull
And you feel yourself slip under the friendly drowse

You're that feeling when you feel a set of eyes on your
blushing cheeks

You're the laughter of
a clever retort

You're a Melody thats gives spirit to my word

You're that fire that burns with
a bravery that you cannot see

You're that ticking clock, there to remind me
that Time is Precious

and Soon I hate that circled square on the
Calendar
&
I pray that that circle does not act as a deadline
for when your heart can be
mine

Because I like the sweetness of our fresh beginnings
And I do hope I may call it a beginning

Instead of a short story.

I'm all over the clock,
Yearning for more firsts with you

But even still, hoping for a second or 12.

And some first that could count
in a way that didn't get chalked up to

Naive Sentiments

Meaning I want you too much
And My head is rushing

Hours into this Instant.

Fast Forwarding to our Next Kiss

Sending me on a Clockwise Whirlwind
to times that may not even exist

But I still hope and Gamble
for More hours to play

Procrastinating the Seconds into convincing us all

That It's Casual

It is not Casual, to me.

Out of everything I saw, I remember
the thumb.
Swollen and lopsided.
There it was, conquering the wires--red, blue, and green,
commandeering the clear tubes coated with stomach bile.
And the nail. What a healthy nail.
A pink rosebud with cuticle trim. Piqued with a white crest, curling.
Prime for at least fifteen more back scratches.
A drawerful of button-ups.
Pockets of heads and tails.
You can do it, Grandma.
One, two.
Heads, tails.
Up, down.
Up for braid, down for bun.
Braid? Yes. Braid.
And then there are two small thumbs bumbling through foreign terrain.
The braidee now braiding. The baby,
aging.
Tucked in, lulled by echoes of strange mothers. Bleeping pressures, sugars, drawing lines and colors.

But you have me.
And I have this thumb,
hidden under mine.
I’ll keep it safe for you, here in this shadowed palm—sanctified, secret dome.
I’ll protect it from the unhooked jaw.
From placid flesh curtains, over a damp backstage.
White light hanging over the insect—splayed on a lightning-gleamed car windshield.
I’ll hide it away.
Intermission.
Hush now.
Quiet, you. The show is not yet done.
And ******, it won’t be. Not with this thumb.
Not on my time.

I bite it.
At you. Skyward you.
Elusive and slippery. Shiny, rubber-like, all but new.
A blank belated card, lost in the mail.
What it might have said,
had I left a forwarding address.

But we’re here now in this dark hand cavern.
Tucked away, safely in lines.
Those of the palm.
Of tree rings.
Of love songs, and
Pretty things.
Lines, like wires
red, green, and blue.
They bring me closer
And closer
To the thumb.
Fat, with shiny aged skin,
stretched new.
And suddenly, I’m
Old.
Numb along one side.
Useless and dumb.
A limp puppet
plunked down
during intermission.

My ex showed-up again today.
Although, she’s not been here for years.
I wish she’d go away.

I feel, once more, that stabbing bite;
That poison dagger in my back
that twists at thoughts of her.

Those certain songs I hear at night,
or in some random woman’s hair
re-lives when love went bad.

But painful memories will fade;
at least that’s what I’ve heard them say.
Time heals the broken heart.

I wonder when that starts.

I asked my friends to look after my house
while I was away.
I left a forwarding address
and nothing else.
A few asked how long I would be gone,
and I said I wasn't sure.
I don't know much more than my middle name.

My mother called,
breaking the silent drive I was enjoying.
She asked if I was still with Schyler.
I told her I didn't know,
and that she would have to call him
after his date.
I've heard she is a respectable woman.

I checked into the Chinatown motel
and tipped the bell hop after he retrieved my mail.
Not that I appreciated his services;
I hoped he would save his earnings and leave.
No one deserves to grow up here.

One letter was from my neighbor
asking for a postcard.
I sent my bill, hoping that was enough.

The second was from my brother,
his letter of resignation and a simple request
with a time constraint:
You have two weeks to make everything right.

While looking for a black pen
I found a green answer,
and the returning question of why
blue and red make white,
and not the beautiful purple hue
Schyler talked about so often.
I wondered if he had forgotten the color of my eyes.

I ran out of time and spent all my money
with no souvenirs to showcase back home.
Schyler seemed hesitant when I gave him
a date of my return,
and I lied when I said I missed his embrace.
I left a note on my pillow
appologizing for the mess
and said that I would be back next year.

My excuse to return the stolen towels.

Time is fast forwarding and I don't think I can keep up. My soul is darkening just like the bags under my eyes. I'm exhausted in every way possible. I'm a traveler stagnant and stuck bouncing from person to person to reach my destination. They all tell me that they can't help me unless I can help myself. Till I met you...  hopeful speck, brighten up. It seems like you're my partner on this journey, a soul fused to mine. "A best friend is just part of yourself in another body."  Everyday we talk about new destinations when I can only think of my own. Why would a god do this to a lonely traveler? Why would a God open up new routes when I was so close to the end..so I abandoned you..to continue my own journey..It grew dark again. I lost the moon while staring at the the stars. The light at the end of the tunnel seems to be a hopeful speck in the distance I may never reach, but I keep walking.

Your world belongs to me now.
I can take over every aspect of it, 24/7,
Stopping just shy, by a few micrometers, of what the law allows.
I'll accompany you now on all shopping trips
Offering my advice from, oh, forty feet or so away.
I'll utilize binoculars to make sure you're not doing anything unsafe.
Amazing how well those things work sometimes.
Especially at night, eh?
I might have to replace your dog with a smaller, less intimidating unit;
Of course; you're free to keep the replacement or do whatever you want with him.
Don't want to risk a serious bite on my intrusive forays after darkness..

Call forwarding; amazing cool thing that is!
No questions asked; just need a few minutes time on the telephone!
And pictures; I'll be taking loads of those.
You never know just when a particular photo might come in real handy.
I carry around bird-watching paraphernalia, so anytime I get stopped,
Everything looks copacetic, even the binos.

I also carry groundwater test kits, along with shovels, rakes; boring stuff like that.
You never know when you might need to test the water in an area.
The test kits are out of date by a decade or more, but who's checking?

Had to duct tape that old broken out back window.
I know, I know; it's unsightly and makes me highly visible,
But they'll never raise an eyebrow now, on seeing that fat roll of duct tape.
And you will always have peace of mind, since you can readily identify my car
And know for sure that I'm on the job, around the clock-
Working only for you, babe.

Oops; time's a-flying. Have to get downtown to the city before they close.
I've requested to take a peek at some publicly viewable records.
Amazing what you can find out there, that you never would have expected.
Isn't it?
Bye now; catch you later, ok?

Zen minimalist, tool
slipping words ******* in
and seizing hold, mixing in subtle verbs
spinning worlds, filling up voids
with a tantalizing wetness

Yes, minimalist
and less is more

so clean that up you ***** *****
and speak only silence
leave them lost in awkwardness
born from want and wanting more, like

‘I know you want this
and yes I got this
minus man or wing by my side
rising instead from happy feelings, inside
sounding wise enough to me
and maybe soon I'll see exactly
what they meant’

as we drop and rise
in two time beat
knees, bent, in, weak
quivering at the seams
diving into dreams and coming
out breath stopped, heart attacked,
jagged and off

then two scenes later, maybe three tops
jumping ahead, fast forwarding to
the quick bits
the grimy bits
the slimy bits
the ins and outs
proving what drive thru is all about-

- since there's no need to waste time
on the things we can do
again, and again, and again.

Then, reverse spin
back to the beginning, cowboy
back to the drawing board
back to the sheets

put your back in it and ride, harder
calves carved in, jump the fleet
lift arms up in victory

the downward dog days are over
and we saw them coming
inhibitions released
letting go of the sweet
and drizzling, no just
jizzing all over the ******* place

hot and flustered, in our face
rushing to encase thoughts that
had always filled the space
but still, found no place in design

rather finding the time
to bleed them out, in epiphanies,
calling them nirvanas
calling them divinities

but titling them Truth.

And swearing, on your life
that that's what it was to you

and I lay there, only trying
not to believe it too.

The world has turned into a global village
No one can deny on that...

But..remember the phone we had placed on that beautiful table mat?
Yes...it was a matter of pride to have one..

The only fastest medium of communication we had at that time
It too had models...the rotary phone, the keypad and many fancy ones

We talked, laughed and sobbed sitting at one place as we were tied with the corded set with everyone.

It was safe.....no fear of radiation or loss of eye sight .

Though it was much too costlier than what it is today....people still communicated and talked their heart out

Now...every hand has a cell phone which comes with many features overcoming the limitation of the old one
People can connect anywhere in no time
Then why...?
We are so disconnected.....!

May be we mastered the art of telepathy?...or we are blessed with a magical wand...?

We talk no more
We only make groups
We love forwarding messages

We have become mute.....

So can we again move to landline?
Come out of the virtual world by talking to our dear ones at this time?
Can we try and understand what they are hiding behind their smiling whatsapp profiles?

Let's do things one at a time...rather than multitasking with phone on one hand and laptop on the other...
Let's give them the love and respect when one needs from your side.
So ..... sit back and dial a number of your loved one...and help the world again to become one if not through landline but may be your heartline!!

Bina Mukherjee

Once again clinging to the past like a baby clings to her mother
Walking in a straight line I sometimes forget the world is a circle
If I keep going straight I'll find myself exactly where I first started
And going back after walking so far at this point is not what I want at all
How is it I wander back home when I am trying to run away
Does the world shift my straight lines to secretly turn me around?
I don't want to be put into reverse nor do I want to fast forward
Pausing myself and looking around, I find myself somewhere foreign
Like always I shrug and choose a direction to make straight lines in
Fast forwarding and rewinding all the time and never knowing it
Maybe my changing motions make a three dimensional cycle
My straight lines curve in the 5th dimension that I cannot see
Impossible movements from the unknown are my trickery
But somehow I find myself starting over from scratch again
1d 2d 3d 4d all I need is something to correctly move me
I need to direct my path into the right navigations of motion
So program my straight lines and distort the dimension of curveballs
It's time to pause and figure out where I am and where I'm headed.

Journey to a far off land,

Forget about events transpired

Stare into the bright lit tube

Powered through its wires

Click the switch, surf the waves

Before deciding on a channel

That allows you to open up your mind

Never more than you can handle

Relax

Grab a snack

Sit there in your underwear for all I
care

Ponder life's mystique

Let your worries drip away

With your drivel as you sleep

Covet every moment

Every sitcom and commercial

No matter how risqué

Or otherwise controversial

Laugh until your hearts content

Clap when the audiences cheer

That you should become part of the culture

Surrounded by your peers

Cry with every parting

Of favorite characters parts portrayed

The actors most relatable

The true "stars" of the trade

For tomorrow is another day

To face the daily grind

No fast forwarding through the days events

Or pausing, until quitting time  

Set the DVR, to view at some other time

Shut your eyes and get some rest

Or Netflix and chill and hit rewind

Play back every missed detail

You somehow overlooked

Or better yet, hit the on/off switch

And open up a book.

Am I in hell
Or are there fluorescent lights up there
I tapped on the bulb
And it blossomed into darkness
Fast-forwarding like a dead tulip
And here is where I call home
Where two lovers can bloom
Without fear of being seen
They can dance without tripping
Pray without ripping a magnetic field
Making snow angels on dust
On force-fields of antigravity
But something grew eyes
It had instinct to survive
And the modern man gets offended
When you call him a monkey
Am I in hell
Or are there fluorescent lights up there

Let me tell you a story, of the time I made her smile
I hope you've some time, because, this might take a while.

It all started on a whim and a dare
that I could make it to her
to her, for her, there!

So as a working adult, so responsible am I,
I got my leave approved, with a twinkle in my eye!
Perhaps that's not the right word, but it sure could have been
especially now I've a chance, to score another win.

So days flew by and with what little money to be had
I bought for her gifts and things, and boy my heart was glad!
I said to myself Now she isn't one for fancy things, nothing to pricey especially a ring!
Now before you holler at me, and pitch a fit or drone,
keep in mind, dear friend, that this one I had barely known!

So a few days before the day that she was to graduate from the University of her home,
I set off on the road to a new adventure, my heart so glad to be free to roam.
But along the way I began having doubts, as all strangers do,
what if she doesn't like these gifts?
Even worse, what if she felt uncomfortable, next to a person she barely knew?

See we met overseas, teaching together as it were,
the days were long, but there was still an adventure out there, but now but a blur.
So we've little time to tell each others, our deepest fears and our passions of wants,
but we made time for each other in our smiles and our jaunts.

So back to the road, and it was already too late to turn back now
through the many hours of driving, the sun had truly beaten my brow.
And as came closer to town where she stay
It dawned upon me, I've yet to come with a plan to approach this play.

So being the improviser that I am, bought some (overpriced) flowers
and delivered it to her house that day.
Unfortunately, it was, cold, raining, and miserable all the more,
what else that was slightly embarrassing was that she did not answer her door.

Of course, I never told her I would be coming down at all,
I simply decided to go to her town, without so much as a call!
So I laid the bouquet of assorted colored flowers down
on a pillow soft and plush on the front porch to the door, and proceeded back to town.

FAST FORWARDING

The next day had come, I am slightly concerned if I smell of my night in my car
but waste no time getting properly dressed for the occasion,
I of course triple check myself, because, this was her graduation!

FAST FORWARDING
The ceremony had commenced! And I spot her from the far side of the stadium!
My, what a sight she was, if only the others could have seen her then...

She finally stands in line, as the many predecessors has done before
and soon enough, she's walking across the stage floor!

Her family and friends, scream and cry their delight!
And I give a long awaited bellow of satisfaction, much to the crowd's unpleasant fright.
Congratulations are then tossed around, like the caps which were far flung
and off I was in a dash, from the bottom rung.

I could not find her initially,
but never fear, and not to worry.
God and his sense of timing and humor,
led me right back to her.

I drove back to her house, thinking I'll lay the gift and disappear
but it would not be so, as I pull up and with her back turned
I see her.

I pull up, like it was just another day
and like the dork I am, here is what I say
"Hey little lady, going some where?"

The look on her face was priceless. Beyond all compare!
Moments like those are what I live for, just to be there.

She turned around astounded! Confused but happy all the same
and then I heard it, the one thing that made it worth it
when she cried out my name.

I parked the car, but not fast enough and burst through my door to meet her once more, on the parking lot floor.
A moment seared forever, the back burners of my mind
of moment to be remembered, because we don't leave friends behind.

So the day went on, and we celebrated together on her victory
and it was all worth it, just to see her happy.

These are the moments I live for.

I was born in a city and time where and when
things were described by their name in the name
of realism and truth, uncoloured nouns of honesty
depicting society as it was fearing nothing
while no one took offence, as none was intended

in the atmosphere of autocriticism and self-
deprecating humour. In the countryside village
peasants called my father the Greek, as there were
no aliens other than us and the English man
who lived down the valley. Black skins

only existed on TV, and Africa was far more distant
than maps ever suggested. Our Ghanaian origins
were a mesmerising fable to the curious ears
of those willing to imagine exotic airs, indefinite
populations they had never seen. Italians

were used to migrate abroad in search of dreams,
though no one came to dream in Rome until, they did.
First strange faces appeared for myths to become
realities integrating slowly fast-forwarding thirty years
to see, Filipinos housekeepers, cheaper butlers,

Rumanians and Moldavians caregivers to our elders,
Chinese empires beginning with restaurants and shops,
Selling almost anything one could ever think of affordable
to all, now expanding to own bars creating jobs,
employers of impoverished locals and new arrivals.

Bangladeshis taking over once-was Italian grocery cash
and carries working hard, a 24/7 policy just for some.
Those who don’t are found selling umbrellas on the road
a minute before the storm, or taking polaroid pictures
of tourists at night when the gypsies come out

of nomad camps to sell, unscented roses to lovers
unnaturally blue for the day is reserved, to picking
pockets on public transports everybody knows,
signs are put up for those who don’t. Lebanese
hairdressers hiring young Italian girls, eat in Turkish

kebab fast-foods buying halal ingredients in Iraqi stores.
Only blacks in Rome own nothing but their shoes
and reputation. Those from North African countries often deal
on sidewalks for drug addicts playing instruments
sitting next to dogs on Tiber bridges as they beg

for one more dose. Though Egyptians mainly deal
with chefs, closed in restaurant kitchens learning
pizza-making skills, while Pakistanis make excellent
dishwashers. Turning back to blacks Nigerians,
Senegalese, Malians and many more improvise

themselves as clandestine street vendors
of jewels and fake bags, the latter secretly supplied
by Italian mafia-like wannabes. Often spotted running
away from police, packing goods in white sheets, held
on their backs as they flee, leaving fallen merchandise

behind them. Finally some remain unseen, straight
from heart of darkness and surroundings they stay
strictly on TV, passing from satiric sketches of the past
to NGO adverts crying out, for help against famine,
poverty and sickness, calling for action two euros a day

via sms to keep, consciousness clean, as we close
our eyes not to see, pretend we do not know, hiding
behind words we call, politically correct not to face, take
distance from reality and truth, disguise inconvenience
and uncomfort with ridiculously embellished, jargon.

Some exceptions obviously exist, as many manage
to live outside the box, though alas and do not blame me
for speaking the truth, they remain to date exceptions
dear to my heart, as are all the characters of this portrait,
scattered pieces of humanity, pieces of me.

POEMS ABOUT EROS AND CUPID

These are translations of ancient Greek poems about Eros. Eros was the Greek counterpart of the Roman god Cupid. While today we tend to think of Cupid as an angelic cherub shooting arrows and making people fall in love, the ancient Greek and Roman poets often portrayed Cupid/Eros as a troublemaker who was driving them mad with uncontrollable desires.


Sappho, fragment 42
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eros harrows my heart:
wilds winds whipping desolate mountains,
uprooting oaks.



Sappho, fragment 130
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eros, the limb-shatterer,
rattles me,
an irresistible
constrictor.



Sappho, fragment 54
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eros
descends from heaven,
discarding his imperial purple mantle.



Preposterous Eros
by Michael R. Burch

“Preposterous Eros” – Patricia Falanga

Preposterous Eros shot me in
the buttocks, with a Devilish grin,
spent all my money in a rush
then left my heart effete pink mush.



Sappho, fragment 22
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

That enticing girl's clinging dresses
leave me trembling, overcome by happiness,
as once, when I saw the Goddess in my prayers
eclipsing Cyprus.



Sappho, fragment 102
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Mother, how can I weave,
so overwhelmed by love?



Sappho, fragment 10
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I lust!
I crave!
Take me!


Around the same time Sappho was writing in ******, in nearby Greece, circa 564 B.C., we have another poem about the power of Eros:

Ibykos Fragment 286
translation by Michael R. Burch

Come spring, the grand
apple trees stand
watered by a gushing river
where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver
and the blossoming grape vine swells
in the gathering shadows.

Unfortunately
for me
Eros never rests
but like a Thracian tempest
ablaze with lightning
emanates from Aphrodite;
the results are frightening―
black,
bleak,
astonishing,
violently jolting me from my soles
to my soul.



I hate Eros! Why does that gargantuan God dart my heart, rather than wild beasts? What can a God think to gain by inflaming a man? What trophies can he hope to win with my head?
―Alcaeus of Messene, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Have mercy, dear Phoebus, drawer of the bow, for were you not also wounded by love’s streaking arrows?
―Claudianus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In Greek mythology, Cupid shoots Phoebus Apollo to make him fall in love with Daphne, then shoots Daphne with an arrow that prevents her from falling in love with her suitor.



Matchmaker Love, if you can’t set a couple equally aflame, why not ***** out your torch?
―Rufinus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



I have armed myself with wisdom against Love;
he cannot defeat me in single combat.
I, a mere mortal, have withstood a God!
But if he enlists the aid of Bacchus,
what odds do I have against the two of them?
―Rufinus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Love, if you aim your arrows at both of us impartially, you’re a God, but if you favor one over the other, you’re the Devil!
―Rufinus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Either put an end to lust, Eros, or else insist on reciprocity: abolish desire or heighten it.
―Lucilius or Polemo of Pontus, loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Steady your bow, Cypris, and at your leisure select a likelier target ... for I am too full of arrows to take another wound.
―Archias, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cypris was another name for Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love. Here the poet may be suggesting, “Like mother, like son.”



Little Love, lay my heart waste;
empty your quiver into me;
leave not an arrow unshot!
Slay me with your cruel shafts,
but when you’d shoot someone else,
you’ll find yourself out of ammo!
―Archias, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



You say I should flee from Love, but it’s hopeless!
How can a man on foot escape from a winged creature with unerring accuracy?
―Archias, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Many centuries later, poets would still be complaining about the overpoweringness of ****** desire, and/or the unfairness of unrequited love, by which they often meant not getting laid!



Spring
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Young lovers,
greeting the spring
fling themselves downhill,
making cobblestones ring
with their wild leaps and arcs,
like ecstatic sparks
drawn from coal.

What is their brazen goal?

They grab at whatever passes,
so we can only hazard guesses.
But they rear like prancing steeds
raked by brilliant spurs of need,
Young lovers.


Fast-forwarding again, we find the great Scottish poet William Dunbar, who was born around 1460:

Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar
translation by Michael R. Burch

Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that is held most dear,
except only that you are merciless.

Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently,
yet everywhere, no odor but rue.

I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose of pallid and gentle cast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that, if I could, I would compose her roots again,
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.

Keywords/Tags: Eros, Cupid, Phoebus Apollo, Cypris, Aphrodite, love, blind love, cute love, love god, love goddess, bow, arrow, arrows, desire, passion, lust, heart

Blind figures, statue representative of
a forwarding thought. Ahead of myself,—
decisions, decisions, decisions, decisions.
Too many of which, walk along the path of life.

To see as much, is seeing through the dark for
a hint of light. A sense of life; in dead still waters;
running deep of a depthful mind.

It's pen *******; is of words cutting deep,
a favourable piece, seemingly rightmove as I write.  

A sight for words, breathless at times.
Annoyingly simple, but overly complicated to piece
together the masterpiece of imagination.

So as I looked up to a night sky, it filled
my head's constellations of lining routes to thoughts.
In the end—a head full of trillions of stars.

           My ideas could be bright.

Jill retweeted what I wrote,
forwarding to all her friends.
Time, you thief, who loves to gloat
over hopes and bitter ends,
say my loves and lines are bad,
say that life itself defeated me,
say I'm growing old, but add,
Jill retweeted me.

My worst fear as a kid
Never was monsters under my bed
Because before I could even walk
I'd known monsters lived within us
Within me
...
It was waking up one day
And realizing the world
Had moved on without me,
Realizing the world
Had left me
As nothing more
Than a faceless void in the crowd
...
Now I'm stuck
Forever running
Trying to catch up with time
Alone
Lost
Scared out of my mind,
Wishing someone would
Just hold my hand
And tell me everything would be okay,
Except it won't..
It never will be
...
But you've cried your tears already
You've already mourned my loss
Because my guardian angel
Won't let me die
And now I'm back as a bigger burden
Than I could ever imagine..
A burden on you,
A burden on those closest to me
A burden on my parents
And my friends and family
Hell, I'm even a burden
On myself
...
How am I supposed to burden you
With truths I won't even admit to myself?
How am I supposed to tell you what's wrong
When nothing is right to begin with?
How am I supposed to fit so many unsaid words,
And so many unsaid feelings
Into a couple meaningless letters strung together?
How am I supposed to hold on to you
When we're living in different times?
Because everything and everyone around me
Is fast forwarding and moving in slow-motion
All at the same time.
Because I'm still suffering in the past
And you've moved on with the rest of the world.
Because everything has changed
And I'm nothing more than a heavy heart
And an empty soul...
Because I've turned into
My own worst fear
...
I'm trying to hold on to some hope
Not yet ready to disappear altogether
The hope I find in your smile
The hope I find in your laughter.
This hope I find because my most favorite thing
In the entire world besides music
Is making someone smile
And seeing you happy.
So maybe if I can do that
My meaningless rebirth
Would have been worthwhile
And yet
That's exactly why
I have to let you go
...
I'm nothing more than a freak
Who rose from the dead
Resurrecting more demons
That made home in my head
And you're someone
I'd give my whole life to..
My mistake wasn't loving you
It was not letting you go sooner
Because your only mistake was
Loving me more than I deserved.
...
      Because those risen from the dead
        Have no place with the living
         And they never will.

I stopped thinking about you constantly
I can now focus on what matters
But
In between shampooing and conditioning my hair
That silent moment on the radio
The moment before finally drifting into sleep
Waiting for the light to turn green
Fast forwarding through the commercials
I still think of you