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The peerage and the steerage class.
(Titanic's in the dock)

The benefit,
the bit the government decreed is
enough to fulfill your every need,to
clothe and feed and get you through and
pay for fares to each job interview.
Meanwhile
in the House of trouts where
those who don't know they are dead still
have their snouts in the trough,
the ayes have it.
Yes
this species of faeces who don't have a clue,
give voice to the bills that tell us what to do.
I don't know about you but
to me that doesn't seem right.
Michael R Burch Feb 2020
How Long the Night: Modern English Translations of Medieval Poems Written in Middle English and Old English/Anglo-Saxon English

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.

Originally published by Measure

Keywords/Tags: Old English, Middle English, Medieval English, long night, lament, complaint, alas, summer, pleasant, winter, north wind, northern wind, severe weather, storm, bird, birds, birdsong, sin, crime, fast, fasting, repentance, dark night of the soul, sackcloth and ashes, regret, repentance, remonstrance

These are modern English translations of Old English/Anglo-Saxon poems and Middle English poems by Anonymous, Caedmon, Geoffrey Chaucer, Thomas Campion, Deor, William Dunbar, Godric of Finchale, Charles d'Orleans, Layamon and Sir Thomas Wyatt.



Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar (1460-1525)
loose translation/interpretation 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 and left her downcast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that I long to plant love's root again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.

My translation of "Lament for the Makaris" by William Dunbar appears later on this page.



"Now skruketh rose and lylie flour" is an early Middle English poem that gives a hint of things to come, in terms of meter and rhyme …

Now skruketh rose and lylie flour
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 11th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now the rose and the lily skyward flower,
That will bear for awhile that sweet savor:
In summer, that sweet tide;
There is no queen so stark in her power
Nor any lady so bright in her bower
That Death shall not summon and guide;
But whoever forgoes lust, in heavenly bliss will abide
With his thoughts on Jesus anon, thralled at his side.

skruketh = break forth, burst open; stour = strong, stern, hardy; tharled = thralled?, made a serf?, bound?



Fowles in the Frith
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fowls in the forest,
the fishes in the flood
and I must go mad:
such sorrow I've had
for beasts of bone and blood!

Sounds like an early animal rights activist! The use of "and" is intriguing … is the poet saying that his walks in the woods drive him mad because he's also a "beast of bone and blood" facing a similar fate? I must note, however, that this is my personal interpretation. The poem has "beste" and the poet may have meant "for the best of bone and blood" meaning some unidentified person, presumably.



Westron Wynde
(anonymous Middle English lyric, found in a partbook circa 1530 AD, but perhaps written earlier)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Western wind, when will you blow,
bringing the drizzling rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
and I in my bed again!

The original poem has "the smalle rayne down can rayne" which suggests a drizzle or mist.



This World's Joy
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Winter awakens all my care
as leafless trees grow bare.
For now my sighs are fraught
whenever it enters my thought:
regarding this world's joy,
how everything comes to naught.



Pity Mary
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now the sun passes under the wood:
I rue, Mary, thy face—fair, good.
Now the sun passes under the tree:
I rue, Mary, thy son and thee.

In the poem above, note how "wood" and "tree" invoke the cross while "sun" and "son" seem to invoke each other. Sun-day is also Son-day, to Christians. The anonymous poet who wrote the poem above may have been been punning the words "sun" and "son." The poem is also known as "Now Goeth Sun Under Wood" and "Now Go'th Sun Under Wood."



I am of Ireland
(anonymous Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am of Ireland,
and of the holy realm of Ireland.
Gentlefolk, I pray thee:
for the sake of saintly charity,
come dance with me
in Ireland!



Whan the turuf is thy tour
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
When the turf is your tower
and the pit is your bower,
your pale white skin and throat
shall be sullen worms’ to note.
What help to you, then,
was all your worldly hope?

2.
When the turf is your tower
and the grave is your bower,
your pale white throat and skin
worm-eaten from within …
what hope of my help then?

The second translation leans more to the "lover's complaint" and carpe diem genres, with the poet pointing out to his prospective lover that by denying him her favors she make take her virtue to the grave where worms will end her virginity in macabre fashion. This poem may be an ancient precursor of poems like Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress."



Ech day me comëth tydinges thre
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Each day I’m plagued by three doles,
These gargantuan weights on my soul:
First, that I must somehow exit this fen.
Second, that I cannot know when.
And yet it’s the third that torments me so,
Because I don't know where the hell I will go!



Ich have y-don al myn youth
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have done it all my youth:
Often, often, and often!
I have loved long and yearned zealously …
And oh what grief it has brought me!



GEOFFREY CHAUCER

Three Roundels by Geoffrey Chaucer

I. Merciles Beaute ("Merciless Beauty")
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.

Unless your words heal me hastily,
my heart's wound will remain green;
for your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain.

By all truth, I tell you faithfully
that you are of life and death my queen;
for at my death this truth shall be seen:
your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.



II. Rejection
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.

I'm guiltless, yet my sentence has been cast.
I tell you truly, needless now to feign,—
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain.

Alas, that Nature in your face compassed
Such beauty, that no man may hope attain
To mercy, though he perish from the pain;
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.



III. Escape
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.

He may question me and counter this and that;
I care not: I will answer just as I mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean.

Love strikes me from his roster, short and flat,
And he is struck from my books, just as clean,
Forevermore; there is no other mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.



Welcome, Summer
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.
Saint Valentine, in the heavens aloft,
the songbirds sing your praises together!

Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather.

We have good cause to rejoice, not scoff,
since love’s in the air, and also in the heather,
whenever we find such blissful warmth, together.

Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.



CHARLES D'ORLEANS

Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains,
Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain,
Your little feet—please, what more can I say?

It is my fetish when you’re far away
To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain—
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains.

So would I beg you, if I only may,
To see such sights as I before have seen,
Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene?
I’ll be obsessed until my dying day
By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains!



Spring
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

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



Oft in My Thought
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

So often in my busy mind I sought,
    Around the advent of the fledgling year,
For something pretty that I really ought
    To give my lady dear;
    But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear,
        Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay
    And robbed the world of all that's precious here―
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

For me to keep my manner and my thought
    Acceptable, as suits my age's hour?
While proving that I never once forgot
    Her worth? It tests my power!
    I serve her now with masses and with prayer;
        For it would be a shame for me to stray
    Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near—
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost
    And the cost of everything became so dear;
Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host,
    Take my good deeds, as many as there are,
    And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere,
        As heaven's truest maid! And may I say:
    Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer—
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

When I praise her, or hear her praises raised,
I recall how recently she brought me pleasure;
    Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay
And makes me wish to dress for my own bier—
    God keep her soul, I can no better say.



Winter has cast his cloak away
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

Winter has cast his cloak away
of wind and cold and chilling rain
to dress in embroidered light again:
the light of day—bright, festive, gay!
Each bird and beast, without delay,
in its own tongue, sings this refrain:
"Winter has cast his cloak away!"
Brooks, fountains, rivers, streams at play,
wear, with their summer livery,
bright beads of silver jewelry.
All the Earth has a new and fresh display:
Winter has cast his cloak away!

This rondeau was set to music by Debussy in his Trois chansons de France.



The year lays down his mantle cold
by Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

The year lays down his mantle cold
of wind, chill rain and bitter air,
and now goes clad in clothes of gold
of smiling suns and seasons fair,
while birds and beasts of wood and fold
now with each cry and song declare:
"The year lays down his mantle cold!"
All brooks, springs, rivers, seaward rolled,
now pleasant summer livery wear
with silver beads embroidered where
the world puts off its raiment old.
The year lays down his mantle cold.



Fair Lady Without Peer
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fair Lady, without peer, my plea,
Is that your grace will pardon me,
Since I implore, on bended knee.
No longer can I, privately,
Keep this from you: my deep distress,
When only you can comfort me,
For I consider you my only mistress.

This powerful love demands, I fear,
That I confess things openly,
Since to your service I came here
And my helpless eyes were forced to see
Such beauty gods and angels cheer,
Which brought me joy in such excess
That I became your servant, gladly,
For I consider you my only mistress.

Please grant me this great gift most dear:
to be your vassal, willingly.
May it please you that, now, year by year,
I shall serve you as my only Liege.
I bend the knee here—true, sincere—
Unfit to beg one royal kiss,
Although none other offers cheer,
For I consider you my only mistress.



Chanson: Let Him Refrain from Loving, Who Can
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let him refrain from loving, who can.
I can no longer hover.
I must become a lover.
What will become of me, I know not.

Although I’ve heard the distant thought
that those who love all suffer,
I must become a lover.
I can no longer refrain.

My heart must risk almost certain pain
and trust in Beauty, however distraught.
For if a man does not love, then what?
Let him refrain from loving, who can.



Her Beauty
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Her beauty, to the world so plain,
Still intimately held my heart in thrall
And so established her sole reign:
She was, of Good, the cascading fountain.
Thus of my Love, lost recently,
I say, while weeping bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”

In ages past when angels fell
The world grew darker with the stain
Of their dear blood, then became hell
While poets wept a tearful strain.
Yet, to his dark and drear domain
Death took his victims, piteously,
So that we bards write bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”

Death comes to claim our angels, all,
as well we know, and spares no pain.
Over our pleasures, Death casts his pall,
Then without joy we “living” remain.
Death treats all Love with such disdain!
What use is this world? For it seems to me,
It has neither Love, nor Pity.
Thus “We cleave to this strange world in vain.”



Chanson: The Summer's Heralds
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers
And carpet fields once brown and sere
With lush green grasses and fresh flowers.

Now over gleaming lawns appear
The bright sun-dappled lengthening hours.

The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers.

Faint hearts once chained by sullen fear
No longer shiver, tremble, cower.
North winds no longer storm and glower.
For winter has no business here.



Traitorous Eye
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do you have in view?
Without civil warning, you spy,
And no one ever knows why!

Who understands anything you do?
You’re rash and crass in your boldness too,
And your lewdness is hard to subdue.
Change your crude ways, can’t you?

Traitorous eye, what’s new?
You should be beaten through and through
With a stripling birch strap or two.
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do have you in view?



SIR THOMAS WYATT

“Whoso List to Hunt” has an alternate title, “The Lover Despairing to Attain Unto His Lady’s Grace Relinquisheth the Pursuit” and is commonly believed to have been written for Anne Boleyn, who married King Henry VIII only to be beheaded at his command when she failed to produce a male heir. (Ouch, talk about male chauvinism!)

Whoever Longs to Hunt
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer;
but as for me, alas!, I may no more.
This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore
I'm one of those who falters, at the rear.
Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind
away from the doe?
                                   Thus, as she flees before
me, fainting I follow.
                                     I must leave off, therefore,
since in a net I seek to hold the wind.

Whoever seeks her out,
                                          I relieve of any doubt,
that he, like me, must spend his time in vain.
For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain,
these words appear, her fair neck ringed about:
Touch me not, for Caesar's I am,
And wild to hold, though I seem tame.



Brut, an excerpt
by Layamon, circa 1100 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now he stands on a hill overlooking the Avon,
seeing steel fishes girded with swords in the stream,
their swimming days done,
their scales a-gleam like gold-plated shields,
their fish-spines floating like shattered spears.



Wulf and Eadwacer
(Old English poem circa 960-990 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My people pursue him like crippled prey.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different!

Wulf's on one island; I'm on another.
His island's a fortress, fastened by fens.
Here, bloodthirsty curs howl for carnage.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different!

My thoughts pursued Wulf like panting hounds.
Whenever it rained, as I wept,
the bold warrior came; he took me in his arms:
good feelings, to a point, but the end loathsome!
Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you
has made me sick; your infrequent visits
have left me famished, deprived of real meat!
Do you hear, Eadwacer? Watchdog!
A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods.
One can easily sever what never was one:
our song together.



Cædmon's Hymn (Old English circa 658-680 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, let us honour      heaven-kingdom's Guardian,
the might of the Architect      and his mind-plans,
the work of the Glory-Father.      First he, the Everlasting Lord,
established      the foundation of wonders.
Then he, the Primeval Poet,      created heaven as a roof
for the sons of men,      Holy Creator,
Maker of mankind.      Then he, the Eternal Entity,
afterwards made men middle-earth:      Master Almighty!



A Proverb from Winfred's Time
anonymous Old English poem, circa 757-786 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
The procrastinator puts off purpose,
never initiates anything marvelous,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.

2.
The late-deed-doer delays glory-striving,
never indulges daring dreams,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.

3.
Often the deed-dodger avoids ventures,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.



Franks Casket Runes
anonymous Old English poems, circa 700 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fish flooded the shore-cliffs;
the sea-king wept when he swam onto the shingle:
whale's bone.

Romulus and Remus, twin brothers weaned in Rome
by a she-wolf, far from their native land.



"The Leiden Riddle" is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle Lorica ("Corselet").

The Leiden Riddle
anonymous Old English riddle poem, circa 700 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb.
I know I was not fashioned from woolen fleeces;
nor was I skillfully spun from skeins;
I have neither warp nor weft;
no thread thrums through me in the thrashing loom;
nor do whirring shuttles rattle me;
nor does the weaver's rod assail me;
nor did silkworms spin me like skillfull fates
into curious golden embroidery.
And yet heroes still call me an excellent coat.
Nor do I fear the dread arrows' flights,
however eagerly they leap from their quivers.

Solution: a coat of mail.



If you see a busker singing for tips, you're seeing someone carrying on an Anglo-Saxon tradition that goes back to the days of Beowulf …

He sits with his harp at his thane's feet,
Earning his hire, his rewards of rings,
Sweeping the strings with his skillful nail;
Hall-thanes smile at the sweet song he sings.
—"Fortunes of Men" loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Deor's Lament
(Anglo Saxon poem, circa 10th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Weland knew the agony of exile.
That indomitable smith was wracked by grief.
He endured countless troubles:
sorrows were his only companions
in his frozen island dungeon
after Nithad had fettered him,
many strong-but-supple sinew-bonds
binding the better man.
   That passed away; this also may.

Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths
but even more, her own sad state
once she discovered herself with child.
She predicted nothing good could come of it.
   That passed away; this also may.

We have heard that the Geat's moans for Matilda,
his lady, were limitless,
that his sorrowful love for her
robbed him of regretless sleep.
   That passed away; this also may.

For thirty winters Theodric ruled
the Mæring stronghold with an iron hand;
many knew this and moaned.
   That passed away; this also may.

We have also heard of Ermanaric's wolfish ways,
of how he held wide sway in the realm of the Goths.
He was a grim king! Many a warrior sat,
full of cares and maladies of the mind,
wishing constantly that his kingdom might be overthrown.
   That passed away; this also may.

If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious,
bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening,
soon it seems to him that his troubles are endless.
Then he must consider that the wise Lord
often moves through the earth
granting some men honor, glory and fame,
but others only shame and hardship.
This I will say for myself:
that for awhile I was the Heodeninga's scop,
dear to my lord. My name was Deor.
For many winters I held a fine office,
faithfully serving a just lord. But now Heorrenda
a man skilful in songs, has received the estate
the protector of warriors gave me.
   That passed away; this also may.



The Wife's Lament
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I draw these words from deep wells of my grief,
care-worn, unutterably sad.
I can recount woes I've borne since birth,
present and past, never more than now.
I have won, from my exile-paths, only pain.

First, my lord forsook his folk, left,
crossed the seas' tumult, far from our people.
Since then, I've known
wrenching dawn-griefs, dark mournings … oh where,
where can he be?

Then I, too, left—a lonely, lordless refugee,
full of unaccountable desires!
But the man's kinsmen schemed secretly
to estrange us, divide us, keep us apart,
across earth's wide kingdom, and my heart broke.

Then my lord spoke:
"Take up residence here."
I had few friends in this unknown, cheerless
region, none close.
Christ, I felt lost!

Then I thought I had found a well-matched man –
one meant for me,
but unfortunately he
was ill-starred and blind, with a devious mind,
full of murderous intentions, plotting some crime!

Before God we
vowed never to part, not till kingdom come, never!
But now that's all changed, forever –
our friendship done, severed.
I must hear, far and near, contempt for my husband.

So other men bade me, "Go, live in the grove,
beneath the great oaks, in an earth-cave, alone."
In this ancient cave-dwelling I am lost and oppressed –
the valleys are dark, the hills immense,
and this cruel-briared enclosure—an arid abode!

The injustice assails me—my lord's absence!
On earth there are lovers who share the same bed
while I pass through life dead in this dark abscess
where I wilt, summer days unable to rest
or forget the sorrows of my life's hard lot.

A young woman must always be
stern, hard-of-heart, unmoved,
opposing breast-cares and her heartaches' legions.
She must appear cheerful
even in a tumult of grief.

Like a criminal exiled to a far-off land,
moaning beneath insurmountable cliffs,
my weary-minded love, drenched by wild storms
and caught in the clutches of anguish,
is reminded constantly of our former happiness.

Woe be it to them who abide in longing.



The Husband's Message
anonymous Old English poem, circa 960-990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

See, I unseal myself for your eyes only!
I sprang from a seed to a sapling,
waxed great in a wood,
                           was given knowledge,
was ordered across saltstreams in ships
where I stiffened my spine, standing tall,
till, entering the halls of heroes,
                   I honored my manly Lord.

Now I stand here on this ship’s deck,
an emissary ordered to inform you
of the love my Lord feels for you.
I have no fear forecasting his heart steadfast,
his honor bright, his word true.

He who bade me come carved this letter
and entreats you to recall, clad in your finery,
what you promised each other many years before,
mindful of his treasure-laden promises.

He reminds you how, in those distant days,
witty words were pledged by you both
in the mead-halls and homesteads:
how he would be Lord of the lands
you would inhabit together
while forging a lasting love.

Alas, a vendetta drove him far from his feuding tribe,
but now he instructs me to gladly give you notice
that when you hear the returning cuckoo's cry
cascading down warming coastal cliffs,
come over the sea! Let no man hinder your course.

He earnestly urges you: Out! To sea!
Away to the sea, when the circling gulls
hover over the ship that conveys you to him!

Board the ship that you meet there:
sail away seaward to seek your husband,
over the seagulls' range,
                          over the paths of foam.
For over the water, he awaits you.

He cannot conceive, he told me,
how any keener joy could comfort his heart,
nor any greater happiness gladden his soul,
than that a generous God should grant you both
to exchange rings, then give gifts to trusty liege-men,
golden armbands inlaid with gems to faithful followers.

The lands are his, his estates among strangers,
his new abode fair and his followers true,
all hardy heroes, since hence he was driven,
shoved off in his ship from these shore in distress,
steered straightway over the saltstreams, sped over the ocean,
a wave-tossed wanderer winging away.

But now the man has overcome his woes,
outpitted his perils, lives in plenty, lacks no luxury,
has a hoard and horses and friends in the mead-halls.

All the wealth of the earth's great earls
now belongs to my Lord …
                                             He only lacks you.

He would have everything within an earl's having,
if only my Lady will come home to him now,
if only she will do as she swore and honor her vow.



Led By Christ and Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led
that the earth never felt my bare foot’s tread!

Crist and sainte marie swa on scamel me iledde
þat ic on þis erðe ne silde wid mine bare fote itredie



A Cry to Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I.
Saintë Marië Virginë,
Mother of Jesus Christ the Nazarenë,
Welcome, shield and help thin Godric,
Fly him off to God’s kingdom rich!

II.
Saintë Marië, Christ’s bower,
****** among Maidens, Motherhood’s flower,
Blot out my sin, fix where I’m flawed,
Elevate me to Bliss with God!



Prayer to St. Nicholas
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Saint Nicholas, beloved of God,
Build us a house that’s bright and fair;
Watch over us from birth to bier,
Then, Saint Nicholas, bring us safely there!

Sainte Nicholaes godes druð
tymbre us faire scone hus
At þi burth at þi bare
Sainte nicholaes bring vs wel þare



The Rhymed Poem aka The Rhyming Poem and The Riming Poem
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem circa 990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

He who granted me life created this sun
and graciously provided its radiant engine.
I was gladdened with glees, bathed in bright hues,
deluged with joy’s blossoms, sunshine-infused.

Men admired me, feted me with banquet-courses;
we rejoiced in the good life. Gaily bedecked horses
carried me swiftly across plains on joyful rides,
delighting me with their long limbs' thunderous strides.
That world was quickened by earth’s fruits and their flavors!
I cantered under pleasant skies, attended by troops of advisers.
Guests came and went, amusing me with their chatter
as I listened with delight to their witty palaver.

Well-appointed ships glided by in the distance;
when I sailed myself, I was never without guidance.
I was of the highest rank; I lacked for nothing in the hall;
nor did I lack for brave companions; warriors, all,
we strode through castle halls weighed down with gold
won from our service to thanes. We were proud men, and bold.
Wise men praised me; I was omnipotent in battle;
Fate smiled on and protected me; foes fled before me like cattle.
Thus I lived with joy indwelling; faithful retainers surrounded me;
I possessed vast estates; I commanded all my eyes could see;
the earth lay subdued before me; I sat on a princely throne;
the words I sang were charmed; old friendships did not wane …

Those were years rich in gifts and the sounds of happy harp-strings,
when a lasting peace dammed shut the rivers’ sorrowings.
My servants were keen, their harps resonant;
their songs pealed, the sound loud but pleasant;
the music they made melodious, a continual delight;
the castle hall trembled and towered bright.
Courage increased, wealth waxed with my talent;
I gave wise counsel to great lords and enriched the valiant.

My spirit enlarged; my heart rejoiced;
good faith flourished; glory abounded; abundance increased.
I was lavishly supplied with gold; bright gems were circulated …
Till treasure led to treachery and the bonds of friendship constricted.

I was bold in my bright array, noble in my equipage,
my joy princely, my home a happy hermitage.
I protected and led my people;
for many years my life among them was regal;
I was devoted to them and they to me.

But now my heart is troubled, fearful of the fates I see;
disaster seems unavoidable. Someone dear departs in flight by night
who once before was bold. His soul has lost its light.
A secret disease in full growth blooms within his breast,
spreads in different directions. Hostility blossoms in his chest,
in his mind. Bottomless grief assaults the mind's nature
and when penned in, erupts in rupture,
burns eagerly for calamity, runs bitterly about.

The weary man suffers, begins a journey into doubt;
his pain is ceaseless; pain increases his sorrows, destroys his bliss;
his glory ceases; he loses his happiness;
he loses his craft; he no longer burns with desires.
Thus joys here perish, lordships expire;
men lose faith and descend into vice;
infirm faith degenerates into evil’s curse;
faith feebly abandons its high seat and every hour grows worse.

So now the world changes; Fate leaves men lame;
Death pursues hatred and brings men to shame.
The happy clan perishes; the spear rends the marrow;
the evildoer brawls and poisons the arrow;
sorrow devours the city; old age castrates courage;
misery flourishes; wrath desecrates the peerage;
the abyss of sin widens; the treacherous path snakes;
resentment burrows, digs in, wrinkles, engraves;
artificial beauty grows foul;
the summer heat cools;
earthly wealth fails;
enmity rages, cruel, bold;
the might of the world ages, courage grows cold.
Fate wove itself for me and my sentence was given:
that I should dig a grave and seek that grim cavern
men cannot avoid when death comes, arrow-swift,
to seize their lives in his inevitable grasp.
Now night comes at last,
and the way stand clear
for Death to dispossesses me of my my abode here.

When my corpse lies interred and the worms eat my limbs,
whom will Death delight then, with his dark feast and hymns?
Let men’s bones become one,
and then finally, none,
till there’s nothing left here of the evil ones.
But men of good faith will not be destroyed;
the good man will rise, far beyond the Void,
who chastened himself, more often than not,
to avoid bitter sins and that final black Blot.
The good man has hope of a far better end
and remembers the promise of Heaven,
where he’ll experience the mercies of God for his saints,
freed from all sins, dark and depraved,
defended from vices, gloriously saved,
where, happy at last before their cheerful Lord,
men may rejoice in his love forevermore.



Adam Lay Ybounden
(anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Adam lay bound, bound in a bond;
Four thousand winters, he thought, were not too long.
And all was for an apple, an apple that he took,
As clerics now find written in their book.
But had the apple not been taken, or had it never been,
We'd never have had our Lady, heaven's queen.
So blesséd be the time the apple was taken thus;
Therefore we sing, "God is gracious!"

The poem has also been rendered as "Adam lay i-bounden" and "Adam lay i-bowndyn."



I Sing of a Maiden
(anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I sing of a maiden
That is matchless.
The King of all Kings
For her son she chose.

He came also as still
To his mother's breast
As April dew
Falling on the grass.

He came also as still
To his mother's bower
As April dew
Falling on the flower.

He came also as still
To where his mother lay
As April dew
Falling on the spray.

Mother and maiden?
Never one, but she!
Well may such a lady
God's mother be!



Tegner's Drapa
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I heard a voice, that cried,
“Balder the beautiful lies dead, lies dead …”
a voice like the flight of white cranes
intent on a sun sailing high overhead—
but a sun now irretrievably setting.

Then I saw the sun’s corpse
—dead beyond all begetting—
borne through disconsolate skies
as blasts from the Nifel-heim rang out with dread,
“Balder lies dead, our fair Balder lies dead! …”

Lost—the sweet runes of his tongue,
so sweet every lark hushed its singing!
Lost, lost forever—his beautiful face,
the grace of his smile, all the girls’ hearts wild-winging!
O, who ever thought such strange words might be said,
as “Balder lies dead, gentle Balder lies dead! …”



Lament for the Makaris (Makers, or Poets)
by William Dunbar (1460-1525)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

i who enjoyed good health and gladness
am overwhelmed now by life’s terrible sickness
and enfeebled with infirmity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

our presence here is mere vainglory;
the false world is but transitory;
the flesh is frail; the Fiend runs free …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

the state of man is changeable:
now sound, now sick, now blithe, now dull,
now manic, now devoid of glee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

no state on earth stands here securely;
as the wild wind shakes the willow tree,
so wavers this world’s vanity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

Death leads the knights into the field
(unarmored under helm and shield)
sole Victor of each red mêlée …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

that strange, despotic Beast
tears from its mother’s breast
the babe, full of benignity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

He takes the champion of the hour,
the captain of the highest tower,
the beautiful damsel in her tower …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

He spares no lord for his elegance,
nor clerk for his intelligence;
His dreadful stroke no man can flee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

artist, magician, scientist,
orator, debater, theologist,
must all conclude, so too, as we:
“how the fear of Death dismays me!”

in medicine the most astute
sawbones and surgeons all fall mute;
they cannot save themselves, or flee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

i see the Makers among the unsaved;
the greatest of Poets all go to the grave;
He does not spare them their faculty …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

i have seen Him pitilessly devour
our noble Chaucer, poetry’s flower,
and Lydgate and Gower (great Trinity!) …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

since He has taken my brothers all,
i know He will not let me live past the fall;
His next prey will be — poor unfortunate me! …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

there is no remedy for Death;
we all must prepare to relinquish breath
so that after we die, we may be set free
from “the fear of Death dismays me!”



Fairest Between Lincoln and Lindsey
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When the nightingale sings, the woods turn green;
Leaf and grass again blossom in April, I know,
Yet love pierces my heart with its spear so keen!
Night and day it drinks my blood. The painful rivulets flow.

I’ve loved all this year. Now I can love no more;
I’ve sighed many a sigh, sweetheart, and yet all seems wrong.
For love is no nearer and that leaves me poor.
Sweet lover, think of me — I’ve loved you so long!



Sumer is icumen in
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1260 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sing now cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo!
Sing, cuckoo! Sing now cuckoo!

Summer is a-comin'!
Sing loud, cuckoo!
The seed grows,
The meadow blows,
The woods spring up anew.
Sing, cuckoo!

The ewe bleats for her lamb;
The cows contentedly moo;
The bullock roots;
The billy-goat poots …
Sing merrily, cuckoo!

Cuckoo, cuckoo,
You sing so well, cuckoo!
Never stop, until you're through!



The Maiden Lay in the Wilds
circa the 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The maiden in the moor lay,
in the moor lay;
seven nights full,
seven nights full,
the maiden in the moor lay,
in the moor lay,
seven nights full and a day.

Sweet was her meat.
But what was her meat?
The primrose and the—
The primrose and the—
Sweet was her meat.
But what was her meat?
The primrose and the violet.

Pure was her drink.
But what was her drink?
The cold waters of the—
The cold waters of the—
Pure was her drink.
But what was her drink?
The cold waters of the well-spring.

Bright was her bower.
But what was her bower?
The red rose and the—
The red rose and the—
Bright was her bower.
But what was her bower?
The red rose and the lily flower.



The World an Illusion
circa 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is the sum of wisdom bright:
however things may appear,
life vanishes like birds in flight;
now it’s here, now there.
Nor are we mighty in our “might”—
now on the bench, now on the bier.
However vigilant or wise,
in health it’s death we fear.
However proud and without peer,
no man’s immune to tragedy.
And though we think all’s solid here,
this world is but a fantasy.

The sun’s course we may claim to know:
arises east, sets in the west;
we know which way earth’s rivers flow,
into the seas that fill and crest.
The winds rush here and there, also,
it rains and snows without arrest.
Will it all end? God only knows,
with the wisdom of the Blessed,
while we on earth remain hard-pressed,
all bedraggled, or too dry,
until we vanish, just a guest:
this world is but a fantasy.



Trust Only Yourself
circa the 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Alas! Deceit lies in trust now,
dubious as Fortune, spinning like a ball,
as brittle when tested as a rotten bough.
He who trusts in trust is ripe for a fall!
Such guile in trust cannot be trusted,
or a man will soon find himself busted.
Therefore, “Be wary of trust!” is my advice.
Trust only yourself and learn to be wise.



See, Here, My Heart
circa the 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O, mankind,
please keep in mind
where Passions start:
there you will find
me wholly kind—
see, here, my heart.



How Death Comes
circa the 13th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When my eyes mist
and my ears hiss
and my nose grows cold
as my tongue folds
and my face grows slack
as my lips grow black
and my mouth gapes
as my spit forms lakes
and my hair falls
as my heart stalls
and my hand shake
as my feet quake:
All too late! All too late!
When the bier is at the gate.

Then I shall pass
from bed to floor,
from floor to shroud,
from shroud to bier,
from bier to grave,
the grave closed forever!
Then my house will rest on my nose.
This world’s not worth a farthing, Heaven knows!



Johann Scheffler (1624-1677), also known as Johann Angelus Silesius, was a German Catholic priest and physician, known as a mystic and religious poet. He's a bit later than most of the other poets on this page, but seems to fit in …

Unholy Trinity
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Man has three enemies:
himself, the world, and the devil.
Of these the first is, by far,
the most irresistible evil.

True Wealth
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

There is more to being rich
than merely having;
the wealthiest man can lose
everything not worth saving.

The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rose merely blossoms
and never asks why:
heedless of her beauty,
careless of every eye.

The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rose lack “reasons”
and merely sways with the seasons;
she has no ego
but whoever put on such a show?

Eternal Time
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eternity is time,
time eternity,
except when we
are determined to "see."

Visions
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Our souls possess two eyes:
one examines time,
the other visions
eternal and sublime.

Godless
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

God is absolute Nothingness
beyond our sense of time and place;
the more we try to grasp Him,
The more He flees from our embrace.

The Source
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Water is pure and clean
when taken at the well-head:
but drink too far from the Source
and you may well end up dead.

Ceaseless Peace
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unceasingly you seek
life's ceaseless wavelike motion;
I seek perpetual peace, all storms calmed.
Whose is the wiser notion?

Well Written
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Friend, cease!
Abandon all pretense!
You must yourself become
the Writing and the Sense.

Worm Food
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No worm is buried
so deep within the soil
that God denies it food
as reward for its toil.

Mature Love
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

New love, like a sparkling wine, soon fizzes.
Mature love, calm and serene, abides.

God's Predicament
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

God cannot condemn those with whom he would dwell,
or He would have to join them in hell!

Clods
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A ruby
is not lovelier
than a dirt clod,
nor an angel
more glorious
than a frog.



The original poem below is based on my teenage misinterpretation of a Latin prayer …

Elegy for a little girl, lost
by Michael R. Burch

… qui laetificat juventutem meam …
She was the joy of my youth,
and now she is gone.
… requiescat in pace …
May she rest in peace.
… amen …
Amen.

I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem. From what I now understand, “ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam” means “to the God who gives joy to my youth,” but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Vulgate Latin Bible (circa 385 AD).
Nat Lipstadt Nov 2016
one thousand poem children



one thousand poems has mine soul commissioned,
a thousand more neath stone vault doors do attend,
patiently waiting revisions, rescission, catch and release permission,
waiting room patients, looking to buy a more favorable diagnosistician

this prolificacy,
nether curse or blessing,
this profligacy,
poem children fathered by single mom mothered,
borne nightly in dreams borne
from the northern, the southern,
the brains twilighted hemispheres,
who coordinate, drawing deep,
consulting a bartender's manual
a creation guide of mixology,
'how to intoxicate the brain'

cheap gin, multi-generational scotch,
visionary vermouth, the reddened cassis of life,
memories in the white grapes of possibilities,
futures unrealized, colorful takes and retakes,
a directors bespoke make-believe tales,
impossibilities, divine and mundane,
all into one admixture into the venous cavities poured,
nerves to blood to consciousness,
courtesy of the ganglia

the brain stem transmits them
fully formed to my
good morning sunshine
cracked and dried lips for re-emission

nigh head upon the pillow,
the hair trigger,
my rapid eye heartbeats, each a demanding sweetheart,
some performed to a discordant metronome,
in a controlled rage, my mental waste,
eliminated

the residuals,
purified with language as the
orchestrator, debate moderator

dreams, once recoded, once accorded,
the disordering tempestuous,  
neurons cease-to-fire,
now just words, just words, just womb excretions

did I admit to a thousand?

more like tens of ten,
one, two per eventide,
have washed  ashore, for some thirty years recorded

my brain pixilated,
its big shot game controller,
demanding purchase of more;
more storage space, more games,
not admitting in advance,
that it filters blends, conflates and purges

by combining
psalms and ditties, infantile rhymes and
new vocabularies of  human aging idiocies,
though newly acquired, immediately forgot,
so always room enough for
one more episode


I study the brain, I study sleep,
study living and dying occurring at
their point of intermediation,
dreams


*this more knowledge gives no relief,
it becomes this poem becoming,
testifying that I prosecute myself
based on the evidence,
and if insufficient,
dream up nascent visionaries
from places that come unlocked,
tales from the vault vivisected,
the proper verdict
assured

sixty six years
of accumulation,
and still know so little of
proper space utilization,
writing poems proper

but nightly come the dreams,
nightly comes the trial,
comes the judgements,
comes a man-made customized
whitewall tired judgement,
and to you
submitted for
judicial review

strange that each one of you
becomes, adopts, adapts my visage,
my words in you, reflected,
a jury of my peerage peers,
which is why my appeals are
always returned in the file labelled
"denial"

until the next nights dream
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
i was so peacefully apathetic once
that i managed to get a chemistry degree
and started loving manual labour,
but then humanity of a spontaneous act of stupidity
constricted my chest
and left me without a definite vector to unload my affection,
leaving me on debility benefits of the state
that started to turn to the lord peerage anonymity
of skinny budgets,
and i was left drinking walking the same streets in circles
wishing my apathy had returned
and the substance that so mummified my thought in couches
with ease.
i feel for those who ache like budgies in cages of emotion so early in life,
wishing to sing and flutter away to hawaii,
but i just don’t have it in me to be so pain-crushed from a life un-lived,
to feel so much but live so little...
if i’m supposed to feel so much and live so little
i rather live remembering my former apathy that nearly conjured
a hindu avatar in full bloom... but as avatars go... shiva’s avatar is
hard to tame... it’s destructive power is a bullish potency to create,
and once it starts charging there’s only the red light district of amsterdam to stop it.
Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray’d,
Exploring every path of Ida’s glade;
Whom, still, affection taught me to defend,
And made me less a tyrant than a friend,
Though the harsh custom of our youthful band
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command;
Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower
The gift of riches, and the pride of power;
E’en now a name illustrious is thine own,
Renown’d in rank, not far beneath the throne.
Yet, Dorset, let not this ****** thy soul
To shun fair science, or evade controul;
Though passive tutors, fearful to dispraise
The titled child, whose future breath may raise,
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise.
When youthful parasites, who bend the knee
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee,—
And even in simple boyhood’s opening dawn
Some slaves are found to flatter and to fawn,—
When these declare, “that pomp alone should wait
On one by birth predestin’d to be great;
That books were only meant for drudging fools,
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;”
Believe them not,—they point the path to shame,
And seek to blast the honours of thy name:
Turn to the few in Ida’s early throng,
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth,
Ask thine own heart—’twill bid thee, boy, forbear!
For well I know that virtue lingers there.

Yes! I have mark’d thee many a passing day,
But now new scenes invite me far away;
Yes! I have mark’d within that generous mind
A soul, if well matur’d, to bless mankind;
Ah! though myself, by nature haughty, wild,
Whom Indiscretion hail’d her favourite child;
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;
Though my proud heart no precept, now, can tame,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.

’Tis not enough, with other sons of power,
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour;
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,
With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;
Then share with titled crowds the common lot—
In life just gaz’d at, in the grave forgot;
While nought divides thee from the ****** dead,
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head,
The mouldering ’scutcheon, or the Herald’s roll,
That well-emblazon’d but neglected scroll,
Where Lords, unhonour’d, in the tomb may find
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.
There sleep, unnotic’d as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
A race, with old armorial lists o’erspread,
In records destin’d never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise;
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in Rank, the first in Talent too:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortune’s minion, but her noblest son.
  Turn to the annals of a former day;
Bright are the deeds thine earlier Sires display;
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call’d, proud boast! the British drama forth.
Another view! not less renown’d for Wit;
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Bold in the field, and favour’d by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordain’d to shine;
Far, far distinguished from the glittering throng,
The pride of Princes, and the boast of Song.
Such were thy Fathers; thus preserve their name,
Not heir to titles only, but to Fame.
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign
Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were mine:
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow’s hue,
And gild their pinions, as the moments flew;
Peace, that reflection never frown’d away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let Childhood only tell;
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.

To these adieu! nor let me linger o’er
Scenes hail’d, as exiles hail their native shore,
Receding slowly, through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.

  Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And, yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe—
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice;
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings, which, perchance, it ought,
If these,—but let me cease the lengthen’d strain,—
Oh! if these wishes are not breath’d in vain,
The Guardian Seraph who directs thy fate
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great.
Big Virge Dec 2019
Is it Such A Crime To Speak Your Mind … ?    
      
Because ….      
It Seems To Be If You're NOT WHITE ... !!!    
      
I Hear This Said So MANY Times … !!!      
      
"Virge, you scare folks with words you rhyme !"      
      
And That's NO JOKE But Words I Quote ...      
Are NOT  The Type To Start A Fight … !!!      
      
But May UNSETTLE Those Who … " Settle " ...      
To Hide Behind A … "LIE FILLED Life" … !!!      
      
Can Someone DEFINE Why It's …. " Such A Crime " …. ?      
To Criticise ... Political Types …. !?!      
      
In Times Like THESE FREEDOM of SPEECH ...      
Is NEEDED …  Just Like Poetry … !!!      
      
If We're To Ease Pain And Misery … !!!      
And Crimes of More FATAL DESIGNS … !!!!!      
      
MURDERS ... RAPES Crimes Based On Race …      
And Crimes Inclined To Keep The Masses ... "Blind" ... !!!      
Like Those In Folds Who Make Mistakes …      
Do THEY Pay A Toll For CASH THEY TAKE … ?!?      
      
MISTAKES … THEY SAY That Pay For Homes … ?!?      
      
"It was merely a loan, from a chap I know !      
No more questions now, i've got to go !"      
      
"A chap you know, can't we know his name ?"      
      
"Are you insane, is it such a crime      
for you to find, that friends of mine,      
help out in times of financial strain ?"    
      
"Of course not sir, but don't divert, what is his name,      
and did he donate to your friends campaign ?      
Need I ask you again, the question is what is his name ?      
Let me make it plain, are you quite sure he hasn't bought,      
A Peerage, and is now a lord ?"      
      
"I will not answer any more !      
What do you take, politicians for ?      
Anyone would think, our dealings stink !"      
      
"Well, no more than a poor street ***** !    
Is it such a crime to want to know more ?"    
      
Could This Be Why Government Guidelines ...      
Are Trying To Stem ... Peoples' Questions ... !?!      
      
If Free Speech ENDS What'll Happen To THEM … ???      
And ALL THEIR Pre-Planned Arguments … ?!?      
      
It Seems That THEY Will Carry On …      
Airing Views Even If They're WRONG … !?!      
      
Isn't That A Crime It Would Seem NOT … !?!      
So How Can It Be A CRIME To Speak Your Mind ... ?!?      
ESPECIALLY When You're PROVEN RIGHT … !!!      
      
I Find This ATTITUDE At …. " Poetry Nights " …. ?!?      
      
if You Speak About Your Life That Seems To Be FINE …    
Or Express FRUSTRATION At The State of The NATION … !!!      
Through Words You Write ….      
If You Are WHITE And They Make Folks SMILE ... !!!      
      
But If You're BLACK And Make ATTACKS …      
On RACISTS ... Or On Western Plans …      
You're Treated Like An ….. ALIEN …… !!!!!      
It MUST BE A Crime To Be A BLACK MAN ... !???!      
      
ESPECIALLY When You Have A MIND …      
Inclined To WRITE Poetic Rhymes That Spread Insight … !!!    
      
"But, SOME BLACKS DO !"      
      
"Well, if that's true, let me ask you who ?      
Mr. Zephaniah, okay, that's one !      
But, he's spent time inside prison !"      
I'm talking about a black without,      
a history of dodgy deeds !"      
      
I Think You'll Find THAT MAN Is ME … !!!      
NO Prison Time Has Big Virge SEEN … !!!      
      
But May Well Do For Words I Speak …      
Even When My Record's … CLEAN … !!?!!      
      
Well …. Clean ENOUGH … !!!      
      
I HAVE BEEN Cuffed ... !!!!!      
For Slapping A Girl For DISRESPECTING MY MUM … !!!!!      
      
And ….. " Driving Drunk " ……      
But Both Misdemeanours Were Just The ONCE … !!!!!      
And Like Benjamin ... Were When I Was YOUNG … !!!!!      
      
But The Point I'm Trying To Make …      
Is … Black Americans Are Deemed To Be GREAT … !!!!!      
For Taking A STANCE AGAINST Racial HATE … !!!!!      
      
WHICH English Black Can Make The Claim THAT …      
They've Gained RESPECT For … Taking THAT STANCE … !?!      
      
What Does That Say About Those Who CLAIM … !!!      
      
THAT …….      
      
"Blacks are treated just the same,      
as every other race on, English Shores !"      
      
"Are THEY QUITE SURE ?!!!? "      
      
I'm NO Malcolm X But DO HAVE A Cause … !!!      
My Cause DEPLORES These Government Laws … !!!      
      
Cos' If You're Black And POOR …      
You're Gonna ... SUFFER For SURE … !!!!!      
      
Even If You're NOT …      
Police Now Plot To Shoot You Down … !!!!!      
Or Question You ... Even If They Doubt … ?      
      
THAT You ARE THAT Drug Dealer … !?!      
OR The ONE Who STOLE That Car … !!!!!      
      
Laws They PASS Are Now PURE FARCE … !!!!      
It Seems They've Moved But …. NOT TOO FAR …. !!!!!!!      
AWAY From Keeping Us ……….. Apart ……….      
      
Ask Yourself WHY Are They Inclined ... ?      
To RESTRICT Those Who EXPOSE LIES … ?!?      
      
Creatively ...  Or Otherwise …      
Through Simply Saying What's IN Their Mind … !?!      
      
PLEASE Ask Yourself WHY … ?      
      
..... " Is It Such A Crime ? " ......
A poem bred from the recognition of the fact that, Britain maintains some, truly amazing double standards !
Michael R Burch Feb 2020
This World's Joy: The Best Medieval Poems in Modern English Translations by Michael R. Burch

These are my modern English translations of Middle English and Old English/Anglo-Saxon poems poems by Anonymous, Caedmon, Geoffrey Chaucer, Thomas Campion, Deor, William Dunbar, Godric of Finchale, Charles d'Orleans, Layamon and Sir Thomas Wyatt.




This World's Joy
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1300
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Winter awakens all my care
as leafless trees grow bare.
For now my sighs are fraught
whenever it enters my thought:
regarding this world's joy,
how everything comes to naught.

[MS. Harl. 2253. f. 49r]

The original Middle English text:

Wynter wakeneth al my care,
Nou this leves waxeth bare.
Ofte y sike ant mourne sare
When hit cometh in my thoht
Of this worldes joie, hou hit goth al to noht.

“This World’s Joy” or “Wynter wakeneth al my care” is one of the earliest surviving winter poems in English literature and an early rhyming poem as well.  Edward Bliss Reed dated the poem to around 1310, around 30 years before the birth of Geoffrey Chaucer, and said it was thought to have been composed in Leominster, Herefordshire. I elected to translate the first stanza as a poem in its own right. Keywords/Tags: Middle English, translation, anonymous, rhyme, rhyming, medieval, lament, lamentation, care, cares, sighs, winter, trees, leafless, bare, barren, barrenness, emptiness, isolation, alienation, joy, joys



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.



Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar (1460-1525)
loose translation/interpretation 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 and left her downcast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that I long to plant love's root again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.

My translation of "Lament for the Makaris" by William Dunbar appears later on this page.



I Have Labored Sore
(anonymous medieval lyric circa the fifteenth century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have labored sore          and suffered death,
so now I rest           and catch my breath.
But I shall come      and call right soon
heaven and earth          and hell to doom.
Then all shall know           both devil and man
just who I was               and what I am.



A Lyke-Wake Dirge
(anonymous medieval lyric circa the 16th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Lie-Awake Dirge is “the night watch kept over a corpse.”

This one night, this one night,
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.

When from this earthly life you pass
every night and all,
to confront your past you must come at last,
and Christ receive thy soul.

If you ever donated socks and shoes,
every night and all,
sit right down and slip yours on,
and Christ receive thy soul.

But if you never helped your brother,
every night and all,
walk barefoot through the flames of hell,
and Christ receive thy soul.

If ever you shared your food and drink,
every night and all,
the fire will never make you shrink,
and Christ receive thy soul.

But if you never helped your brother,
every night and all,
walk starving through the black abyss,
and Christ receive thy soul.

This one night, this one night,
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.



Excerpt from “Ubi Sunt Qui Ante Nos Fuerunt?”
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1275)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Where are the men who came before us,
who led hounds and hawks to the hunt,
who commanded fields and woods?
Where are the elegant ladies in their boudoirs
who braided gold through their hair
and had such fair complexions?

Once eating and drinking gladdened their hearts;
they enjoyed their games;
men bowed before them;
they bore themselves loftily …
But then, in an eye’s twinkling,
they were gone.

Where now are their songs and their laughter,
the trains of their dresses,
the arrogance of their entrances and exits,
their hawks and their hounds?
All their joy has vanished;
their “well” has come to “oh, well”
and to many dark days …



"Now skruketh rose and lylie flour" is an early Middle English poem that gives a hint of things to come, in terms of meter and rhyme …

Now skruketh rose and lylie flour
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 11th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now the rose and the lily skyward flower,
That will bear for awhile that sweet savor:
In summer, that sweet tide;
There is no queen so stark in her power
Nor any lady so bright in her bower
That Death shall not summon and guide;
But whoever forgoes lust, in heavenly bliss will abide
With his thoughts on Jesus anon, thralled at his side.

skruketh = break forth, burst open; stour = strong, stern, hardy; tharled = thralled?, made a serf?, bound?



Fowles in the Frith
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fowls in the forest,
the fishes in the flood
and I must go mad:
such sorrow I've had
for beasts of bone and blood!

Sounds like an early animal rights activist! The use of "and" is intriguing … is the poet saying that his walks in the woods drive him mad because he's also a "beast of bone and blood" facing a similar fate? I must note, however, that this is my personal interpretation. The poem has "beste" and the poet may have meant "for the best of bone and blood" meaning some unidentified person, presumably.



Westron Wynde
(anonymous Middle English lyric, found in a partbook circa 1530 AD, but perhaps written earlier)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Western wind, when will you blow,
bringing the drizzling rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
and I in my bed again!

The original poem has "the smalle rayne down can rayne" which suggests a drizzle or mist.



Pity Mary
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now the sun passes under the wood:
I rue, Mary, thy face—fair, good.
Now the sun passes under the tree:
I rue, Mary, thy son and thee.

In the poem above, note how "wood" and "tree" invoke the cross while "sun" and "son" seem to invoke each other. Sun-day is also Son-day, to Christians. The anonymous poet who wrote the poem above may have been been punning the words "sun" and "son." The poem is also known as "Now Goeth Sun Under Wood" and "Now Go'th Sun Under Wood."



I am of Ireland
(anonymous Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am of Ireland,
and of the holy realm of Ireland.
Gentlefolk, I pray thee:
for the sake of saintly charity,
come dance with me
in Ireland!



Whan the turuf is thy tour
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
When the turf is your tower
and the pit is your bower,
your pale white skin and throat
shall be sullen worms’ to note.
What help to you, then,
was all your worldly hope?

2.
When the turf is your tower
and the grave is your bower,
your pale white throat and skin
worm-eaten from within …
what hope of my help then?

The second translation leans more to the "lover's complaint" and carpe diem genres, with the poet pointing out to his prospective lover that by denying him her favors she make take her virtue to the grave where worms will end her virginity in macabre fashion. This poem may be an ancient precursor of poems like Andrew Marvell's "To His Coy Mistress."



Ech day me comëth tydinges thre
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Each day I’m plagued by three doles,
These gargantuan weights on my soul:
First, that I must somehow exit this fen.
Second, that I cannot know when.
And yet it’s the third that torments me so,
Because I don't know where the hell I will go!



Ich have y-don al myn youth
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa the 13th to 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have done it all my youth:
Often, often, and often!
I have loved long and yearned zealously …
And oh what grief it has brought me!



GEOFFREY CHAUCER

Three Roundels by Geoffrey Chaucer

I. Merciles Beaute ("Merciless Beauty")
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.

Unless your words heal me hastily,
my heart's wound will remain green;
for your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain.

By all truth, I tell you faithfully
that you are of life and death my queen;
for at my death this truth shall be seen:
your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.



II. Rejection
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.

I'm guiltless, yet my sentence has been cast.
I tell you truly, needless now to feign,—
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain.

Alas, that Nature in your face compassed
Such beauty, that no man may hope attain
To mercy, though he perish from the pain;
Your beauty from your heart has so erased
Pity, that it’s useless to complain;
For Pride now holds your mercy by a chain.



III. Escape
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.

He may question me and counter this and that;
I care not: I will answer just as I mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean.

Love strikes me from his roster, short and flat,
And he is struck from my books, just as clean,
Forevermore; there is no other mean.
Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat,
I never plan to be in his prison lean;
Since I am free, I count it not a bean.



Welcome, Summer
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.
Saint Valentine, in the heavens aloft,
the songbirds sing your praises together!

Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather.

We have good cause to rejoice, not scoff,
since love’s in the air, and also in the heather,
whenever we find such blissful warmth, together.

Now welcome, Summer, with your sun so soft,
since you’ve banished Winter with her icy weather
and driven away her long nights’ frosts.



CHARLES D'ORLEANS

Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains,
Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain,
Your little feet—please, what more can I say?

It is my fetish when you’re far away
To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain—
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains.

So would I beg you, if I only may,
To see such sights as I before have seen,
Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene?
I’ll be obsessed until my dying day
By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms’ twin chains!



Spring
by Charles d’Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

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



Oft in My Thought
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

So often in my busy mind I sought,
    Around the advent of the fledgling year,
For something pretty that I really ought
    To give my lady dear;
    But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear,
        Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay
    And robbed the world of all that's precious here―
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

For me to keep my manner and my thought
    Acceptable, as suits my age's hour?
While proving that I never once forgot
    Her worth? It tests my power!
    I serve her now with masses and with prayer;
        For it would be a shame for me to stray
    Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near—
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost
    And the cost of everything became so dear;
Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host,
    Take my good deeds, as many as there are,
    And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere,
        As heaven's truest maid! And may I say:
    Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer—
         God keep her soul, I can no better say.

When I praise her, or hear her praises raised,
I recall how recently she brought me pleasure;
    Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay
And makes me wish to dress for my own bier—
    God keep her soul, I can no better say.



Winter has cast his cloak away
by Charles d'Orleans (c. 1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

Winter has cast his cloak away
of wind and cold and chilling rain
to dress in embroidered light again:
the light of day—bright, festive, gay!
Each bird and beast, without delay,
in its own tongue, sings this refrain:
"Winter has cast his cloak away!"
Brooks, fountains, rivers, streams at play,
wear, with their summer livery,
bright beads of silver jewelry.
All the Earth has a new and fresh display:
Winter has cast his cloak away!

This rondeau was set to music by Debussy in his Trois chansons de France.



The year lays down his mantle cold
by Charles d’Orleans (1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

The year lays down his mantle cold
of wind, chill rain and bitter air,
and now goes clad in clothes of gold
of smiling suns and seasons fair,
while birds and beasts of wood and fold
now with each cry and song declare:
"The year lays down his mantle cold!"
All brooks, springs, rivers, seaward rolled,
now pleasant summer livery wear
with silver beads embroidered where
the world puts off its raiment old.
The year lays down his mantle cold.



Fair Lady Without Peer
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fair Lady, without peer, my plea,
Is that your grace will pardon me,
Since I implore, on bended knee.
No longer can I, privately,
Keep this from you: my deep distress,
When only you can comfort me,
For I consider you my only mistress.

This powerful love demands, I fear,
That I confess things openly,
Since to your service I came here
And my helpless eyes were forced to see
Such beauty gods and angels cheer,
Which brought me joy in such excess
That I became your servant, gladly,
For I consider you my only mistress.

Please grant me this great gift most dear:
to be your vassal, willingly.
May it please you that, now, year by year,
I shall serve you as my only Liege.
I bend the knee here—true, sincere—
Unfit to beg one royal kiss,
Although none other offers cheer,
For I consider you my only mistress.



Chanson: Let Him Refrain from Loving, Who Can
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let him refrain from loving, who can.
I can no longer hover.
I must become a lover.
What will become of me, I know not.

Although I’ve heard the distant thought
that those who love all suffer,
I must become a lover.
I can no longer refrain.

My heart must risk almost certain pain
and trust in Beauty, however distraught.
For if a man does not love, then what?
Let him refrain from loving, who can.



Her Beauty
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Her beauty, to the world so plain,
Still intimately held my heart in thrall
And so established her sole reign:
She was, of Good, the cascading fountain.
Thus of my Love, lost recently,
I say, while weeping bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”

In ages past when angels fell
The world grew darker with the stain
Of their dear blood, then became hell
While poets wept a tearful strain.
Yet, to his dark and drear domain
Death took his victims, piteously,
So that we bards write bitterly:
“We cleave to this strange world in vain.”

Death comes to claim our angels, all,
as well we know, and spares no pain.
Over our pleasures, Death casts his pall,
Then without joy we “living” remain.
Death treats all Love with such disdain!
What use is this world? For it seems to me,
It has neither Love, nor Pity.
Thus “We cleave to this strange world in vain.”



Chanson: The Summer's Heralds
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers
And carpet fields once brown and sere
With lush green grasses and fresh flowers.

Now over gleaming lawns appear
The bright sun-dappled lengthening hours.

The Summer’s heralds bring a dear
Sweet season of soft-falling showers.

Faint hearts once chained by sullen fear
No longer shiver, tremble, cower.
North winds no longer storm and glower.
For winter has no business here.



Traitorous Eye
by Charles d’Orleans
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do you have in view?
Without civil warning, you spy,
And no one ever knows why!

Who understands anything you do?
You’re rash and crass in your boldness too,
And your lewdness is hard to subdue.
Change your crude ways, can’t you?

Traitorous eye, what’s new?
You should be beaten through and through
With a stripling birch strap or two.
Traitorous eye, what’s new?
What lewd pranks do have you in view?



SIR THOMAS WYATT

“Whoso List to Hunt” has an alternate title, “The Lover Despairing to Attain Unto His Lady’s Grace Relinquisheth the Pursuit” and is commonly believed to have been written for Anne Boleyn, who married King Henry VIII only to be beheaded at his command when she failed to produce a male heir. (Ouch, talk about male chauvinism!)

Whoever Longs to Hunt
by Sir Thomas Wyatt
loose translation/interpretation/moderniz  ation by Michael R. Burch

Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer;
but as for me, alas!, I may no more.
This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore
I'm one of those who falters, at the rear.
Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind
away from the doe?
                                   Thus, as she flees before
me, fainting I follow.
                                     I must leave off, therefore,
since in a net I seek to hold the wind.

Whoever seeks her out,
                                          I relieve of any doubt,
that he, like me, must spend his time in vain.
For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain,
these words appear, her fair neck ringed about:
Touch me not, for Caesar's I am,
And wild to hold, though I seem tame.



Brut, an excerpt
by Layamon, circa 1100 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Now he stands on a hill overlooking the Avon,
seeing steel fishes girded with swords in the stream,
their swimming days done,
their scales a-gleam like gold-plated shields,
their fish-spines floating like shattered spears.



Wulf and Eadwacer
(Old English poem circa 960-990 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My people pursue him like crippled prey.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different!

Wulf's on one island; I'm on another.
His island's a fortress, fastened by fens.
Here, bloodthirsty curs howl for carnage.
They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack.
We are so different!

My thoughts pursued Wulf like panting hounds.
Whenever it rained, as I wept,
the bold warrior came; he took me in his arms:
good feelings, to a point, but the end loathsome!
Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you
has made me sick; your infrequent visits
have left me famished, deprived of real meat!
Do you hear, Eadwacer? Watchdog!
A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods.
One can easily sever what never was one:
our song together.



Cædmon's Hymn (Old English circa 658-680 AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, let us honour      heaven-kingdom's Guardian,
the might of the Architect      and his mind-plans,
the work of the Glory-Father.      First he, the Everlasting Lord,
established      the foundation of wonders.
Then he, the Primeval Poet,      created heaven as a roof
for the sons of men,      Holy Creator,
Maker of mankind.      Then he, the Eternal Entity,
afterwards made men middle-earth:      Master Almighty!



A Proverb from Winfred's Time
anonymous Old English poem, circa 757-786 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
The procrastinator puts off purpose,
never initiates anything marvelous,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.

2.
The late-deed-doer delays glory-striving,
never indulges daring dreams,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.

3.
Often the deed-dodger avoids ventures,
never succeeds, dies dead alone.



Franks Casket Runes
anonymous Old English poems, circa 700 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The fish flooded the shore-cliffs;
the sea-king wept when he swam onto the shingle:
whale's bone.

Romulus and Remus, twin brothers weaned in Rome
by a she-wolf, far from their native land.



"The Leiden Riddle" is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle Lorica ("Corselet").

The Leiden Riddle
anonymous Old English riddle poem, circa 700 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb.
I know I was not fashioned from woolen fleeces;
nor was I skillfully spun from skeins;
I have neither warp nor weft;
no thread thrums through me in the thrashing loom;
nor do whirring shuttles rattle me;
nor does the weaver's rod assail me;
nor did silkworms spin me like skillfull fates
into curious golden embroidery.
And yet heroes still call me an excellent coat.
Nor do I fear the dread arrows' flights,
however eagerly they leap from their quivers.

Solution: a coat of mail.



If you see a busker singing for tips, you're seeing someone carrying on an Anglo-Saxon tradition that goes back to the days of Beowulf …

He sits with his harp at his thane's feet,
Earning his hire, his rewards of rings,
Sweeping the strings with his skillful nail;
Hall-thanes smile at the sweet song he sings.
—"Fortunes of Men" loose translation by Michael R. Burch



Deor's Lament
(Anglo Saxon poem, circa 10th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Weland knew the agony of exile.
That indomitable smith was wracked by grief.
He endured countless troubles:
sorrows were his only companions
in his frozen island dungeon
after Nithad had fettered him,
many strong-but-supple sinew-bonds
binding the better man.
   That passed away; this also may.

Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths
but even more, her own sad state
once she discovered herself with child.
She predicted nothing good could come of it.
   That passed away; this also may.

We have heard that the Geat's moans for Matilda,
his lady, were limitless,
that his sorrowful love for her
robbed him of regretless sleep.
   That passed away; this also may.

For thirty winters Theodric ruled
the Mæring stronghold with an iron hand;
many knew this and moaned.
   That passed away; this also may.

We have also heard of Ermanaric's wolfish ways,
of how he held wide sway in the realm of the Goths.
He was a grim king! Many a warrior sat,
full of cares and maladies of the mind,
wishing constantly that his kingdom might be overthrown.
   That passed away; this also may.

If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious,
bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening,
soon it seems to him that his troubles are endless.
Then he must consider that the wise Lord
often moves through the earth
granting some men honor, glory and fame,
but others only shame and hardship.
This I will say for myself:
that for awhile I was the Heodeninga's scop,
dear to my lord. My name was Deor.
For many winters I held a fine office,
faithfully serving a just lord. But now Heorrenda
a man skilful in songs, has received the estate
the protector of warriors gave me.
   That passed away; this also may.



The Wife's Lament
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I draw these words from deep wells of my grief,
care-worn, unutterably sad.
I can recount woes I've borne since birth,
present and past, never more than now.
I have won, from my exile-paths, only pain.

First, my lord forsook his folk, left,
crossed the seas' tumult, far from our people.
Since then, I've known
wrenching dawn-griefs, dark mournings … oh where,
where can he be?

Then I, too, left—a lonely, lordless refugee,
full of unaccountable desires!
But the man's kinsmen schemed secretly
to estrange us, divide us, keep us apart,
across earth's wide kingdom, and my heart broke.

Then my lord spoke:
"Take up residence here."
I had few friends in this unknown, cheerless
region, none close.
Christ, I felt lost!

Then I thought I had found a well-matched man –
one meant for me,
but unfortunately he
was ill-starred and blind, with a devious mind,
full of murderous intentions, plotting some crime!

Before God we
vowed never to part, not till kingdom come, never!
But now that's all changed, forever –
our friendship done, severed.
I must hear, far and near, contempt for my husband.

So other men bade me, "Go, live in the grove,
beneath the great oaks, in an earth-cave, alone."
In this ancient cave-dwelling I am lost and oppressed –
the valleys are dark, the hills immense,
and this cruel-briared enclosure—an arid abode!

The injustice assails me—my lord's absence!
On earth there are lovers who share the same bed
while I pass through life dead in this dark abscess
where I wilt, summer days unable to rest
or forget the sorrows of my life's hard lot.

A young woman must always be
stern, hard-of-heart, unmoved,
opposing breast-cares and her heartaches' legions.
She must appear cheerful
even in a tumult of grief.

Like a criminal exiled to a far-off land,
moaning beneath insurmountable cliffs,
my weary-minded love, drenched by wild storms
and caught in the clutches of anguish,
is reminded constantly of our former happiness.

Woe be it to them who abide in longing.



The Husband's Message
anonymous Old English poem, circa 960-990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

See, I unseal myself for your eyes only!
I sprang from a seed to a sapling,
waxed great in a wood,
                           was given knowledge,
was ordered across saltstreams in ships
where I stiffened my spine, standing tall,
till, entering the halls of heroes,
                   I honored my manly Lord.

Now I stand here on this ship’s deck,
an emissary ordered to inform you
of the love my Lord feels for you.
I have no fear forecasting his heart steadfast,
his honor bright, his word true.

He who bade me come carved this letter
and entreats you to recall, clad in your finery,
what you promised each other many years before,
mindful of his treasure-laden promises.

He reminds you how, in those distant days,
witty words were pledged by you both
in the mead-halls and homesteads:
how he would be Lord of the lands
you would inhabit together
while forging a lasting love.

Alas, a vendetta drove him far from his feuding tribe,
but now he instructs me to gladly give you notice
that when you hear the returning cuckoo's cry
cascading down warming coastal cliffs,
come over the sea! Let no man hinder your course.

He earnestly urges you: Out! To sea!
Away to the sea, when the circling gulls
hover over the ship that conveys you to him!

Board the ship that you meet there:
sail away seaward to seek your husband,
over the seagulls' range,
                          over the paths of foam.
For over the water, he awaits you.

He cannot conceive, he told me,
how any keener joy could comfort his heart,
nor any greater happiness gladden his soul,
than that a generous God should grant you both
to exchange rings, then give gifts to trusty liege-men,
golden armbands inlaid with gems to faithful followers.

The lands are his, his estates among strangers,
his new abode fair and his followers true,
all hardy heroes, since hence he was driven,
shoved off in his ship from these shore in distress,
steered straightway over the saltstreams, sped over the ocean,
a wave-tossed wanderer winging away.

But now the man has overcome his woes,
outpitted his perils, lives in plenty, lacks no luxury,
has a hoard and horses and friends in the mead-halls.

All the wealth of the earth's great earls
now belongs to my Lord …
                                             He only lacks you.

He would have everything within an earl's having,
if only my Lady will come home to him now,
if only she will do as she swore and honor her vow.



Led By Christ and Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led
that the earth never felt my bare foot’s tread!

Crist and sainte marie swa on scamel me iledde
þat ic on þis erðe ne silde wid mine bare fote itredie



A Cry to Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I.
Saintë Marië Virginë,
Mother of Jesus Christ the Nazarenë,
Welcome, shield and help thin Godric,
Fly him off to God’s kingdom rich!

II.
Saintë Marië, Christ’s bower,
****** among Maidens, Motherhood’s flower,
Blot out my sin, fix where I’m flawed,
Elevate me to Bliss with God!



Prayer to St. Nicholas
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Saint Nicholas, beloved of God,
Build us a house that’s bright and fair;
Watch over us from birth to bier,
Then, Saint Nicholas, bring us safely there!

Sainte Nicholaes godes druð
tymbre us faire scone hus
At þi burth at þi bare
Sainte nicholaes bring vs wel þare



The Rhymed Poem aka The Rhyming Poem and The Riming Poem
anonymous Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem circa 990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

He who granted me life created this sun
and graciously provided its radiant engine.
I was gladdened with glees, bathed in bright hues,
deluged with joy’s blossoms, sunshine-infused.

Men admired me, feted me with banquet-courses;
we rejoiced in the good life. Gaily bedecked horses
carried me swiftly across plains on joyful rides,
delighting me with their long limbs' thunderous strides.
That world was quickened by earth’s fruits and their flavors!
I cantered under pleasant skies, attended by troops of advisers.
Guests came and went, amusing me with their chatter
as I listened with delight to their witty palaver.

Well-appointed ships glided by in the distance;
when I sailed myself, I was never without guidance.
I was of the highest rank; I lacked for nothing in the hall;
nor did I lack for brave companions; warriors, all,
we strode through castle halls weighed down with gold
won from our service to thanes. We were proud men, and bold.
Wise men praised me; I was omnipotent in battle;
Fate smiled on and protected me; foes fled before me like cattle.
Thus I lived with joy indwelling; faithful retainers surrounded me;
I possessed vast estates; I commanded all my eyes could see;
the earth lay subdued before me; I sat on a princely throne;
the words I sang were charmed; old friendships did not wane …

Those were years rich in gifts and the sounds of happy harp-strings,
when a lasting peace dammed shut the rivers’ sorrowings.
My servants were keen, their harps resonant;
their songs pealed, the sound loud but pleasant;
the music they made melodious, a continual delight;
the castle hall trembled and towered bright.
Courage increased, wealth waxed with my talent;
I gave wise counsel to great lords and enriched the valiant.

My spirit enlarged; my heart rejoiced;
good faith flourished; glory abounded; abundance increased.
I was lavishly supplied with gold; bright gems were circulated …
Till treasure led to treachery and the bonds of friendship constricted.

I was bold in my bright array, noble in my equipage,
my joy princely, my home a happy hermitage.
I protected and led my people;
for many years my life among them was regal;
I was devoted to them and they to me.

But now my heart is troubled, fearful of the fates I see;
disaster seems unavoidable. Someone dear departs in flight by night
who once before was bold. His soul has lost its light.
A secret disease in full growth blooms within his breast,
spreads in different directions. Hostility blossoms in his chest,
in his mind. Bottomless grief assaults the mind's nature
and when penned in, erupts in rupture,
burns eagerly for calamity, runs bitterly about.

The weary man suffers, begins a journey into doubt;
his pain is ceaseless; pain increases his sorrows, destroys his bliss;
his glory ceases; he loses his happiness;
he loses his craft; he no longer burns with desires.
Thus joys here perish, lordships expire;
men lose faith and descend into vice;
infirm faith degenerates into evil’s curse;
faith feebly abandons its high seat and every hour grows worse.

So now the world changes; Fate leaves men lame;
Death pursues hatred and brings men to shame.
The happy clan perishes; the spear rends the marrow;
the evildoer brawls and poisons the arrow;
sorrow devours the city; old age castrates courage;
misery flourishes; wrath desecrates the peerage;
the abyss of sin widens; the treacherous path snakes;
resentment burrows, digs in, wrinkles, engraves;
artificial beauty grows foul;
the summer heat cools;
earthly wealth fails;
enmity rages, cruel, bold;
the might of the world ages, courage grows cold.
Fate wove itself for me and my sentence was given:
that I should dig a grave and seek that grim cavern
men cannot avoid when death comes, arrow-swift,
to seize their lives in his inevitable grasp.
Now night comes at last,
and the way stand clear
for Death to dispossesses me of my my abode here.

When my corpse lies interred and the worms eat my limbs,
whom will Death delight then, with his dark feast and hymns?
Let men’s bones become one,
and then finally, none,
till there’s nothing left here of the evil ones.
But men of good faith will not be destroyed;
the good man will rise, far beyond the Void,
who chastened himself, more often than not,
to avoid bitter sins and that final black Blot.
The good man has hope of a far better end
and remembers the promise of Heaven,
where he’ll experience the mercies of God for his saints,
freed from all sins, dark and depraved,
defended from vices, gloriously saved,
where, happy at last before their cheerful Lord,
men may rejoice in his love forevermore.



Adam Lay Ybounden
(anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Adam lay bound, bound in a bond;
Four thousand winters, he thought, were not too long.
And all was for an apple, an apple that he took,
As clerics now find written in their book.
But had the apple not been taken, or had it never been,
We'd never have had our Lady, heaven's queen.
So blesséd be the time the apple was taken thus;
Therefore we sing, "God is gracious!"

The poem has also been rendered as "Adam lay i-bounden" and "Adam lay i-bowndyn."



I Sing of a Maiden
(anonymous Medieval English Lyric, circa early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I sing of a maiden
That is matchless.
The King of all Kings
For her son she chose.

He came also as still
To his mother's breast
As April dew
Falling on the grass.

He came also as still
To his mother's bower
As April dew
Falling on the flower.

He came also as still
To where his mother lay
As April dew
Falling on the spray.

Mother and maiden?
Never one, but she!
Well may such a lady
God's mother be!



Tegner's Drapa
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I heard a voice, that cried,
“Balder the beautiful lies dead, lies dead …”
a voice like the flight of white cranes
intent on a sun sailing high overhead—
but a sun now irretrievably setting.

Then I saw the sun’s corpse
—dead beyond all begetting—
borne through disconsolate skies
as blasts from the Nifel-heim rang out with dread,
“Balder lies dead, our fair Balder lies dead! …”

Lost—the sweet runes of his tongue,
so sweet every lark hushed its singing!
Lost, lost forever—his beautiful face,
the grace of his smile, all the girls’ hearts wild-winging!
O, who ever thought such strange words might be said,
as “Balder lies dead, gentle Balder lies dead! …”



Lament for the Makaris (Makers, or Poets)
by William Dunbar (1460-1525)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

i who enjoyed good health and gladness
am overwhelmed now by life’s terrible sickness
and enfeebled with infirmity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

our presence here is mere vainglory;
the false world is but transitory;
the flesh is frail; the Fiend runs free …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

the state of man is changeable:
now sound, now sick, now blithe, now dull,
now manic, now devoid of glee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

no state on earth stands here securely;
as the wild wind shakes the willow tree,
so wavers this world’s vanity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

Death leads the knights into the field
(unarmored under helm and shield)
sole Victor of each red mêlée …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

that strange, despotic Beast
tears from its mother’s breast
the babe, full of benignity …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

He takes the champion of the hour,
the captain of the highest tower,
the beautiful damsel in her tower …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

He spares no lord for his elegance,
nor clerk for his intelligence;
His dreadful stroke no man can flee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

artist, magician, scientist,
orator, debater, theologist,
must all conclude, so too, as we:
“how the fear of Death dismays me!”

in medicine the most astute
sawbones and surgeons all fall mute;
they cannot save themselves, or flee …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

i see the Makers among the unsaved;
the greatest of Poets all go to the grave;
He does not spare them their faculty …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

i have seen Him pitilessly devour
our noble Chaucer, poetry’s flower,
and Lydgate and Gower (great Trinity!) …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

since He has taken my brothers all,
i know He will not let me live past the fall;
His next prey will be — poor unfortunate me! …
how the fear of Death dismays me!

there is no remedy for Death;
we all must prepare to relinquish breath
so that after we die, we may be set free
from “the fear of Death dismays me!”



Fairest Between Lincoln and Lindsey
(anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When the nightingale sings, the woods turn green;
Leaf and grass again blossom in April, I know,
Yet love pierces my heart with its spear so keen!
Night and day it drinks my blood. The painful rivulets flow.

I’ve loved all this year. Now I can love no more;
I’ve sighed many a sigh, sweetheart, and yet all seems wrong.
For love is no nearer and that leaves me poor.
Sweet lover, think of me — I’ve loved you so long!



Sumer is icumen in
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1260 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sing now cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo!
Sing, cuckoo! Sing now cuckoo!

Summer is a-comin'!
Sing loud, cuckoo!
The seed grows,
The meadow blows,
The woods spring up anew.
Sing, cuckoo!

The ewe bleats for her lamb;
The cows contentedly moo;
The bullock roots;
The billy-goat poots …
Sing merrily, cuckoo!

Cuckoo, cuckoo,
You sing so well, cuckoo!
Never stop, until you're through!



The Maiden Lay in the Wilds
circa the 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The maiden in the moor lay,
in the moor lay;
seven nights full,
seven nights full,
the maiden in the moor lay,
in the moor lay,
seven nights full and a day.

Sweet was her meat.
But what was her meat?
The primrose and the—
The primrose and the—
Sweet was her meat.
But what was her meat?
The primrose and the violet.

Pure was her drink.
But what was her drink?
The cold waters of the—
The cold waters of the—
Pure was her drink.
But what was her drink?
The cold waters of the well-spring.

Bright was her bower.
But what was her bower?
The red rose and the—
The red rose and the—
Bright was her bower.
But what was her bower?
The red rose and the lily flower.



The World an Illusion
circa 14th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This is the sum of wisdom bright:
however things may appear,
life vanishes like birds in flight;
now it’s here, now there.
Nor are we mighty in our “might”—
now on the bench, now on the bier.
However vigilant or wise,
in health it’s death we fear.
However proud and without peer,
no man’s immune to tragedy.
And though we think all’s solid here,
this world is but a fantasy.

The sun’s course we may claim to know:
arises east, sets in the west;
we know which way earth’s rivers flow,
into the seas that fill and crest.
The winds rush here and there, also,
it rains and snows without arrest.
Will it all end? God only knows,
with the wisdom of the Blessed,
while we on earth remain hard-pressed,
all bedraggled, or too dry,
until we vanish, just a guest:
this world is but a fantasy.



Trust Only Yourself
circa the 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Alas! Deceit lies in trust now,
dubious as Fortune, spinning like a ball,
as brittle when tested as a rotten bough.
He who trusts in trust is ripe for a fall!
Such guile in trust cannot be trusted,
or a man will soon find himself busted.
Therefore, “Be wary of trust!” is my advice.
Trust only yourself and learn to be wise.



See, Here, My Heart
circa the 15th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O, mankind,
please keep in mind
where Passions start:
there you will find
me wholly kind—
see, here, my heart.



How Death Comes
circa the 13th century
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When my eyes mist
and my ears hiss
and my nose grows cold
as my tongue folds
and my face grows slack
as my lips grow black
and my mouth gapes
as my spit forms lakes
and my hair falls
as my heart stalls
and my hand shake
as my feet quake:
All too late! All too late!
When the bier is at the gate.

Then I shall pass
from bed to floor,
from floor to shroud,
from shroud to bier,
from bier to grave,
the grave closed forever!
Then my house will rest on my nose.
This world’s not worth a farthing, Heaven knows!



Johann Scheffler (1624-1677), also known as Johann Angelus Silesius, was a German Catholic priest and physician, known as a mystic and religious poet. He's a bit later than most of the other poets on this page, but seems to fit in …

Unholy Trinity
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Man has three enemies:
himself, the world, and the devil.
Of these the first is, by far,
the most irresistible evil.

True Wealth
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

There is more to being rich
than merely having;
the wealthiest man can lose
everything not worth saving.

The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rose merely blossoms
and never asks why:
heedless of her beauty,
careless of every eye.

The Rose
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rose lack “reasons”
and merely sways with the seasons;
she has no ego
but whoever put on such a show?

Eternal Time
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eternity is time,
time eternity,
except when we
are determined to "see."

Visions
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Our souls possess two eyes:
one examines time,
the other visions
eternal and sublime.

Godless
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

God is absolute Nothingness
beyond our sense of time and place;
the more we try to grasp Him,
The more He flees from our embrace.

The Source
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Water is pure and clean
when taken at the well-head:
but drink too far from the Source
and you may well end up dead.

Ceaseless Peace
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unceasingly you seek
life's ceaseless wavelike motion;
I seek perpetual peace, all storms calmed.
Whose is the wiser notion?

Well Written
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Friend, cease!
Abandon all pretense!
You must yourself become
the Writing and the Sense.

Worm Food
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No worm is buried
so deep within the soil
that God denies it food
as reward for its toil.

Mature Love
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

New love, like a sparkling wine, soon fizzes.
Mature love, calm and serene, abides.

God's Predicament
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

God cannot condemn those with whom he would dwell,
or He would have to join them in hell!

Clods
by Angelus Silesius
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A ruby
is not lovelier
than a dirt clod,
nor an angel
more glorious
than a frog.



The original poem below is based on my teenage misinterpretation of a Latin prayer …

Elegy for a little girl, lost
by Michael R. Burch

… qui laetificat juventutem meam …
She was the joy of my youth,
and now she is gone.
… requiescat in pace …
May she rest in peace.
… amen …
Amen.

I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem. From what I now understand, “ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam” means “to the God who gives joy to my youth,” but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Vulgate Latin Bible (circa 385 AD).
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2017
too many youtube punctuation akins before my voice comes through, like: hi! i'm child-minding chalrie! ola! oo! advert gives a ****?! you see that? advert gives a toss! well... ola! original lost to marsh potatoes mash.

like i was led by a solomonic harem:

we're buggered;

   to be honest.... hugh grant could have
said that better, and, would have facied him...
if he made that one film from my youth
about a damsel in distress... and the return
of charles II to england... the thing adam and the ants
imitated: highwayman no robin hood...
clean shaven like a daffodil in early spring frost
for the eye to peer into...

as it turns out, you write one great piece of work
and everyone applauses...
you write a thousand symphonies,
and everyone turns flame-eyed and forgets
your one spectacular moment, which
you take into hades and wish to forget given
the total output, when they mention that it
was all great, but so comes cousin critic and you
know that most of it was... a bit ****...
               and because of that:
they tend to do better... they?
   the ones that hit the banknote of a one song
wonder... and then receded into life,
and debated with gay peerage in some restaurant
akin to bridet jones' diary scenario,
and oh my oh my: the palpitations necessary
like make-up... i can almost see flamingos take to ballet!

and then it's back to *quack quack quack

of promenades in the park watching mallards...
  
original jealosy fades.... no, nothing else,
it just fades... which can feel a bit weird,
basically it, just, fades - i take to foot what people
take to: speeding down the a408 thinking
about tax; well yeah, i tax my feet with a mile, or two,
sometimes i take to the mile or two
with a different pair of shoe.
                                   you a rhyming rhino too?
              
you write pachebel's canon,
you're going to compete with haydn's 103
symphony...
similar to a question: how many eggs am i
carrying in my basket?

dear reader, like i child i never fathered,
or like a dog i never petted,
          or should i simply aim at: dear ego?
what unit i had and never thought with,
never mind the thought of?

the fact that you can't cry, is the reason
that you are depressed,
that's another statement that's worthwhile,
stating apathy as a misery
without tears
, the original melan- -choly...

listen, i don't care because i don't want to,
  i care about something that i want to care
about because thte things i would like to care about
i can't or don't want to,
   so i take the "metaphor" (which means
half my hans zimmer is gone) that keeps
haydn's symphony no. 103 almost floating
above pachelbel's canon...
      i'd love to miss out the second l...
and there, the ****** white, the doves,
     the church, and... hail! the marching bride!
that feeling of consecration...
    can you realise that newspapers are stink
compared to dust-affording books?
              yep... newspapers are ****
compared to book... i kept a week's worth
of newspapers in my room, i realised
that it stank as if a cat ****** in my room...
  when i listen to pachelbel i'm supposed to think
of kent, or devon, aren't i?
thumbs up essex oi oi!
                   halfway house out of 'ackney
  or 'eckham...
      oh right, right, like i was ever invited to a
marriage...
                     some 'un 'as to be the black sheep
of the family...
   well... i hope she divorces aged 40 and has a miscarriage
aged 35... if i really wanted to give a toss...
i'd toss, a cricket 'ard ball of
                mahogany cranium and make
believe that i was loved,
instead of receiving postcards from strangers...
living about a mile away...
    so there i see pachelbel with his canon in D....
and there i see mozart, laughing in steppenwolf
as is worth citing:
      i wrote so much ******* i just had to
tickle my ***** like a philosopher might ****** his
beard... if that answers your question:
they remember him for only one song,
and do so rightly,
   me? i'm not quiet sure why they remember
me for a hundred.
   it's like pachelbel is the *** pistols
        and i'm the ramones, or the offspring,
or stiff little fingers... or the dread, ****!
green day?!
                 according to noel gallagher
who did say that never mind the *******
was something we didn't accomplish with his
oasis albums... even though back in the day...
on the european continent, no one sang anything
apart from oasis songs... you went to paris:
oasis... you taizé... oasis...
yes, what was, once, france... or frau hans...
and then the exagerration on the f....
like an alo alo alo episode...
                 that's basically what it sounds like....
pachelbel's           pa-she-sha  l          fix it bell's
   pashelbel's               it's also half check in czech...
     but that's what noel said akin to mozart:
to be honest? i'd rather just (have) written than canon in D
and ****** off; if i wrote more than that
i'd be anything but that spare prosthetic limb
for that one legged man, dancing at a party in Versailles.
Vivian May 2014
let me first
apologize; it is neither
fair nor right, that I have placed
you, human that you are,
upon a pedestal, made you
object of my affection,
concurrently greater and baser than
all of your peerage.
second,
let me apologize again.
I've been ****** up for
a while now, mentally and
blood alcohol levelly, and it is
not fair
that you have to deal with me at my worst.
third,
let me
apologize
once more,
because even at my best I was not
worth your time, yet I persisted
insinuating myself into your life when I
had no right to and that,
that was my cardinal sin, was it
not?
that I had the audacity to
love you, and then
to demand you
love me back.
A smudge of poverty marks an oilskin cloth that rides up the tables on the gravy train and
but for the stain we'd all forget that some live life offset against the rim and only look but can't get in.

I challenge riches to a duel, a fool I am
I am the richest man I know and yet that smudge of poverty haunts me,
undaunted though and still I am the richest man I know.
If third class was any class at all
If going steerage entitled me to some armchair peerage then I am a Lord, a master,
I survey and sight the disaster that looms ahead.
But just a smudge and the stain well fed by droppings from the chieftains jowls,
the gravy train howls through the night
and a bare light behind me marks my passing.
Poetoftheway Mar 2019
she pens a thank you note, for my stealing inspiration from her observation,
to create a “beautiful bundle of words”

my vocabulary acquired by just hanging around this planet of aged years,
(hirsute, multifarious, repacked packets of globbed and gloated pins and notions),
is minimally useful in the arced architecture of reassembling a new combination
that pretends to be a beautiful bundle of words, a nouveau riches,
a poem rearrangement is only addition but that a new poem, does not make

to make a creation, one requires
a beautiful bungle  of words,
each tripping upon the next, somehow discordantly harmonious,
a humorous pin ***** sordid that moves the lips into an O shape light emitting,
“why in the hell did not I think of that”

if it makes sensible than it’s likely just recombinant, i.e. a used car
if it makes sensitive as if it’s a new cry, unheralded unheard and
the first newborn among its peerage

bungle your pictionary mistakable notions from fumes of intoxication
stumble into a new theorem predicting the relativity of the impossible,
combine cross pollinations, fish and fowl, meat and milk, stench and best,
faucet drips of hurricane magnitude, draw insights from inside a child’s vision,
and say to yourself repeatedly,
this is how I bungle breathing into new poems,

this is how I birth beautiful
sunday 3/10/19
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
whether a critic or whether a writer, the most popular genre in modern times in the west is either autobiographical, or disguised biographical... i call it ******* literature of the worst kind... some call mere thinking intellectual *******, those ingrained in the thinking that education per se is just that, and expressing it on paper is just that, what a horrid bunch of people, worse of than the religious types, who at least cling to something, the last rite of man worshipping man involved man having to pray to a man suffering on the ultimate geometry that's the cross, so instead of taking the man down from the cross, they did the opposite: 'hang on! hang on just a little bit longer! we'll just add to judas' profit! hang on old chap! we're coming to get you and take you off the cross! we'll just investigate the chance of making profit, creating a pyramidal ecclasiastical order and you'll be off the perfect geometry of intersection in no time!' ****** sadists... where were we? ah yes... autobiographies... the critics and writers summon the words, like: 'i am quite prepared to be searingly, plum honest waiting for the limo under the eye for the insomniac marks of swollen eye about my life...' i'm sure you are, considering the fact you already lived it, and are now about to revise it; it's like watching a bunch of dead people having another stab at life... they lived it, now they're going to write about it, hardly a reason to summon ghost writers, i'm sure, but that's not really automation; memory if a fickle faculty, disrupted by the educational system feeding you useless pythagorean theorems,  memory is subtle, fragile like a snowflake, once it happens, once the imprint is made, it vanishes, and becomes deistorted from the objective reality, which turns the event, any event, into a falsification process, a subjective reality, we cling to pleasant memories because of the pain ahead, and we do something that nature does with its natural selection: selective memorisation. a true autobiography is therefore something that's written without memory, life as it happens, the opposite of painting with its still life tactic... life as it happens... otherwise we're talking literature's post mortem ex vivi / -o (about the hyphen attached to a letter in a moment)... it was simply those two hands of shade with hammer and chisel grinding little trenches of lettering into the gravestone... goth macabra... a dead man writing his own epitaph... so far went his self-knowledge that it became apparent that no one really knew him. hence? the best autobiographies are those with the mundaneity of life's purposes, written as life happens, deviating from what life could be, truly immersed in life as life in deviation from what can be associated with life's purposes requesting other people's involvement; or least that's the sort of autobiography i'd like to read, less lying involved to a peerage of an admirable social status, and more 'in the moment' moments to consider, quiet frankly no ******* of 'gone with the wind,' hence my other joke, less subtle: a book rather than a door - knock knock (actual knocking on compressed wood that's paper) - who's there? - a reader - answer: flick flick flick and no skimmed reading, please!

two concepts i rather avoid,
so i did, i made (i) a priori
into a- priori
and (ii) a posteriori
into a- posteriori,
standard literal dictionary definition
without elaboration places
(i) as: from the one before -
thus the hyphenated activity replaces
literal meaning as:
without the one before -
in the current situation, and with
the current population currency
at above 6 billion - it means
without hercules, adam, abraham,
moses, jesus, etc.
the same goes for a- posteriori,
i.e. without the one after...
and if i'm not being pedantic enough
the distinction between *a
and a-
is that the meaning of the unit in
italics means from, while adding
the hyphen as a preposition to
circumstance it as a prefix changes the
meaning to without-,
given that the priori & posteriori
abide by the sixth definition of the unit
discussed, i.e. before a consonant, p is a consonant,
as much as the word amoral defines proper
a- usage and understanding;
however, the point is not about this,
rather tha activity of what happens when
the dynamic changes, by replacing a / a-
with re- / res.
the resulsts are staggering:

(i)
re- priori                    v.              res priori
again the one                             indivisible thing(s)
before                                         before

(ii)
re- posteriori              v.             res posteriori
again the one                             indivisible thing(s)
after                                            after.

for each there's an example, there's a parallelism
in the res examples, e.g. the sun, the moon, the earth,
mountains can crumble, trees can be cut down
to toothpicks...

the re- examples have a certain ambiguity to them,
give the possibility of a dodo / white rhino extinction,
these example are ordained by an ambiguity
naturally, depending on which factor is stressed more,
whether that be man in a japanese symbiosis
with nature, or whether that be man in a european
symbiosis with nature...
given that the former includes man in nature
and allows a neighbouring,
or with the later, which excludes man from nature
and allows man's egoism to come
crashing down not being able to tame a tsunami.
PJ Poesy Mar 2016
Dauntlessness may be indicative of strangest courage
Who shall say; those rushing to battle?
Oblivious youth prodded off like blank beef cattle
Dare I dispel bravest image; hero for time and peerage
No mother wants her son minced, poured into porridge

Good intention don't be blinded by noble cause
Nobility see no ill harm in poor's sacrifice
Do they offer their own; O when will it suffice?
To abandon war, to give thought, to give pause
Why be meat within richest men's jaws?

Let heroism gain spirit of more peaceful prowess
Join broad-minded, leave dull herd
Who directs minds in this theater of absurd?
Corporations and government alliances boundless
Don't be a cow and don't find yourself powerless
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2020
the upper-house of the *****: the slaughterhouse...
  that / the / it...
    "        
"ta" wyższa-izba rzeszy: rzeźń... point to argue:
                                           rzeźnia...
why then... am i conjuring up
a don't from a do not...
    with the shortening: rzeźń?

i hardly don't know what to make
of the post 2004 mass migration
from the newly acquired: "proto-roman empire"
expansion project from those
Belgian chocolatiers...
          if this is a joke of the vierte *****...
which it is... the drei ***** and the 1000 years...

depends on the locality of said tongue...
once a token ******... never a token... ******...
not when the beer and sausages were shipped:
i never felt more, nor less:
home...             beside the ground on
which i stand?
                    all this talk of home...
home... dom... the sky?
               wait until another whimsical trickle
of russian or german to settled the matter?
will then: herr... zeitundimmerstrikt  &
                       товарищ сейчасзагадка...

mellow this... branch of the house of ßaß...
                  
- hardly an impromptu -
      there was no chance that a polish-liathuanian
commonwealth would
"come back" together...

  not through the civil war: that can hardly
be deemed a civil war...
which - whatever the beginnings...
the ukranian cossack uprising...

and sweden and russia and the ottoman
empire nibbling...

what arose or was drawn with better
stencils than the middle-east...
            only left "us" with...
a sub-group of people that...
spoke their own gvara (vulgate)...

whatever was left of "us"...
sooner or later died... L'viv was deserted...
the Volhynia...
                   "schizoid"...

that "we" didn't become the prior to
Yugoslavia...
the difference were already apparent...
the Galicians and the Kashubians...
i'd venture as far as to call the Masovians
the Prussians of this little nugget of land...
let's in part call one the Welsh...
and the other Scots...
              but... no more will a Miłosz...
or a Mickiewicz cite odes to Lithuania...
when what was Lithuania a lore ago...
   which it isn't now...      a baltic enclave...

how terrible of me to come with
the beer and the sausages and the sourdough...
i blame that on the 2004 spike...
they're all returning home...
     a "home" the remains soon to be written off...
the grandparents...
soon to be written off...
             i'll be coming "home" like
a ******* tourist... perhaps one day...
Toruń will oblige me with me in it...
or Lublin...

                 to have made a home out out
Edinburgh...
         hell... if Cardiff could have retained
an old quarter... of architecture... i'd have settled
for it and took up lessons in Welsh...

and, this is not a joke:
why won't you find, a willing rabbi...
to convert you...
the muslims on the other hand...
are so willing: i was a german on edgeware rd.
once...
why won't you find a willing rabbi...
to convert you?
if it was only a "concern of detail"
for the kippah and a circumcision...
but... over-arching... you weren't "chosen"...
proselyte...
   what's the definition in islam...
not apostate: not a non-believer...

a proselyte: pawns on a game of chess...
that they were nurtured without
their own knowing...
   the mamluks and the janissary...
                
such grand words being thrown about...
  Galicia... Ruthenia...
        
the old world with the old words:
oculus per oculus - an eye for an eye...
           guilt a burden of both the righteous
and the ignominious:
that... a wisdom bound to serve:
a toothpick... since a chopstick does not
suffice!

  guilt: a burden shared by both the guilty:
and the guiltless...
           that i should be the one to know:
the difference of good AND evil...
one and the same... a "working progress"...
well: with AND...
i probably, i suspect:
  that i shouldn't be able to state:
EITHER good OR evil...
           i have to drag this empty coffin
to the burial ground...
to know the difference between: good AND evil
is NOT:
   you will be able to say:
it's EITHER good OR bad...
                             good and evil muddled...
it this... grand... spectacular:
"plot twist"!

           home is where i decide to pluck
consonants and vowels from:
apart from the spike circa 2004... no more...
i just need the minor distinction of letters...
if you'd want to see what sort
of a catholic church whip! and leash!
came after: pope! saint! jean-paul II...
  to have this man glorified...
for simply kissing airport tarmack like
a muslim imitation of prayer...

      the greatest footballers from the former:
satellite commonwealth: "whittle poland"...
of the 1970s... polish jazz...
    the cold war blanket...
              typo riddled scripts itching to get out
of east Berlin and G.D.R. - Berlin, Prague?
****... Cracow - hardly the selling point...
nor is Bratislava or... Masovian Minsk...

Sorbian? yeah yeah... that Serbian of the north...
gentlemen! we have infiltrated zee *****!
   ode to the: Lusatians and the Wends!
project glasgow! speak us much of a joseph
merrick english as is required:
but no diacritical markers!
   leave the "concept" of orthography to Dickens...
making a survey of: d'ah d'um 'uck of
cockney and 'ears... p'p'***...

                clearly i do not require enclaves...
or... those... birmingham esque minarets...
          i'd very much like to keep my ******...
since "i've" lost the lithuanian to project: подчищать это!

the ukranians: bandy УПА...
     the croat nazis: NDH...
                      the ukranians can settle their... ahem...
"differences" with the tsar and tsarina...
but i'm happy to have indulged in the smuggling
to tobacco... case in point:
lately from Romania... and Moldova:
which could perhaps be: one and the same...
the selling price in england: circa 10 quid...
on the black market? stepping up to 5 quid a packet...
once upon a time: three-and-a-fifty (pence)...

limitations of "******* anonymous"...
   peerage... eyes looking up...
         the lost stars... the moon and sun...
                thus gained?
            impromptu suggestion:
                glued to a hypnosis of a...
            mantis... slobber-mouth... smeared
with tummy-juices...
    and nothing of a LOL...
                        when... at least back then:
clean-shaven... it wouldn't have mattered...
to reverse the: gorge-job...
came the slippery p.s. from gomorrah:
we eats ******* 'ere...
*****: ergo: no go zone-out...
    postulating the birth of a tapeworm
from a sprout of squeezed acne... plush: said
the very-berry and... and over-matured plum
and pear trickle graffiti...

which brings no known point of introspection
when she's doing her:
milan kundera moment:
do you pierce - the eyes are a needle
and a thread: and there's also a camel...
which very much depends on kissing
the lips and... gorging on a "flower"...

spaced-out monkey-zombie brains...
endowed... h'america... a land of lazily associated
english sounding town-names...
around noon: father fatigue...
           crisp cut: mississippi lobotomy blues...
is a ****-muncher a citizen of gomorrah?
that's not a question, not, really...

             imagine william burroughs attempting
to write a comic book script...
while shooting shelves of paint urns
onto a canvas: what sort of comic book
reads when pursuing an adventure into
Kandinsky?
                   it's not pretentious it's not
indigenous: but a proper bacon wrap is done
so... with a dollop of h.p. sauce...
period...

milking the natives shying away under
the moon and crescent:
look no further! from under the hammer and
sickle... sun and scythe...
from under the iron curtain into
this limbo la-la-land of: the silicon macabre:
niqab'aeh...
   that: ma'caaaaa (b) (surd) - almost...
forget the trill... the rattle-snake...
                              the peerage of: your lordship!

           pleateau of the readily available
butcher's choice... murking the waters...
  there will never be enough of mud...
  to cover these tracks of ***** and celeste!

   tyler bates - cucksocker;
******* on corks with no screws...
after the fire - der kommissar...
            
a soundtrack for all those "girlfiends" you'd
want to top up with...
when playing videogames...

no... beyond the scope of tenchu:
i lost the plot of peering onto a canvas
that seemed to borrow too much
from the mario bros. respite...
the detail: the graphics:
the sims and the simps and all those
words that never:
was it merely i... or did...
graffiti simply: do the dodo project
act and antic?!

           party time at the brothel:
does it matter they're all bulgarian pretending
to be romanian?
does it?
        
this goes pop... i'll be rummaging in my grave
trying to curb my shadow from
turning into a neon-flare:
but i won't...
                    this is registered under
the "pseudonym" of under-paid: sent...
i lick the envelope...
i lick the stamp...
imagine my disbelief that i suddenly
do not become a philatelist!

                the cheap cigarettes is a'plenty...
i will never wish or hope or dream...
of disturbing that 'appy 'appy land
of psychopaths and the beatles *****
taking a sly turn via
ohio having a punctured rubber...
because in the land of cain...
celebrated as they are: those *******...
no...
      not "here" not "anywhere": not " now"...
h'america i'll be most glad to look
away from...
       but thank you thank you: much kudos...
and the IRA have served up
their signature to the collective
research project...
stemming from the chants of Tehran...
via the...
             we had coffee over in Beirut...
at the time when...
all the trash-workers were working
on the symphony concerning
                    down syndrome's take on
h'arab schpring!

Tyrone in Tangiers: in the 1960s...
because love of man for man...
back when...
   harems and polygamy was all a rage
among the arabs...
it was either jerking off..
joining the army...
finding the next of kin and kin:
"plumbing issue"...
to eat out ****... became equivalent to
butterflies...
and the gardener imploring:
i! hippocrates!

                 strobe disco lights... epilepsy challenge!
cue lazarus: goodbye rodeo!
               that boyfriend you could...
but this isn't Prague...
    and there's no... you could:
or an i hope to: either...
Berlin green... elsewhere all but blue...
but in germ-and-the-many...
it's: gween...
              
                    neon-gween...
       ­                             exfoliations of the ****...
when... sitting the crucified pose
of being strapped to the throne of thrones...
all that is required of us...
is to...
        rummage... sift... and...
                     place into rubric cages...
these following items...
sacrilege (a)...
             sacrilege (b)...
                            lacklustre concerns for
catholic intellect... beside the pompous fwench:
item (c)...
the crucifix is an instrument of torture:
i hear avow... the need to gesticulate...
prayer... before the altar of the womb of mary:
the ******... the iron maiden!
i will consecrate my knees...
and my quote of shakespeare: as to how
hands do the bidding of lips...
when monks pray and... sub-se-quen-tly...
n'est ce pas?

                                  enough! the curtain
is about to fall sacred: to either the sound of silence...
to the hush of aghast... or.... applause!

   a tale of david: the story of...
because... somehow... the same letter...
had to find exfoliation in: beside geometry...
how nabla married deltu...
            ∇                       Δ

both of the same "eye"...
         ∇: this is moses...
                     Δ: this is, "the" pharaoh...

              please... no amount of shoeline...
or... these... the pork not eaten:
because not kosher: made into shoes
and belts... will do away...
with judaism and her ha-gar: sarah:
islam... the son of the cocubine... ishamel...
islam...

desert people politics...
      such are the affairs of people who know
only sand, wind - water and shade...
who have no concern or concept for:
the fern and the pig... the forest...
and the siberia tundra...

"we" were "invited" and at the same time...
appealing to the rationing of "beliefs"
lost by the greeks...
doubly lost by the plagiarism of the romans...
zeus became jupiter: the sacking of troy...
blah blah:
keeping onto a past: when asking a people:
who, "had, no, past"!

          in praise of older women...
one comes to mind... Khadija **** Khuwaylid...
muhammad was illiterate, yes?
who wrote the first verses of the quran?
mein gott! a woman!
when all turned against him...
and before... he could... somehow... much later...
find his metaphysical bride: Ayisha...
blah blah centuries later:
toying with a kandinsky!
toying with a kandinsky!
    to hell with a linear narrative:
the "proverb run quote":
i'll sooner watch a cactus grow from my
outstretched hand... than i'll see the germans
re-unified...
so was the saying...
and so is the "counter" and "proof"...

        "home"... what a nice... sleeping-beauty
concept of / for concerns...
oculus per oculus...
                      because christianity wasn't
spreading fast enough...
and that new adventures up north
would only be revealed much later:
jawohl! mein kommandant!

                    did islam... emerge: to speed up
the process?
of turning... the crucifix... into anything
more than what was already required?!
a Q's worth of a *****?

          forgive me... if i don't pay homage
to this... hieroglyph... perhaps i might:
tool a "dyslexic" impromptu or tow: two!

by the time islam emerged...
               it took another 600 years to convert
lithuania: which poland defended...
       no matter: "we're" to blame for...
what?!
                 Q - the ***** and the egg...
which also means:
eqqs: ekks: not eggs...    
i try to eat at least one poultry
abortion a morning most willing come!

can shadows filter: dust-sodden-clay?
Mateuš Conrad Jan 2020
since it became plain...
i'd rather imagine a kiss as...
clashing bone against bone
with a doberman of my youth...
biting its next to come
aesthetic "improvement"...
the sliting of the ears so they'd stand
***** as antenas...

where else to scout for unncessary blood?

i imagine a kiss to be equivalent
of something homosexuals dream of...
oh... my all your gracious concerns...
i too never ******
to care for procreation...

that's all before the myth that
heavy metal never couple itself
with hippy quasi-pop music
when it came to song-writting
and ****** abuse...

what?! before the a.d.h.d. phenomenon...
and trans-, transition hormone
assignement "therapy"...
before the junkies did the 7/11...
and the trainspotting...
before marylin manroe started
to speak with a husky welsh accent;
and ****?

i imagine a kiss i imagine a clash of canines...
i imagine full-on Eden ******* as:
tailoring to don some leather:
as little as a belt - as much as a pair of shoes...
let's not exaggerate to have to don
a jacket or a pair of...
"east coast" leather pair of trowlers..
yes yes: thinkestein patrick moore nervy
talk-talk back talk-talk:

there once...
there was...
either way: before the... yo bats me up
tow a granny... perv prior:
me woz a teen hot-take...
a prosecutor's *****...
a jail-bait fan-dom star...
the last voice that's revelling
in your acquisition priv. as a sentient:
self and consciousness in tow...

and it's not... your new found
"ex" english girlfriend...
with her dry rot sarcasm and what not...
because her accent is:
less of Leeds and more of Bristol...
and this is the vicinity of Loon'don
and... the deflated is the only tire
to suppose a turning motion...

and because the story of the happy...
i didn't have to wonder
for a love of my life...
one **** solved this "demand"
for pristine: look-after-each-other...
pay the tax dough...
look after the elders of strangers...
work for free! even!
that's good...

****: because you will better ****
when she's just nearing...
what was a menopause scare...
and the bride and groom brittle brat & sons and dau.
as always: **** with responsibility
to be towed!

always the never new: to ward of evil spirits...
entertain gagging them via
a cackle... more than a spoon's
worth... since Alice is bound to meet
Harry, George and Terry...
i'm probably whittle tow-e...
with... looking after grooming...

Alice's daughter...
somehow the name... Lola Flanery...
mixes itself up with my least Led Zeppelin
album and a song used for one of
my most favorite t.v. projects - sharp objects -
in the evening...
no verse... just a suspect suspense...
and no chorus...
just a relief from there being a chorus
spectacular...

does the film: the blue lagoon really require
the name Epstein...
when you can have a name like Lola Flanery
against Brooke Shields
or the elizabeth taylor jr.

three cockerels to one hen?
target audience i see...
otherwise what is it?
sugar-daddies and their supposed "babies"?
what's not the next if not next
to any forbidden fruit, for man?
adulation for the pre-through-to-hindsight
of what's the guillotine "fruit" / fate...

a man who has spent his time...
without the audience of ageing women...
will most probably look toward...
the pristine...
the purely imaginative...
his own borderline experience
of the crux of puberty...
or... akin to my 8 year old self:
premature puberty onslaught...
to have masturbated without having *******
but to have a later "revelation"
that the ******* of ***** has nothing
to do with "it"...

maybe my own 11th and only observation...
watch a film and the phantom
industry of self-gratification via day-dreaming
disappears and leaves you stranded
on Onan island... hopefuly with enough
leathers' worth of baggage and boots,
belt, trousers and tortoise shell of skin...
while all those no kippah-donning
start looking like scalped-heads...
and none... well apart from the old-skins
and those butchering the week old shadow
of the week old shadow of...
growing bald... via an inheritence of their father...
scalp-butchers-of-the-shave i call them...
skin-heads were and are...
the men who knew they would grow bald
or with a cranium crown worth of beta-male hair...
add to that the weakening of eye-sight
and 1980s pomp?
you get the drift...

this is very much teasing the opportunity...
i've had enough of a chance with one
14 year old in real life...
a black cat was my prosecutor and she did end up
in her father's cab after i reunited her with
a quarrel's worth of a friend
after a teen party...
i was walking out of a darkened park,
climbing over a fence and...
later taught her how to roll a cigarette...
bulgakov... butterflies...
exposing her cleavage...
the niqab would do just as well...
unless you want all the men to be blind...

or if you have arrived...
what doesn't give me a ******
when i look at... barbaian women...
papa new guinea and the historical myth of
the congo? i see sag... i don't see page 3...
i see the wrinkled *******
of an elephant's trunk...
not some glistening phallus of glass
and metal... a niqab is a welcome interlude
to 1 + 1 = 2... the transition period...

that sorry of state of missionary
hetrosexuality in beneath the bedsheets
cocoon ***...
even if an english girl...
with her ******* dry sarcasm...
her... drifter quote having escaped
Manchester... and made it to Loon'don...

it is a forbidden fruit...
it's a delicacy for what otherwise starve
the unimaginative...
one's own sacrilege coming to the fore...
because once a woman ages
and she is not part of your memory:
this new "adventure" of the cosmopolitan life...
of how...
i can play the pawn on an abstract
of a chessboard...
i don't need to play the pawn in real life...
i can do the Leibniz and explore...
what needs to be explored...
and satisfy myself with the prop of librarian...
there's no need for me to hide
my homosexuality by attaining statesmanship
and honours and a Westminster Abbey's
gravestone akin to Newton...
nor the peerage or to sigh at being knighted..

this is not a Eugenie de Franval observation...
it has nothing to do with...
the beauty of the daughter over-powering
the beauty of the mother...
no... much worse...
twice! by my count...

i dated two girls and...
if... the girl was not immediately preceded
by a son... or was not immediately succeeded
by a son...
i.e. if she was the eldest daughter...
and she had a younger sister...
well... that's the only example... twice!
i ended up dating this sister...
but fancying the younger as...
the more bountiful in spring...
the elder... well... what man aged circa 21
thinks about arriving somewhere when
it's Autumn or Summer...
unless it be Paris in Summer...
notably summer... ergo? inquiring as to also
being gay...

i have never met an elder sister that
i wouldn't relieve myself for the younger...
notably because... there was no interlude
for a woman to give birth to the opposite ***...
the younger sister was always more
beasutiful than the original intent...
"original"... "intent"...

there's only ever one sort of love:
the better to be best ******...
like catering... crisp white linen bedsheets,
napkins... a well rinsed palette
of anticipation being met with...
oysters and apples -
soft, supple... yet tangy when spoken of
in cockney slang...

is a poem only that? rhyme?
no... and i have taken a... fiction readers anonymous
session... rehab from fiction!
does it always have to be rhyme...
or... no... i do not have a twitter accound...
or handle... or... what gab.ai is...

Leibniz and Newton sitting in a tree...
one was gay and had to cover his tracks...
the other settled for role as librarian and...
whatever luck the german sentiment
could ever burden...
before no crown of the almighty myth of
Arthur... but donning the cufflings
of some minor prince of: say... Brandenburg.
Burt Shane Mar 2021
the reach, the rest
turmoil

preen, turn, backwards glance
glancing blow

they haven't returned your call

turning keys
locking doors

interminable disrespect
a peerage

disentangle
Ryan O'Leary Nov 2019
Ok Cathy, I did have an inkling
that this could have been the case,
hence, why I pursued those questions.

Having been in that predicament I
fully understand what the foetal
position and dark room means.

Once, it was Christmas week, I was
in a semi squat at 16 Britannia Rd
in Fulham.

Not far from Chelsea stadium it
links Kings Rd to Fulham Rd
near the Broadway.

I was minding ****, a cross between
an Irish terrier and a Kerry Blue, a dog
familiar with Marijuana.

It was many the time he got high on
it while we, Christopher Beresford and
I were marinating in alcohol.

Chris was the director of projects for
Debrett’s Peerage in Mossop St, I did
a bit of work there myself.

Chris went up to Bury St Edmunds
for Christmas, while I minded ****,
it was the first time I ate dog food.

The house had no heating and outside
toilet, gas and electricity had been cut off
due to non paid bills.

What money I had at the beginning of
that week, I spent it on drink and never
bought one morsel of food.

I drank water and spooned sugar until
it was all gone, I slept and woke and slept
all day, **** toiletted in the house.

No phone, nobody called and even if they did
I would’t answer the door, I had grown a stubble
I was ***** and unkempt.

The curtains were drawn, there was a low gutter
by the bedroom window which is what I used as
a urinel.

I was out of cigarettes, even all the butts had been
used up, it was cold and I got the poor mees,
I was ashamed of myself.

There was an old lady next door, she was well
aware the Chris was an extreme eccentric and
I was some sort of an odd Irishman.

In better times, I cleaned snow away from her
door and once I looked through the window and
discovered her on the floor.

She liked us, and no doubt felt as though we were
two lost cats unable to manage our lives because
of alcohol.

On the 25th, Christmas Day, towards evening, she
brought out a turkey carcass for ****, I knew her
voice, so I opened the door (plate width)

No sooner was she gone, and ****, who I had
given it to in her presence, was immediately
forced to surrender the Turkey.

Covered in his saliva, I was not in any state to
be pulling rank on ****’s social standing, we
were all of a sudden, equals.

**** did eventually get to participate in a
communal meal, as he got the gleaners share
of the boney discards being relayed to him.

There was a second knock, it was the lady again,
I apologised for not doing a better job at washing the
plate, ****’s tongue had no detergent.

She handed me a large bottle of Guinness, a
a packet of rolling tobacco, papers and matches,
I was in recovery, somebody cared about me.


Ryan.
I refused to be what you wanted me to be.
I am what I am, not a product of any rabid aristocrats.
I refused to be a product of any corrupt aristocrats.
Yes, my primary school teachers, I am what I wanted to be.
Yes, my high school peerage, I am what I wanted to be.
My Love, I rebelled, and I can still rebel.
Yes, I need to know your shrine cause I might rebel and rebel.
Even then, I say I am easy to rebel against any tyranny in my life.
Even then, I say I am my own tyrant, I don’t need any in my life.
You tyrant of many dollars, skedaddle before I bang your beer belly.
You rabid dictator, skedaddle before I strike in your beer belly.
You aristocrats, you have no room to devise better advice in my life.
Written By: The Senior Date: 08/08/2021
-The Vision
Whatever direction and however you go
you should by now know that
we're all going the same way down a
one way street, there's no coming back
and everyone you meet
is on the same journey,
and
first-class
second class
third class or steerage,
paupers or peerage
makes no difference
at all.
A long time graduate courtesy
Hard Knocks alum,
once again yours truly
posts reasonable rhyme
about shortest day of the year.

Two o'clock Ante Meridiem
nostri Jesu Christi
hour hand clock
sprung forward sixty minutes
round about same of month
every year, what a ***
er, an inconvenient truth
diverged from this chum
purposelessly manipulating a hold over
sans yesteryear doth drum

a sensation of jet lag
(with earth in the balance)
as if flying within time machine
at warp speed from
this station, where bumpy ride
invariably finds me
feeling a bit ticked off and glum
and in no mood to rhyme,
nor be leer re: cull
juiced barely tantamount
to gather scattered wits
sin tide, and express mood as *** hum

fortunate, this chronological
seismic shift nada wide, ah assume
nonetheless, mein kampf
cerebral hemispheric plate tectonics
comb pluck hated off jangling
black keys helplessly boom

fancifully drifting and boring
into quick ribald sand trap doom
ming an inducement for
emergency convoy, when pitched from
sea to figurative shining sea –
gram ma mother earth glum,
where live yik yak
(paddy whacked) wired vanguard

trulia tried optimism to hum
nonetheless, swallowed down
cream mated behavioral sink
her inert ashes boxed for mo urn eternity
like talcum powder went – me mum
bling bloviation, once
worth matchless peerage,
now pitched comfortably numb

lee into morass of temporary
confusion, where plumb
line delineating circadian rhythm offset,
when athwart pilot ***
man strait ting and bickering with
Gulliver's swiftly traveling
Lilliputians slum
bring within islets
of langerhans defiantly thumb

ming nose, where body, mind & soul
vampire weeknd viz a bully did cower
hence mister clock, who got
hijacked 3600 seconds per hour
experienced head, thorax and abdomen
diminishing in min (ute) power

wrought indistinguishable
Whitsuntide as sour
grapes imposing ill fitting sea legs,
which folded like a faulty tower
crumbling skeletal carapace,
resoundingly grudgingly surrendered,
and back slid vis a vis American express
hiz fashionably late opinion
regarding space/time
continuum did devour

hypothetically yours truly
wallows, pinwheels, flails...
doubling over into singularity
attaining infinite mass
enroute to encounter blessed cosmic lord.

Black hole event horizon indeed
kept lock step as das joint mill hoard
sucker punched the REO bandwagon
of father time, whose riffs a silent chord
nsync with atomic fractional second bored
quirky shenanigans toying with chronometers
counter point of view shifted
to oppose this minute accord.
Ryan O'Leary Aug 2018
There's no Turk in
Debrett or Burke's Peerage

But Erogan's roots may
have lineage.

His moustache leaves
no doubt

He looks like Herr *****

And the Kurds
are but turds

In his sewage.
Once again, yours truly
dishes out his regular dose
of literary gobbledygook
even Count Dracula
would not even bat an eye
nor give me his evil,
(albeit harmless) look
regarding feeble effort I undertook.

Don't forget hour hands
of clocks spring forward
sixty minutes 2:00 AM on
Sunday March 14!

Yes roundabout third eye blind -
doggone (con seeded)
melon collie month every year,
one garden variety ***
(inconvenienced truthfully)
precariously balanced
while tethered to Earth hoop fully
explains himself, hence following mishmash
divulged courtesy unnamed generic chum
purposelessly manipulating
space/time continuum hold over.

About 103 three hundred sixty five day  
increments elapsed since
United States adopted
Standard Time Act of March 19, 1918
confirmed existing
standard time zone system
and set summer DST
to begin on March 31, 1918
(reverting October 27).

Rat a tat tat doth lightly drum
upon mine sixty plus shades of gray matter
i.e., a sensation of jet lag
(with earthling out of balance)
as if aboard Monty Python's
flying Circus within time machine
at warp speed from
this station, where bumpy ride
invariably finds me
feeling ticked off and glum
in no mood to craft reasonable rhyme,

nor be leer re: cull (lyrical)
juiced barely tantamount
to gather scattered wits
sin tide, and express mood
as picky hewn *** hum
fortunate rising son, this chronological
seismic shift nada wide, ah assume
nonetheless, mein kampf
cerebral hemispheric plate tectonics

comb pluck hated off jangling
black keys helplessly boom
fancifully drifting and boring
into quick ribald sand trap doom
ming an inducement
for emergency convoy,
when pitched to and fro
hither and yon from
sea to figurative shining sea.

Graham ma mother earth glum
where live yik yak wired vanguard
trulia tried optimism to hum
nonetheless, swallowed down
reprising Tom Wolfe
("O Rotten Gotham — Sliding Down
into the Behavioral Sink")
her cremated inert ashes boxed
for more'n eternity
like talcum powder went – me mum

bling bloviation, once worth
matchless peerage, now pitched numb
lee into morass
of temporary confusion, where plumb
line delineating circadian rhythm offset,
when athwart pilot ***
man strait ting and bickering
with Lilliputians slum
bring within islets of langerhans

defiantly thumb nose,
where body, mind and soul
weeknd strength (viz a bully did cower)
hence mister clock,
who got hijacked
3600 seconds per hour
experienced head, thorax and abdomen
diminishing in power

wrought indistinguishable
Whitsuntide as sour
grapes imposing ill fitting sea legs,
which folded like a faulty tower
crumbling skeletal carapace,
resoundingly surrendered,
and back slid vis a vis
space/time continuum did devour.

Black hole (sun) event horizon indeed
kept lock step as das joint mill hoard
sucker punched the band
(re: oh speed) wagon of father time,
who riffs a silent chord
nsync with atomic energizer bunny
fractional second bored
quirky shenanigans
toying with chronometers
counter point of view shifted
to oppose this minute accord.
discombobulated, harried, and lobotomized
state of body, mind, and spirit triage.

Onset of dark shadows signalling edge of night
occurs earlier as the world turns  
beckoning, hinting, robbing passage
regarding days of our lives,
where the young and the restless,
plus the bold and the beautiful
exhibit variations on a theme
titled one life to live.

Within my figurative neck of woods
boughs bend forming roods,
where all across the United States
except Arizona and Hawaii
troubadoors festooned nsync
with generational matriarchs
wearing hoods remaining incognito
as identity guard of their broods
mare uncannily decked, and
tricked out as an old man,
usually in a white robe,
having a white beard,
and carrying a scythe
signify turning the clock one hour
at 2:00 AM eastern standard time,
hence birthing following
reasonable ridiculous rhyme.

Hour hands clock get set back
sixty minutes of Autumn
round about this same of month
every year, what a ***
er, and inconvenient truth
diverged from this chum
purposelessly manipulating a hold over,
sans yesteryear doth drum
a sensation of jet lag
(with earth in the balance)
as if watching Monty Python's flying circus
within time machine
at warp speed from
this station, where bumpy ride
invariably finds me
feeling a bit ticked off and glum
and in no mood to rhyme,
nor be leer re: cull
juiced barely tantamount
to gather scattered wits
sin tide, and express mood as *** hum

fortunate, this chronological seismic shift
nada wide, ah assume,
nevertheless mein kampf
cerebral hemispheric plate tectonics
comb pluck hated off jangling
black keys helplessly boom
fancifully drifting and boring into
quick ribald sand trap doom
ming an inducement
for emergency convoy, when pitched from

sea to figurative shining seven sea –
gram ma mother earth glum,
where live yik yak
viewed thru Tik Tok wired vanguard
trulia tried optimism to hum
nevertheless, swallowed (Old Rotten Gotham)
sliding down into behavioral sink
analogous to cremated ashes of late mother
once boxed, but long since scattered into eternity
like talcum powder went – me mum

bling bloviation, once worth
matchless peerage, now pitched numb
lee into morass of temporary confusion,
where existence not peachy keen plumb
line delineating circadian rhythm offset,
when athwart Jane Pilots' ***
man strait ting and bickering
with Lilliputians slum
bring within islets of langerhans
defiantly, haughtily and laughably thumb

ming nose, where
body, mind & soul Weeknd
viz a bully did cower,
hence (principal at Methacton
Junior High School) Mister Clock,
who got hijacked
3600 seconds per hour
experienced head, thorax
and abdomen diminishing in power
wrought indistinguishable
Whitsuntide as sour
grapes of wrath
imposing ill fitting sea legs,
which folded like a faulty tower
crumbling skeletal carapace,
resoundingly surrendered,
and back slid vis a vis
space/time continuum did devour.

Black hole event horizon indeed kept
bottled up cosmic genie good Lord
and Taylor (swift) lock step
as das joint mill on the floss hoard
sucker punched the band
Reo SpeedWagon of father time,
whose riffs a silent chord
nsync with atomic fractional second bored
quirky shenanigans toying with chronometers
counter point of view shifted
to oppose this minute accord.
Ryan O'Leary Jun 2018
There’s no Turk in Debrett,
or Burke’s Peerage.

But Erdogan’s roots may
have lineage!

He looks like Herr *****, his
moustache leaves no doubt,

And the Kurds are but turds
in his sewage.
imitation of woman: neurotic android,
i could always reach out to AI for company:
of to ask a question,
just one question,

i conjure: neurotic paranoia:
is everything feeling this **** from time to time
when they're alone in a house
with a cry baby male hulk of a Maine ****
and a ferocious female much smaller
but southpaw
and so ferocious:
i feel quieter and sane and stable
around the female rather than the attached
cat: who isn't really mine
he doesn't listen to me:
abusive cry baby
always wants to eat treats
rather than proper food
sometimes raw turkey
spoiled brat...
but the female i will not bother with animals
having names:
i have a name, my name is Matthew
and i have two cats...
that's it... there's no personality well there is:
but there's no character:
maybe:
working from meow or woof
what can you understand of the human world?

i'm so happy with myself:
i quit smoking
i just enjoy it now
it's not an addiction:
now i'm trying to work around
alcholism: functioning alcoholic... i am:
alcoholism with some micro-dosage
of marijuana
before i become fully insomnia tackling
on Kauai with Edie
my other half: so ******* cliche:
but i'm proud of myself:
tested the day alone
thinking: right now a solipsism would
come in handy...
but once i left the house
and onto the street and into the shop
i still felt the warmth of summer
and August is the struggle
while September comes and so does
India with a summer to these dreaded isles...

ooh: so much better:
like fuzz to ease and ooze some Brian
McBrain onto the page...
only bought two bottles of cider
and 35cl of whiskey...
that is so much less
units: 22... catch... 2 ciders 1 whiskey
22 units: catch... and a marijuana
cure me cure me
i want to return to the spirit of reggae
but in reggae to think
rather than junk ***** out
like numbing: i want the needles of thought
to follow me
whenever using...
Kentucky Burroughs, William Esquire...
o.k. DJ... what's on offer?
Culture - Holy Mount Zion...
even if your sin be as small as a mustard seed...
MARJORAM!
added to the Brussels ahem:
the beans ala Breton...
a Polish dish:
i added some of that with the fresh bay leaf
scissors: into the garden i go:
and some fresh thyme
some fresh rosemary
some fresh oregano...
dry marjoram: oh well...

my name is Matthew and i have two cats:
females invented and a Caligula
and that horse of his that came
to the aid of Catherine the Great of Russia:
that horse, mother-****** traveled time!
was like:
me and you in war and on the till...
till till...
no no: on the plough? plow? p-p-pl-pl-ow?
the PLAH! PLATINI!
farming: ****'s sake!
i'm getting out of your struggles...
the monkey said: you're not us! *******!
you ******* perverts:
stop being voyeurs you ******* *****!
so the horse said:
invent a ******* machine
let me do ***** at the Olympics show
jumping
let me compete in sports
Poseidon: horse, the waves, please,
i need to ride this tide
and hopefully i will bring a hurricane
to Hawaii...
it has been a long time...
i can do construction: dearest Poseidon:
you are also the godhead of Horses...
that is how Egypt operated:
but didn't expand to all creatures:
i am the godhead of Foxes...
but i am also a private man...
Poseidon is the godhead Horses...
ancient egypt hello:
that curse of the little heads?
the shrinking heads of your intellect?
to ***** tombs to compete with mountains
from **** stink spit and **** ***
for tombs? life in the shadow of necropolis:
the ****** sexuality of the vrigin Christ
to make people live in the valley of the shadow
where Death is like Charon:
from a ******* river to a ******* valley:
fair enough kippah!

then did the ******* Korean trick!
fried an egg!
and put it on top!
so a basic pasta bake:
butter: yes... some water...
slowly torture the onions...
fast first.. then slow:
since onions have brains and you cry
so then heat up to crisp while
acid alkaline:
juice of onions...
what's the formula?
well: i once asked for the chemical formula
of wood:
i got **** all..
there is no chemical formula for wood...
so... what is the chemical formula
for onion juice:

one sec....

       ALLICIN.... hmm...
just double checking: still using algorithms:
don't worry:
i'm not hooked on AI
i used it like my own intellect...

example 1
second year
Edinburgh:
Bruce
me
Levi... Tristan:
new years eve:
vandals...
ripping apart parked
cars the mirrors
then imitating
fight club
playing golf
in the street
next door by the graveyard
Flint St no... just made it up
golf with no golf *****...
it was with: i forget what: shot glasses...
it was something to do with glass...

let me go let me go!
if i die tomorrow i will be happy
being nervous about being a big man
man big with a driving license:
but...
no horse and no bicycle... ****!
i'll get a tank... oh thank you vank!
vank! werry much... for very... jeez:
just drop the G-bomb:
GEEKS!                 GEEKS!
*** imagination stinks!
i first finished watching Titanic
and it felt like a romance movie
but it was also a disaster movie genre
Cameron and Aliens... right?
same director?
but then the *******... oh jeez:
i freaked out...
i am,
alone,
in,
a,
house,
my,
parents,
put,
into,
will,
i,
own,
i,­
have,
over,
£500,000
about...
well when they die and mortality is thus
but i'm not a good steward of having
such authority...
must finish on wine:
get some blood pumping...
so i'm... a catch because although i am what i am
i could still till
and do the garden groundwork:
**** me the house can belong to my parents:
the garden? the garden?! that's mine!
i worked the garden for Covid was a blessing:
i see a chimera-arena
the chimera is a godhead of Socrates
if he could retract back to youth
and contemplating dialectics with a concern
for diacritical markers
therefore the original problem is no
longer solving the trouble
of universals and particulars...
what are universals? uneven numbers:
sacred numbers: like pi...
oddly enough particulars are your standard numbering
of say: the price of diesel,
the price of potatoes:
those are particulars... although numbers being universals:
how they are applied is particular:
language: words: god is weak:
concerning what he has created:
god is dead no
no god is not dead:
he is just weak....
not enough people are formulating him her it
Himmler...
                  
but pi is a number that isn't a letter but is a letter:
i'm trying to revive god
phantoms of schizophrenia: and Zion...
a letter like pi and pi not being a number:
the month and mouth of Pi
just letters and my curiosity:
such faking on my part feeling so lost
by being alone:
just realized: so was Adam at first...
godheads:
i did mention that:
i'm the godhead of Foxes...
we come: we go:
love of the gods is one sided?
really?
not no better one god with a cohort
of perverted angels:
better: best

a polytheism of assemble
of the gods:
numbers numbers i'm counting
a god is a god but also a godhead
of an animal:
spirit of one:
but if i am the godhead of foxes
i also have a human face...
poseidon would be the godhead
of horses: but no one is called Poseidon
these days:
unless: by the sake of the Africans...
so like ancient Egypt
but the pantheon was
sort *******
since the gods with human faces
and godhead faces of animals
became... um... half baked?!

i fear being outside of parental control,
Reyla,
you know my work,
your mother didn't protect you far enough
or maybe she just lied
i'm alone
in the same house
and god it haunts me
i'm so awake
i'm so me...

Reyla: i don't want the Africans
to convert to Christianity,
i will not crucify that soul:
the Africans gave us Egypt
Asia gave us the Mongols:
Europe gave us the Germans
and the Poles...
      Danube Oder
Vistula:
                    Prague...
Venice my Atlantis...

   i broke my chakra: shaman?
no no: just reading a book,
reciting a name of a Roman poet:
of Rome:
Guisseppe Belli...
not Dante: i'm not in high school:
i'm still at university
i should have said:
to a post-graduate degree
with my understudy in chemistry
i could have become a formidable
psychologist:
oh the real world
and drinking wine from a bottle
or a fountain
those two days in the pagan upkeep
of calendar
nearest Augustus...
Caesar...
only two metro lines, LAMBERTO?!
seriously... i was thought of as South African
while the rag stag of a broken
fruit: i swear to god this is like west side
story the ******* musical or an ABBA... mandarin...
what is the Jerusalem of the North?
Danzig or Cracow?

  just ask the Jews: the Hebrews: the Israelis..
lites? no kites... no ultras anti fascist black clad
at football matches...
at football matches
you have the ANTIFA--
get me?

the ULTRAS are ANTIFA
they are historical revisionists
they understand the falter pointers of fascism:
they're still fascists...
don't get me wrong...
but democracy doesn't work either
when you don't something spoken
Hebrew into the ear of an Arab
who went to Latvia...
and spoke back:
there will come a time of the Mongol
and the Turk...

                but please leave the spirits alone:
stags and bears get drunk
on fermenting fruits that fall to the earth:
stags and boar:
i am a bear-******:
i don't mind being sexually harassed
by a north american hyb-
i don't mind if i have 14 year old girls
to help me out
about
being sexually confused...
i don't mind being approached
by a male
sexually...
as long as i have 14 year old girls to be my peers
and my judges and my democracy:
only one:
in the courtroom...
under peer pressure:
pre-
not metaphysical:
let's begin...
under peer scrutiny:
then able to transcend peerage
that origin of the temporal... a scene:
clock that cruel device:
in the universal realm...
but particular: to being late.... for a shift:
all sweating as if ******* was
a wheel and i could have been running...
Once again, yours truly
dishes out his regular dose
of literary gobbledygook
even Count Dracula
would not even bat an eye
nor give me his evil curse,
butta I avoid tempting him
courtesy fanged hook or crook
(albeit harmless) look
regarding feeble effort I undertook.

Don't forget hour hands
of clocks spring forward
sixty minutes 2:00 AM
in Pennsylvania and other states
bracketed within eastern
Eastern Standard Time
on Sunday March thirteenth!

Yes roundabout third eye blind -
doggone (con seeded)
melon collie month every year,
one garden variety ***
(inconvenienced truthfully)
precariously balanced
while tethered to Earth hoop fully
explains himself, hence following mishmash
divulged courtesy unnamed generic chum
purposelessly manipulating
space/time continuum hold over.

About 107 three hundred sixty five day  
increments elapsed since
United States adopted
Standard Time Act of March 19, 1918
confirmed existing
standard time zone system
and set summer DST
to begin on March 31, 1918
(reverting October 27).

Rat a tat tat doth lightly drum
upon mine sixty plus shades of gray matter
i.e., a sensation of jet lag
(with earthling out of balance -
an inconvenient truth)
as if aboard Herbert George Wells,
time machine – and trapped
within The War of the Worlds
impossible mission to escape
at warp speed from
this horrid station, where bumpy ride
invariably finds me
feeling ticked off and glum
in no mood to craft reasonable rhyme,

nor be leer re: cull (lyrical)
juiced barely tantamount
to gather scattered wits
sin tide, and express mood
as picky hewn *** hum
fortunate rising son, this chronological
seismic shift nada wide, ah assume
nonetheless, mein kampf
cerebral hemispheric plate tectonics

comb pluck hated off jangling
black keys helplessly boom
fancifully drifting and boring
into quick ribald sand trap doom
ming an inducement
for emergency convoy,
when pitched to and fro
hither and yon from
sea to figurative shining sea.

Graham ma mother earth glum
where live yik yak wired vanguard
trulia tried optimism to hum
nonetheless, swallowed down
reprising Tom Wolfe
("O Rotten Gotham — Sliding Down
into the Behavioral Sink")
her cremated inert ashes boxed
for more'n eternity
like talcum powder went – me mum

bling bloviation, once worth
matchless peerage, now pitched numb
lee into morass
of temporary confusion, where plumb
line delineating circadian rhythm offset,
when athwart pilot ***
man strait ting and bickering
with Lilliputians slum
bring within islets of langerhans

defiantly thumb nose,
where body, mind and soul
weeknd strength (viz a bully did cower)
hence mister clock,
who got hijacked
3600 seconds per hour
experienced head, thorax and abdomen
diminishing in power

wrought indistinguishable
Whitsuntide as sour
grapes imposing ill fitting sea legs,
which folded like a faulty tower
crumbling skeletal carapace,
resoundingly surrendered,
and back slid vis a vis
space/time continuum did devour.

Black hole (sun) event horizon indeed
kept lock step as das joint mill hoard
sucker punched the band
(re: oh speed) wagon of father time,
who riffs a silent chord
nsync with atomic energizer bunny
fractional second bored
quirky shenanigans
toying with chronometers
counter point of view shifted
to oppose this minute accord.
Hour hands of o'clock get set back
sixty minutes gaining extra hour of Autumn
round about this same day of November
every year, what a ***
er, and inconvenient truth diverged
from this wayfaring chum
purposelessly manipulating a hold
over sans yesteryear
(first implemented in United States
with Standard Time Act of 1918,

a wartime measure for seven months
during World War I in the interest
of adding more daylight hours
to conserve energy resources)
doth rat a tat tat drum
a plain sensation of jet lag
(with earthling in the balance)
as if flying backwards
within Herbert George Wells
celebrated time machine

at warp speed from
this station, where bumpy ride
invariably finds me
feeling ticked off and glum
in no mood to rhyme, nor be funny,
cuz I recall experiencing
exactly lxii previous instances
being forced to spring ahead,
when countless months before viz
Sunday March 13, 2022 at 2:00 AM

one twenty fourth of said day
surrendered to Father Time
finding yours truly juiced barely equipped
to cope mentally, physically,
and spiritually whipsawed tantamount
with impossible mission
to get smart and gather scattered wits
sun tide, and express mood as *** hum
analogous to coals (essence)
raked over me noggin

fortunate, this chronological
seismic shift nada wider I assume,
nevertheless mein kampf
cerebral hemispheric plate tectonics
comb pluck hated
brush against jangling
black keys helplessly boom
fancifully drifting and
boring into quick
ribald sand trap doom

mining an inducement
for emergency convoy,
when pitched from
sea to figurative shining seagram
defunct company name brand
once the largest owner
of alcoholic beverage lines in the world
nsync with Johnnie Walker Scotch
quite the ginned tonic he brewed,
where live yik yak
(going tiktok) wired vanguard

trulia tried optimism to hum
a lively Irish air, cuz I
(Bailey) of Bailey Banks & Biddle
the crown jewel scion
scion of a wealthy family
swallowed down sorrow
regarding cremains of mother
her inert ashes boxed
for more'n an (eat turn) eternity
like talcum powder went – me mum
Chris Anne her namesake

bling bloviation, emasculation,
insinuation, nomination, termination
once worth matchless peerage,
now pitched numb
skull into morass
of temporary confusion, where plumb
line delineating circadian rhythm offset,
when athwart pilot ***
dire straits found motley crue bickering
where Lilliputians slum

bring wherein Gulliver's Travels
landed me upon islets of langerhans
(endocrine cells scattered
throughout the pancreas)
defiantly, ham-handedly, liberally thumb
ming nose, where body, mind & soul
weeknd viz a bully did cower,
hence mister clock,
who got hijacked to Cuba
3600 seconds per hour

experienced head, thorax
and abdomen diminishing in power
wrought indistinguishable
Whitsuntide as sour
grapes of wrath imposing
ill fitting sea legs,
which folded like a faulty tower
crumbling skeletal carapace,
quickly resoundingly surrendered,
and back slid vis a vis
space/time continuum did devour.

Black hole (sun) event horizon indeed
kept lock step as das joint mill hoard
Sucker punched the band wagon
of father time, whose riffs a silent chord
nsync with atomic fractional second bored
pesky quirky shenanigans
toying with chronometers
counter point of view shifted
to oppose this minute accord.
Yenson Dec 2021
the contemptible ideologues of woes
dreg their contrived dramas
using their cracked porcelain figurines
please handle with care
its not Wedgewood fine porcelain china
that graced the table of
William Wedgwood Benn, 1st Viscount Stansgate
who sadly passed away
before the crackpots could cancel him as he's of noble birth
he left millions behind
for his children but he's not greedy because whites are not greedy
privilege inheritance and hereditary peerage
are all okay and no cancellation harassment intimidation required
they are white and blue blood in Red
we make the rules ok!
Anthony Neil Wedgwood Benn was a British politician, writer and diarist who served as a Cabinet minister in the 1960s and 1970s. A member of the Labour Party, he was Member of Parliament for Bristol South East and Chesterfield for 47 of the 51 years between 1950 and 2001.
Children: Hilary Benn, Stephen Benn, 3rd Viscount Stansgate, Melissa Benn, Joshua Benn
Stephen Michael Wedgwood Benn, 3rd Viscount Stansgate, is a British hereditary peer and Labour member of the House of Lords.
Two o'clock anno Domini nostri Jesu Christi
hour hand clock sprung forward sixty minutes
round about same of month every year, what a ***
er, an inconvenient truth diverged from this chum
purposelessly manipulating a hold over
sans yesteryear doth drum

a sensation of jet lag (with earth in the balance)
as if flying within time machine at warp speed from
this station, where bumpy ride invariably finds me
feeling a bit ticked off and glum
and in no mood to rhyme, nor be leer re: cull
juiced barely tantamount to gather scattered wits
sin tide, and express mood as *** hum

fortunate, this chronological
seismic shift nada wide, ah assume
nonetheless, mein kampf
cerebral hemispheric plate tectonics
comb pluck hated off jangling
black keys helplessly boom

fancifully drifting and boring
into quick ribald sand trap doom
ming an inducement for
emergency convoy, when pitched from
sea to figurative shining sea –
gram ma mother earth glum
where live yik yak
(paddy whacked) wired vanguard

trulia tried optimism to hum
nonetheless, swallowed down
cream mated behavioral sink
her inert ashes boxed for mo urn eternity
like talcum powder went – me mum
bling bloviation, once
worth matchless peerage,
now pitched comfortably numb

lee into morass of temporary
confusion, where plumb
line delineating circadian rhythm offset,
when athwart pilot ***
man strait ting and bickering with
Gulliver's swiftly traveling Lilliputians slum
bring within islets of langerhans defiantly thumb

ming nose, where body, mind & soul
vampire weeknd viz a bully did cower
hence mister clock, who got
hijacked 3600 seconds per hour
experienced head, thorax and abdomen
diminishing in min (ute) power

wrought indistinguishable Whitsuntide as sour
grapes imposing ill fitting sea legs,
which folded like a faulty tower
crumbling skeletal carapace, resoundingly surrendered,
and back slid vis a vis American express
hiz fashionably late opinion
regarding space/time continuum did devour.

Black hole event horizon indeed
kept lock step as das joint mill hoard
sucker punched the band wagon
of father time, whose riffs a silent chord
nsync with atomic fractional second bored
quirky shenanigans toying with chronometers
counter point of view shifted
to oppose this minute accord.
Julia Apr 2020
Weatherman's wife is sick.
They are Republicans along with
anyone attempting peerage.

Late payments make the lenders rich.
                 Loan sharks twitch
                                           in
                                          anticipation.
Collec­tion Time comes before the crumbs,
but Mullein can remedy the respiratory itch.
written April 2, 2020
Hour hands clock back
sixty minutes of Autumn
round about same of month
every year, what a ******,
an inconvenient truth
diverged from this chum
purposelessly manipulating
hold over yesteryear doth drum
sensation of jet lag
(an inconvenient truth

with earth in the balance)
as if flying within time machine
at warp speed from
this station, where
bumpy ride invariably finds me
feeling ticked off and glum
in no mood to rhyme,
nor be leer re: cull
juiced barely tantamount
to gather scattered wits

sin tide, and express mood
as (a gardener sows
what she/he reaps) *** hum
being fruitful to multiply
seeds of life cached within *******
abstaining from prophylactics
to help beget new life within womb,
how quickly nine months will  zoom
before daughter or son
regaled after parturition

fortunate, this chronological
seismic shift nada wide, ah assume
nonetheless, mein kampf
cerebral hemispheric plate tectonics
comb pluck hated off
jangling black keys helplessly boom
fancifully drifting and boring
into quick ribald sand trap doom
ming an inducement for
emergency convoy, after  

courtesy forensic anthropologist
a greatful dead body
he/she doth exhume
conducting post mortem baptism
of corpse sending
lifeless subject down a flume
when subsequently pitched from
sea to figurative shining sea –
gram ma mother earth glum,
where live yik yak wired

vanguard Trulia tried optimism to hum
nonetheless, swallowed down
cream mated behavioral sink
her/his inert ashes boxed for
mod urn eternity like talcum
powder went – me mum
bling bloviation, once worth
matchless peerage, now pitched numb
lee into morass of temporary
confusion, where plumb

line delineating circadian rhythm
offset, when athwart pilot ***
man strait ting and bickering
with Lilliputians slum
bring within islets of
langerhans defiantly thumb
ming nose, where body,
mind & soul weeknd
viz a bully did cower
hence mister clock,

who got hijacked
3600 seconds per hour
experienced head, thorax
and abdomen diminishing in power
wrought indistinguishable Whitsuntide as sour
grapes of wrath imposing ill fitting sea legs,
which folded like a faulty tower
crumbling skeletal carapace,
resoundingly surrendered,
and back slid vis a vis space/
time continuum did devour.

Black hole sun event horizon indeed
kept lock step as das joint mill hoard
Sucker punched bandwagon
of father time, whose riffs a silent chord
nsync with atomic
fractional second bored
quirky shenanigans toying with chronometers
counter point of view shifted
to oppose this minute accord.

— The End —