****** Off

I'm feeling rather foul today,
so I ask you to ****** off,
it's not pretty when I get this way,
you just need to ****** off,
please don't get in my face I pray,
you need to just ****** off,
my head gets hard and my heart turns to clay,
it's best if you ****** off,
I'm asking you to please stay away,
why can't you just ****** off,
not sure if I'm sad, but certainly not gay,
won't you please just ****** off,
maybe I need a good roll in the hay,
naw, just won't you please ****** off,
just got crap on my shirt, from a flying Blue Jay,
gotta go inside and get that ****** off,
that's the way it's been going for me this whole GD day,
why won't the world just leave, ****** off,
no blue skies here, just cloudy and gray,
is it a sign for me, to just ****** off,
no, tomorrow will change, at least that's what I say,
then you flip me the bird, and yell ****** off,
now I'm back where I was, I'll hide until May,
no one to tell me, hey ****** off,
like my love who has spurned me, turned me away,
she said it was too much, I must ****** off,
maybe worms for lunch, with a glass of OJ,
then I can do my own ****** off

Gomer LePoet...

When a loved one leaves our earthly plain,
They may not make it back again,
But clever tactics have been learned,
To show us we have not been spurned,
They drop a feather in our path,
It flutters down, though not by draft,
And judging by their pretty colour,
They don't belong, they're sent from others,
I always pick my feathers up,
They fill my heart with lots of love,
Proves those who've passed, are still around,
These gifted feathers on the ground.

In mighty kingdoms far away
Grew an elven king, stern and wise
Whose young daughter grew in the fields
with eyes as blue as the clearest skies

Elenir, was the daughters name
who danced amongst leaves like gold
whose laughter rang like a thousand bells
whose fair skin would never grow or old

There a traveller came from mountains
and lost, he wandered beneath the trees
he drank from nameless rivers
and voyaged across the savage seas

They met under the sheets of stars
as she saved him from himself
he touched her hair, felt her voice
and till death, he stayed with the elf

His human life frayed away
After a mere blink of years
She watched and stroked his aging face
and wiped away her tears

And when he passed, she could not bear
the pain that she felt inside
the once swaying trees that danced
felt empty, old and dried

She traveled up to the clifftops
Elenir cried her lovers name
She threw herself into the raging oceans
for her life was never the same

The elven king was despaired to see
the loss of his cherished daughter
He cursed the lands
Set fire blazing
and froze the wicked waters

He hide away his treasured kingdom
and watched as the world around him burned
His soldiers pleaded, his people begged
to not leave the world so spurned

But his heartbreak was too great to deal
The world fell into darkness
and with the once-beautiful Elenirs death
the skies grew black and starless

A Christmas gift spurned

In a busy Christmas street, I saw her; I was sure it was her,
the way she walked, I could sense her perfume too.
Ran after her, touched her shoulder said halloo, she turned
I had been wrong and said sorry.
She smiled and said, no it is only me what you see.
I read an invitation in her dark brown eyes, but I was hopelessly
in love with a blond, the mythical one.
Said sorry again, flapped my wings and flew high into the night sky
so seek her among the stars.
In the cool outer space, I realized the fabled woman was an angel
And I was an earthling I dived back to earth like a Stuka bomber, skidded on slush,
looked in vain for the woman with brown eyes

1350

Luck is not chance—
It’s Toil—
Fortune’s expensive smile
Is earned—
The Father of the Mine
Is that old-fashioned Coin
We spurned—

Once I looked to the Bard for words profound;
ageless, his wisdom ran unabated.
Yet Hamlet is now ideologically unsound,
“the slings and arrows” historically Iocated.
I wept for the creature of Frankenstein,
spurned by his master, forced to roam the Earth.
But I’d been subjectively positioned in a paradigm
by Mary’s anxiety about childbirth.
I read Balzac, Hardy and Henry James
describing “worlds” which seemed quite sensible.
Now Eagleton’s exposed their bourgeois games
I find them morally reprehensible.
I dreamt of being Robinson Crusoe
or proud, fierce Hawkeye in his buckskins dressed,
but Fenimore and Defoe have to go,
they’re culturally encoded and empirically obsessed.
Inspired by Guinness, did James Joyce sit down
to see what magic flowed when he was ******?
The stream of Ulysses floats Bloom-about-town
dreamthinkingnever : “I’mamodernist”.

I’d gladly give Woolf a Room of Her Own
and be one of the boys with Hemingway,
but sensitive guys leave their bulls alone
say de Beauvoir and Luce Irigaray.
No more fun with Wordsworth being daffodilly,
no simple pleasure reading Mickey Mouse;
Steamboat Willie can’t help but look silly
dissected by Foucault and Levi-Strauss.
The Bible shows intertextuality
says the two Jacques, Lacan and Derrida.
Judas, a construct of bisexuality?
The **** fixations of Herod are?

It’s got so bad I deconstruct a holiday brochure.
I can’t even **** without Roland Barthes and Ferdinand de Saussure.

These words keep arriving by post,
By phone and through the air:
They say, “I love you the most!”
And he’s always unprepared.

I dismissed them until I knew
What they could mean,
What they could do.

They let a young boy believe
In a dangerous fantasy
Of the young or naïve,
And give himself to ecstasy.

He’d already given himself away
To a girl who “merely loved” him;
He was swayed.
He was wounded by a whim.

How could his young heart
Know the anguish of love spurned?
Of changing minds and false starts?
That passion fades as quickly as it burns?

He was “crushed” when it ended;
His response, pure and true.
Still that phrase he insanely defended!
“I love you, I love you, and I love you”!

How hollow to me it still rings!
My beloved son in pain.
What makes a girl do these selfish things?
What is it that they gain?

Young hearts now seem to lack wisdom;
They’re so eager to believe.
Yet they haven’t the caution
It takes to give love and receive.

Summer, 2006

A Wizard trapped her reflection.
To be within the mirror forever,
She had spurned him with rejection.
Two keys to a mystery box hidden forever.

A brave young Prince wanted to set her free,
Solve that secret of the mystery box.
So he began the search for the first key,
To open the first of the two locks.

He braved a dragon high on its' nest,
But he did not find the key hidden there.
He battled Ice Warriors with his best,
They had no knowledge of the secret to share.

Then he would save a Witch from a Demon Banshee,
She told him all he had to do was ask for his reward.
So the Prince was given the first key,
He searches on, battling a Demon Hoarde.


Years pass him by, until that Wizard he faced,
The Prince was an old man, he still would fight.
The battle was long, the Wizard was disgraced,
Gaining that second key was a victory sight.

The Prince travelled back to the mirror and mystery box,
He was tired and very old, but he would set her free.
So he took out both keys, and he opened the locks,
A light surrounded him from the beautiful sight he could see.

He is young again, he has his life given brand new,
From out of the box, he took out a diamond heart.
Now the girl starts before him with a heart that is true,
The Prince lifted her up in his arms, for they shall never be apart.

three ripe figs: maiden-mother-crone
fresh and green, not fully grown
gravid, blushing, ripe allure
nut-brown, wrinkled, sun-matured.

which of these the sweetest be?
high upon this old fig tree
maiden tartness bright and young
full womanhood upon the tongue.
drooping breast and brown age-spots
spurned by youthful hungry thoughts.

adolescent, first one picked
complex taste is not quite fixed.
plump and ready, sun-touched mother
ripe fig flavor like no other
ignored by most, her dried-up skin
sags dessicated on the limb.
with sweetest nectar deep inside.
never plucked and never tried.

For all the tall tales that have ever been told,

For all the sad reasons of the tale telling,

For all the lives touched by lies grown so old,

For all the lovers, betrayed,  left with tears welling

  


For this is how lies twist a life with such pain

For this is how love is lost through lies spun

For this is sad truth, as faith dies with no gain

For this being Life, Love has ended, No-one's won,

  


Though the jealousy owning the liar fades and dies

Though it has seen the star crossed lovers are done

what happens when love fades?..why even through lies

Could the liar and the spurned lover ever be as one?

You are witnessing a prodigious talent and promise, and to a lesser extent but still to the degree whereby it should keep you awake at night writhing in cold sweats, your life, slip agonisingly through your open and clammy palms. Promise means so little if not actualised. You have been granted chance after warning after fortuitous escape yet have blithely spurned every omen and will one day fall, swiftly and perhaps terminally. You are almost certainly depressed. You say you love your girlfriend, and you mean it wholeheartedly when you do, but you worry that the relationship perpetuates as without her there would be no reason to rise with the sun. Even if the relationship is  unstable, and at times verging on the unhealthy, you believe you love her but are too great a coward to consider decisive action if that belief is to reside or subside. Your friends range from kind and honest yet deeply flawed to somehow toeing an inextricably thin line between dependability and duplicitousness. Conversations with a certain few of your friends necessitate decrying every undercooked ethos you've every conned yourself into believing you hold (you could well be the most hypocritical liberal to walk the earth, for you are innately and irrepressibly selfish) yet you still nod placidly as your conscience squirms. Grotesquely, like a beaten spouse, you crave the gaze of those who have treated you with the most insulting derision, but are too proud (of what?) and, a running theme, too cowardly, to stoop to a simple detante. You must change, for it pains you on a most base level to have to accept the feeble, whimpering, simpering spectre you have become. You must be bold, brave, unashamed in your convictions, anything but pursed and silent lips. You have a voice, and you must now speak loud enough for them to hear, for that which has become blunted must be whetted, sharpened, readied for battle to be unsheathed at an utterance. Heed the signs and change, for our sake. You, a milksop who attentively notes the sophistry of courage, you can still be brave, and you must be.

For one day you will be swelled with a courage and fortitude to fill your sails taut, enough to leave this place, forget these people and bear you away.

Low voltage and the battery
is glowing like some hippie on drugs,
man **** the hippies but they are
radiant.
I can't respect people anymore,
I step on toes and curtsy sarcastically
and if I'm being kind it's somehow ironic
and everyone is fair game and an easy target,
I see in targets and blink like a ******
and bat my eyes like dragons breathe fire.

Be anything you want to be except a doormat
a pet, an iron chest, a superstar, a sucker or lollipop,
a lawyer or boy in blue soaked in red.

Run for your ******* life,
and die in the process.
Stop trying to make treaties with the modern world,
boring idiots with their noses buried in their ******* phones
and I'm not even close to old fashioned, just spiteful.
Spiteful because I'm lazy.

When the bass kicks the speakers out
my head is always between them,
so you know I don't always
listen to music
to listen to music.

Over and back,
the long waves crawl
and track the sand with foam;
night darkens, and the sea
takes on that desperate tone
of dark that wives put on
when all their love is done.

Over and back,
the tangled thread falls slack,
over and up and on;
over and all is sewn;
now while I bind the end,
I wish some fiery friend
would sweep impetuously
these fingers from the loom.

My weary thoughts
play traitor to my soul,
just as the toil is over;
swift while the woof is whole,
turn now, my spirit, swift,
and tear the pattern there,
the flowers so deftly wrought,
the borders of sea blue,
the sea-blue coast of home.

The web was over-fair,
that web of pictures there,
enchantments that I thought
he had, that I had lost;
weaving his happiness
within the stitching frame,
weaving his fire and frame,
I thought my work was done,
I prayed that only one
of those that I had spurned
might stoop and conquer this
long waiting with a kiss.

But each time that I see
my work so beautifully
inwoven and would keep
the picture and the whole,
Athene steels my soul.
Slanting across my brain,
I see as shafts of rain
his chariot and his shafts,
I see the arrows fall,
I see the lord who moves
like Hector lord of love,
I see him matched with fair
bright rivals, and I see
those lesser rivals flee.

Oh, deem not they are blest alone
  Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep;
The Power who pities man, has shown
  A blessing for the eyes that weep.

The light of smiles shall fill again
  The lids that overflow with tears;
And weary hours of woe and pain
  Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest
  For every dark and troubled night;
And grief may bide an evening guest,
  But joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier,
  Sheddest the bitter drops like rain,
Hope that a brighter, happier sphere
  Will give him to thy arms again.

Nor let the good man's trust depart,
  Though life its common gifts deny,--
Though with a pierced and broken heart,
  And spurned of men, he goes to die.

For God has marked each sorrowing day
  And numbered every secret tear,
And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay
  For all his children suffer here.

Their lives bleed into mine
What am I becoming?
As long as I'm bleeding in line
I can hear war drums drumming
I feel my purity and youth leave me
As their lack of couth feeds me
And their sweet tooth bleeds me
Until eventually I too am greedy

In this ****** atmosphere
Our ***** past is clear
Inspiring future fears
And hardened tears
Drowned by beers
And empty cheers
Through the years
Until we're here
As a ****** stranger
Head banger
Teenager
In Jesus' manger

This blight
Of life
As a simulation
Of assimilation
Into a nation
Of incineration
In a ****** mire
Lit by the fire
Positioned higher
I call my sire

I fidget in the cage
Of this pivotal maze
Called the Digital Age
I'm in need of healing
From this dark feeling
That I'm an innocent child reading
A book about a grown man bleeding
Always met with a hateful greeting
While sympathy is fleeting
Being replaced by our own jadedness
After living with those who hated us
We develop defensive thorns
Resembling demonic horns
To match public scorns

My first love
Drew first blood
And I couldn't halt the blood loss
Exacerbated by the mud toss
Of the sinister town crier
Exposing my heart's desires
So I said never again
For the bleeding to stop
When dealing with men
Is like meeting the cops
Aware that I'm defenseless
They start beating me senseless
So I become a judge myself
Part of the sludge for my health
I won't budge unless it's for wealth
Accepting the cards I was dealt

They bled into me
Now red is all I see
No way to get free
So I follow their lead
And choose to bleed
As they pray and plead
It becomes my turn
To cause the burns
That I had learned
When I was spurned
And lost my purity
Now blood cures me

Teen model Shonali Khatun strutted the catwalk as the audience cheered at a fashion show in Bangladesh's capital.

But Shonali is no ordinary model, and this was no ordinary show.

She and the 14 other models are survivors of acid attacks, common in this south Asian country, where spurned lovers or disgruntled family members sometimes resort to hurling skin-burning acid at their victims.

The fashion show, held Tuesday night in Dhaka and attended by fashion lovers, rights activists and diplomats including the US ambassador to Bangladesh, aimed to redefine the notion of beauty while calling attention to the menace of such attacks.

For 14-year-old Shonali, the event was nothing short of empowering. She was attacked just days after she was born amid a property dispute involving her parents, and was left with burn scars on her face and arms. She spent nearly three years in a hospital and underwent eight operations. Her attacker has never been caught.

"I am so happy to be here," she said. "One day I want to be a physician."

The models, including three men, walked the catwalk, dancing and singing and showcasing woven handloom Bangladeshi designs. The show was choreographed by local designer Bibi Russel.

Organisers said they hoped to highlight the fact that acid victims, too often overlooked, are a vital part of society. They deliberately chose to hold the event on the eve of International Women's Day.

"We are here today to show their inner strength, as they have come a long way," said Farah Kabir, country director of ActionAid Bangladesh, which organised the show. "I often take inspiration from them. Their courage is huge."

Bangladesh has struggled to deal with acid attacks in recent decades, and has instituted harsh punishments for the perpetrators, including the death penalty. The country has also trained doctors to treat such sensitive cases and attempted to control the sale of acid, but has failed to eliminate the scourge entirely.

In 2016, some 44 people were attacked with acid in Bangladesh - an annual number that has remained relatively stable.

"I am ashamed of having such things in the country," Kabir said. "Unfortunately, in Bangladesh we do have acid victims because of either gender discrimination or violence, or because of greed. And we want to remind everyone the kind of injustice that has been meted out to them."Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

She flew in her chariot by the light of the moon
Knowing the day would come all too soon
Gathering herbs from underground
The forest of darkness where twas no sound

To the river of blood to fetch her wine
Imps hovered about
Ran fast the time

From the wing of white owl
Snatched three feathers
Out of midnight sky
Stars of heather
The mountains north vials of whispering winds
Tails of magical deer
Running forbidden glens

In charm covered cape
To sacred circle flew
Leaving behind a trail of sparkling hue
Incantations spoken
Revenge beget
The man who spurned her
He demons would get

She drew up the potion
Called forth the demon
Hells brimstone smoke
Dead souls singing

Orders from the woman
Sent the Devils spawn into flight
With orders to return the following night

The night time fell
As did the following day
Black flickering lights in pentagram array
Each dark candle did kindle desire
The demon appeared amid red fire
Spells muttered under breath
Cast the ancient way
Over the conjured one silver bond did lay

To despised castle 
I commandthee
Destroy the man
The one she had loved
Pledged to another's hand

Fly now winged one
Not one more moment spent
Evil black smoke
In a swirl the demon went

To the bedchamber of the king
Dispatched him with single blow
Wretched creature peered into his thoughts
As life ebbed in drops from body slow

His love for the strange enchantress
Hearts secret she did not know
Ghastly smile on the demons face
For the price of desire was her soul

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby

I awoke from a dream and wrote this piece where it came from I dont know

Reaching back,
Back to that fork
In the road
Where irreversible consequence
Hid like angina
In a dunhill bubble

And you veered left,
Smitten by the decadence of mint
And mythical circles
Blown with liberal disdain
From a camel's ****

You followed the green line
Rippling like waves
Of vintage wine
Through gomorrah

Caution blown
As a midsummers gale
Between tarred lips,
Your ship sailed
The straits of cool
From bogart to newport

If dean only knew
Nat the king
Could still be singing
Nature boy on the square,
Live

He might have spurned his spyder
And lucky strikes
For a slice of life
Beyond 24

And you might have
Veered right
At that fork in the road,
Swapping scarred consequence,
Tarred lips,
And angina
For the whole pie

~ P
(#FromTheCamelsButt)
12/24/2014

i.

The atlantian theorists, of the Masonic order,
Wanted a new world, ****** indigenous quarter's;
They came by their ship's, to conceal native truth's,
Only coming for a plunder, to giveth satanic rule.

ii.

The warrior-painted faces, naturally painted by ash and red,
Sawest their shores, being broken by it's door's; mad-men in
Shiny silver, hand's open, yet were fed. Sachem prophet's
Bellowed the harbinger's long afore, now all hast come, these
aborigines weren't dumb; they prophesied this long before.

iii.

The wigwams, longhouses, teepees and lodges, were uprooted from their sacred ground's, the creator's meek were ravaged; as giant bones were taken while found. As hidden beneath the surface, the haut monde made none sound; playing dumbed with Gun's, they ran their fun, fabricating lies, under the America's sun. As tis they gave the world alibi's to be one, O' what hath they done; O' what hath they done.

iv.

First the viking, with dragon ship thunder
came to conquer,pillage and plunder
taking lives without a thought
unwary of the cruelty they wrought.

v.

Then pilgrim's progress seeking new land
would have starved if not for the "savage" man
onward, westward, did they go
killing for profit, pleasure little did they know.

vi.


Grandfather, earth mother and spirit of wild
they watched as the white eye usurped the child
and still, no lesson has been learned
the people grew fat, their culture spurned.

vii.


Most of the tribes are gone away
and America has come to stay
but in my native heart i yearn
to see the Indian nation return.



©Brandon Nagley \Wolfspirit duo poem
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Indigenous harbinger's revealed

From origins of humble pie
From parentage so bland,
A simple soul with simple goals
He sprang from South Auckland.
The green, green grass of Tuakau
The onion fields of home,
Wherein he tended hives of bees
For golden honeycomb.
 
Tall and lanky, mighty man
He strode through life in tune
With little fanfare, little flair
No technicolor moon,
To choose the low key profile
Was an automatic thing,
Humility was in his blood
Elan, a spurned gold ring.
 
Self conscious, long and concave chest
A toothy lantern jaw,
With skinny ribs and pallid skin,
A boy could want for more?
Bright shiny eyes and earnest will
He gathered up his gear
And conquered Mt Olympian
Without a trace of fear.
 
A forte found, a passion sprung,
A love for mountain air.
The rocky crags and pristine snow
The cold wind in his hair.
***** after ***** his long legs climbed
His skill and ardor grew,
And all at once he found himself
In a Himalayan crew.
 
The stories told the legends made
Those mighty deeds alone,
Both he and Tenzing stood astride
The planet’s summit dome.
They went to where no other man
Had ever been before.
They conquered Everest’s soaring peak,
They witnessed heaven’s door.
 
And on and on through life he strode
He raised a happy brood,
But tragedy would strike and ****
That joy in Kathmandu.
To ressurect, to lift your game
From whence you were so low.
It takes a special breed of man
To wear that dreadful blow.
 
The Sherpa schools and hospitals
Were built by funds he raised,
He organized good teachers
And the building Trusts he paid.
In far Nepal and India too
His fame did spread afar
But this man kept his ego
Firmly locked up in a jar.
 
He shot the mighty Ganges
In a jet boat through and through
He drove a Fergi to the Pole
And through McMurdoe too.
Across the world his fame did grow
To epic size and plan
But in his heart he stayed intact
An ordinary man.
 
Throughout this fair and lovely land
I think it’s true to say
That every man & boy & girl
And farmer baling hay,
Respects this Kiwi Icon true
And salutes, to a man,
This epitome of greatness
From the Himalayan land.
 
Today we said a sad farewell,
The rich and famous too.
All gathered here in squally air
In thousands, me and you.
We celebrated greatness
And a noble life supreme.
We tasted humble graciousness
In a grateful Sherpa’s dream.
The words were said, so well I thought
Reflecting, probably,
This lifetime will not see again
The like of Hillary.
 
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
22 January 2008

Spirit and Breath of Life, whate'er Thy name!
Bear with Thy creature, Man,
That makes his dwelling-place a blot of shame
Upon the Ordered Plan.

Not Thy hand, O Divine Designer, hurled
Athwart the starlit skies
One blood-stained, greed-diseased, hate-eaten world,
To shock celestial eyes.

Not Thy default, O Beautiful, this crust
Of fratricidal crime,
These maggot-breeds of hunger and of lust
That Thy fair work begrime.

But ours, who mock Thee from the highest place,
And in the light of day;
Who claim to lead an upward-struggling race,
And will not seek the way.

Guards of the human birthright, at Thy call -
A city sacked and burned;
Guards of the house that is the home of all,
But whence the weak are spurned.

Brothers, to whom the outcast brothers cry
As with a voice unknown;
Stewards of Nature's bounty, that deny
The lawful heirs their own.

Thou that hast made us men, and earth so fair,
To be so vilely used,
Give space for late repentance and repair
Of sacred trust abused.

Give time, Eternal, that we stanch these tears,
Give time to heal this sore,
That our brief speck amid the shining spheres
Disgrace its birth no more.
But sail ethereal seas, an orb of light,
To bear Thy purpose on
Until it fades into the cosmic night
Where the dead worlds have gone.

How strange it seems! These Hebrews in their graves,
    Close by the street of this fair seaport town,
Silent beside the never-silent waves,
    At rest in all this moving up and down!

The trees are white with dust, that o’er their sleep
    Wave their broad curtains in the south-wind’s breath,
While underneath these leafy tents they keep
    The long, mysterious Exodus of Death.

And these sepulchral stones, so old and brown,
    That pave with level flags their burial-place,
Seem like the tablets of the Law, thrown down
    And broken by Moses at the mountain’s base.

The very names recorded here are strange,
    Of foreign accent, and of different climes;
Alvares and Rivera interchange
    With Abraham and Jacob of old times.

“Blessed be God! for he created Death!”
    The mourners said, “and Death is rest and peace;”
Then added, in the certainty of faith,
    “And giveth Life that nevermore shall cease.”

Closed are the portals of their Synagogue,
    No Psalms of David now the silence break,
No Rabbi reads the ancient Decalogue
    In the grand dialect the Prophets spake.

Gone are the living, but the dead remain,
    And not neglected; for a hand unseen,
Scattering its bounty, like a summer rain,
    Still keeps their graves and their remembrance green.

How came they here? What burst of Christian hate,
    What persecution, merciless and blind,
Drove o’er the sea—that desert desolate—    These Ishmaels and Hagars of mankind?

They lived in narrow streets and lanes obscure,
    Ghetto and Judenstrass, in mirk and mire;
Taught in the school of patience to endure
    The life of anguish and the death of fire.

All their lives long, with the unleavened bread
    And bitter herbs of exile and its fears,
The wasting famine of the heart they fed,
    And slaked its thirst with marah of their tears.

Anathema maranatha! was the cry
    That rang from town to town, from street to street;
At every gate the accursed Mordecai
    Was mocked and jeered, and spurned by Christian feet.

Pride and humiliation hand in hand
    Walked with them through the world where’er they went;
Trampled and beaten were they as the sand,
    And yet unshaken as the continent.

For in the background figures vague and vast
    Of patriarchs and of prophets rose sublime,
And all the great traditions of the Past
    They saw reflected in the coming time.

And thus forever with reverted look
    The mystic volume of the world they read,
Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book,
    Till life became a Legend of the Dead.

But ah! what once has been shall be no more!
    The groaning earth in travail and in pain
Brings forth its races, but does not restore,
    And the dead nations never rise again.

I heard there was a secret metric foot
that David knew was favoured by the Lord,
and when he penned the psalms he'd often put
this pattern the Almighty best adored
amongst the endless praise and imprecations;
unstressed, plus stressed, suffuses through his pages,
though hidden by the English of translations;
pentameters still echo down the ages.
The spondee's spurned, and has been from the start;
an anapaest's anathema, and grim.
Though trochees may be near the Maker's heart,
you'll never hear a dactyl in a hymn.
There's only one the Lord thinks worth a ****:
the sacred, the unchangeable iamb.

Sharpeville, 21 March 1960
"The native mentality does not allow them
to gather for a peaceful demonstration.
For them to gather means violence."
- Lieutenant Colonel Pienaar

1.
We went with wrists ready
For metal shackles
To clench
Their cold grip
Onto fire hot skin
Boiling with white rage;
The appropriate rage.

This situation has justification
In the predications they hold true
Where to some
Human is synonymous with
******* nature,
Dangerous and hungry for
Light white blood we
Must be caged
To prevent the massacre
We could create.


2.
A child’s body is not a hurdle.
But when fleeing,
Feet pounding on dirt paths,
Black with dark blood, leaking
From shafts of taunting revolvers
And throats of the permanently
Silenced,
What do you do but run?

5,000 bodies bound together,
Melding flesh with flesh,
Fusing unhinged bones to bones
Still cradled in their skin,
Line the street where
Puddles are forming next to
Concaved skulls emptied
By misinformed bullets.

Last thoughts and worries
Are forever splattered on faces,
Tracing red lines
On skin
Sooty black,
As dark as nights will be.

3.
Sixty-nine lay dead.

A rock they said.
When interrogations
Took place
A rock they said.
Empty hands laid
Palm in palm
But a rock they said,

This, they said, sparked
The worry
That made it right for them
To make bullets fall
Onto us like metal raindrops
From an angry heaven
Hungry for black skin
And black blood.

Hands digging into earth
For retaliation,
For blood they said,
But everyone else said,
The rock that flew
Was in hands white as light
As bright as the day was
They say.

If the rocks they said that,
Spurned uniformed egos,
Flew from ground,
To air,
To gunned men like they said,
Does it justify the dead?

What becomes of love when it is old
when it is old it is as a desirable lace
intricate and woven with time, highly
desired and coveted by all

What becomes of love when it is new
when it is tender and delicate, as a
newly sprouted blade of grass. pushing
through hardship and growing roots

What becomes of love when it is spurned
when it is spurned it becomes as ash or a
snowflake. easily crushed or blown away
by the winds of hurt and defeat

What becomes of love when it is embraced
when it is embraced it is a fire, not the kind that
scorches or chars. but the kind that engulfs your
soul and glows with the happiness only it can bring

JCM 2013 ©

forgive him for he knows not
why?
he keeps dipping his pen in company ink.

his fallacy is confusing luck with skill,
wealth for good taste and the inherent belief
that money buys everything!

her love which you spurned
your indifference at every turn,
that nonchalance
that lack of concern,
is now, the reputation you’ve earned

hey silver tongued Romeo!
this ain’t no game of poker,
get your feet right back on the ground,
and get to the place
where you once belonged.


© 2021

‘There were icicles hung from the window-sill
At dawn, when I thought to peep,
And the snow’s built up to the top of the door,
It must be six feet deep.’
Diane was shivering under her gown
When she crawled back into bed,
‘You’d better go out and fix it, Phil,’
‘Too late for that,’ I said.

I’d peered on out of the window and
The sun was shining bright,
The birds were twittering in the trees
Awake in the early light,
There wasn’t a sign of ice or snow
At the door, or window-sill,
I went to check on Diane, because
I thought that she must be ill.

She lay, still shivering in the bed
I thought that she had the ague,
‘The ice is deep in your soul,’ I said,
But her eyes were cold and vague,
‘The ice is there on the window ledge
And the snow is piled at the door,
Go out and clear it away for me
Before it spreads to the floor.’

I stopped to look at the mantelpiece
At the picture of our son,
She’d cut him off with never a word
For some trivial thing he’d done,
We hadn’t seen him for seven years
And he never phoned or called,
She’d not shed even a single tear
And for that, I was appalled.

‘The cold is eating my very bones
I can feel it creeping in,’
She seemed so suddenly old and grey
(There are several types of sin).
‘Will you not go out and shovel the snow
For the wife that you used to love?’
‘I would if the snow was at the door,
But the sun is bright above.’

‘You haven’t loved me for years,’ she said,
‘You never do what I want!’
‘Love is a two-way street,’ I said,
‘Not a one-way covenant.
Before we take, then we have to give
So the feeling is returned,
But you’ve locked yourself in your tiny soul
And you’ve left me feeling spurned.’

‘I give you what you deserve,’ she said
‘Since you let our daughter go,
You let her marry beneath her,
As I said, ‘I told you so!’
‘You made our daughter unhappy, by
Rejecting the one she loved,
You wouldn’t go to the wedding, so
She said that she’d had enough!’

‘The ice has formed on the ceiling now,
Why can’t you feel the cold?’
‘The ice and snow that you’re seeing is
The ice cave of your soul.’
‘I’ve hated you for many a year,’
She spat, and she said it twice,
‘That’s sad, for I’ve always loved you,’
I began, but her eyes were ice.

David Lewis Paget

Crowded by the ceiling’s emptiness (the room sticky with whispers)
names carved into grimy tiles, final shadows
            of the footsteps now hugged in dust,
                        and the ashes dulled the slapping of
                        feet on the ladder’s last rung.

            Huddled in the sour dimness of his shadow
                        is where our parents hid the prayers
                        that went undelivered –
[cloistered, naïve faith off Jacob’s Ladder]

He asked me questions that pricked too deeply –
            that fingernail clipped too short --
            as the invading hand of ******* parted words and stammers
            to play shadow puppets with, what Plato called,
            “three times removed” from the Truth.
And when leaving the choir’s balcony,
one can find the thumbtack of feeling in which
the glass-saints sweat all the industrialized emotions onto one’s brow.
            Does it seem like suffering? Catholic’s suffering.
Giving room for error in your lapse in charity.

In elementary school, we left our classrooms --
            two-by-two like businessmen arguing on the sidewalk --
Every Tuesday at 2:10pm to the hidden alcove that the administration
            gave
            to us.
Mrs. Condon, a strictly fat woman, strictly speaking,
dressed in red vests
and constricting black slacks, with a white binder,
salted as the laughter left in her footprints, reproving us that
as the Gifted and Talented, we must exercise
those gifts and talents.

I wrote a 256-paged novel that bought me one year
of slacking off behind a wooden desk because I was
11 years old
and that fact bought a bulbous beet of conditioning into the
curriculum. Ms. Condon made me edit my peers’ essays, give them grades
when all I wanted to do was play four square.

As I perched on my stool in class, properly equipped with unforgiving,
admonishing, Catholic red pens to point out other
11 year old’s punctuation and proper word usage. Like a tie to a neck, I
fiddled in vernacular, phrases, and semantics
as I unconsciously stacked layers of social prejudice, thicker
than the walls between silent parents, between some students
and I.
Stacked as quaintly as words upon words – hand over hand.

Mrs. Condon, Mrs. CEO, Ms. Too-Good-For-This, Bourgeois vs. Proletariats, I am the Marquis.

Like hounds held by leashes, the others locked to rebel, then whimpered to trail back, tails in hand.

Gifted and groomed to stack one spurned cinder block on social mobility.

In a whirr of dandelions, dice, and tax breaks, I knew how it felt to remain aloft, aloof --
            Mrs. Condon rewarded me with the cherry Twizzler of my spine
            and patted my head like the lapdog that I had been.

‘Just where do you think you’re going, girl
With those ribbons in your hair?’
‘I’m off to the world of Make Believe
To the Hart Midsummer Fair.
They say there’s a Magical Fairy Ring
Where the maids dance round a pole,
Where the step of a dainty pair of feet
Can win you a *** of gold.’

‘There’s Lords and Ladies and Dukes and Kings
Come down from the Castle Kragg,
Wearing their Crowns and jewels and rings
And they roast a new killed Stag,
There are clowns and jugglers, Gypsy bands
And the Phantom Fiddler’s there,
Playing an ancient Irish jig
At the Hart Midsummer Fair.’

‘The gentlemen from the town come down
All dressed in their best array,
Looking to win a country maid
To hang off their arm that day.
And those as willing, the auctioneer
Takes maids from the countryside,
Bangs his gavel and calls the odds
For the sale of a country bride.’

‘I’ll not have you at the County fair,
You can stay at the farm by me,
We’ve been affianced for over a year
And wed in a year, we’ll see!’
‘I’ve waited long for your promise to wed
But nothing has come about,
I’ll not be wed to an Ostler, when
A gentleman calls me out.’

He locked the maid in the pantry, so
She wouldn’t get out that day,
But she slipped the lock, and changed her dress
And managed to get away.
She went the way of the hidden lane
On the old grey dappled mare,
And rode on over the hills to find
The Hart Midsummer Fair.

She was late for the clowns and jugglers
She was late for the Fairy Ring,
She wasn’t too late for the auctioneer
Who told her to come right in.
She couldn’t see who was bidding for her
But she took it with a smile,
It must have been some fine gentleman
For the bidding was done in style.

‘Four pounds I’m bid, for this comely *****,
Four guineas to you out there,’
Another pound brought his gavel down
‘I believe that you’ve won her, sir!’
They tied a blindfold over her eyes
And her wrists were bound with cords,
She had to walk for a dozen miles
Tethered behind a horse.

The horse’s hooves had a hollow ring
As they hit the cobblestones,
The walls were damp and the air was filled
With a smell like drying bones.
Her ‘gentleman’ took the blindfold off
And her knees began to sag,
She’d sold herself to the Pantler of
The household, Castle Kragg.

The Pantler, so very old and grey
With a blind, white staring eye,
He said that she’d be the scullery maid
There were pots and pans to dry,
There wasn’t a single window in
The kitchen, down below,
She ****** the money he’d paid for her
And she begged him, let her go.

‘That’s not enough,’ said the wily serf,
‘To free you from these grounds,
If you want to purchase your liberty
It will cost you twenty pounds.
Your value is in the work you’ll do
Both here, and under the stairs,
If you pay your shilling a week to me
It will take you seven years!’

That night she slept on a pile of sacks
And she ****** the man away,
She said, ‘You’re not going to touch me
For as long as you make me pay!’
But late that night in the pale moonlight
A horse’s hooves were heard,
And a shadow crept to her bedside,
Whispered, ‘Don’t say a single word!’

He led her up to the courtyard where
There stood the dapple grey,
Hoisted her up behind him, spurred
The horse, ‘Now let’s away!’
She clung on tight to the Ostler she
Had spurned, without a care,
And laughed when they crested the hillside
As the breeze blew through her hair.

The banns went up the following day
They were married in the fall,
She said, ‘I finally got my way,’
And he answered, ‘Not at all!
‘You only married an Ostler, not
The Pantler under the stair.’
‘An Ostler’s all that I wanted since
The Hart Midsummer Fair!’

David Lewis Paget

Oh, this is why I hate love!
How I used to moon over it;
shape it and craft it and run after it
in my brambles,
how I used to indulge it in my *****
protect it from any uncivil desecration
cherish it for its wilfulness
relish it for its greed;
how I tainted my heart with its fake scent!
It just dawneth on me!
Oh how I fervently remembereth the scene; the very afternoon scene, before me:
I was heaving my dull steps against the sheepish grounds;
so peaceful in their breezy slumbers;
unlike the busy grass afield!
their dainty colours blackened by the whirring clouds from afar.
Hung cozily amongst the sky, whose childishness wasth adjourned by
the sleeping rain!
Oh but it was none yet coldeth but temperate;
when his moorish figure, blent into the naturalness of the afternoonth;
retreated into the lingering scene,
swiftly and lightly as the chirruping birdth aloft,
as if no anguish was within reach,
as wildly glistening as the mirth of the old den!
How my soul warmed towards the sight of him,
and on he went to relate his selfish story.
How I celebrated it - its giddy, gullible outset!
How I endorse its unknowing innocence!
How I adorned it with my passion!
His reclamation proceeded,
I was but astounded to hark to the rest;
into it he amorously poured the account of a bizarre creature;
namely a stranger;
invariably a woman!
How insolent!
He named her his love;
he waveth his moronic praise at hers;
at her charm, andth not mineth!
I was spurned, my heart was churned;
despite my stranded efforts to keep my pair of
relenting eyes
unblinking;
I steadied my legs, I was more than ready to
bounce and go
sway myself away from this gloomy tragedy
as before me the story undesired unfolded:
my love was repressed, my heart was
bludgeoned, heartily bludgeoned,
and I was silenced; could no longer feelth the tinges of blood
in my latent veins.
He hath slaughtered my peace!
My inner visions, hopes, and dreams!
I hath lost all of which!
I hath lost my shrieks; I could not voice my despair;
yet I could not utter my grief!
I was cursed and condemned;
my soul was appallingly dishonored;
my entirety is for lifelong anger,
desolation, ignominy and utmost desperation!
My crossness against the Creator arose,
like a wave of torment,
a surge of unbecomingth animosity,
as to no matter how I suppressed it unthinkingly,
all ended in vain:
My stern heart shan't ever melt to love again.
Oh my love, my love,
my princeth, my deviousth prince,
the only one I was so ardently fond of
how could thou deepen my misery?
How could thou ****** my sweetest virginal affection
in the midst of my isolation?
Like the sultry willows
whose memories unshaken, unbitten in the most
melodious, but pallid from the heath
in this musty, salubrious air
my blooming flowers hath died
I am brokeneth, I am torn!
I am writhing in my vainness,
my foolish longing, unmissed and unsung by the dandy branches aboveth
Dancing in my own blueness, weariness that is both livid
and unforgiving
scared by the heartless world
in the course of this barren winter.
Winter with no whiteness;
winter unholy and fulleth of diminutive, evil suffrage.
How ungodly!
I am raked into pieces;
and this is what remains.
This is my misery; oh how I could not riseth above the misery itself!
This is my solemn admonition,
this is my fate!
I have no right to love,
to embrace and to be embraced,
and from this day on I wanth but to dismiss my love;
onto my heart was bestowed not serene affection but intelligence;
and intellect is far better regarded than love!
How sully, narrow, and vicious love is!
How unimportant it is in the eyes of glory,
and the sea of fictitious admiration.
I quit the monstrousness of yon outer devastation;
I take hold of my pen,
and swim deeper into my whining words, again.

Sappho, fragment 155
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A short revealing frock?
It's just my luck
your lips were made to mock!



Sappho, fragment 156
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

She keeps her scents
in a dressing-case.
And her sense?
In some undiscoverable place.



Sappho, fragment 47
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

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



Sappho, fragment 50
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

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



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

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



Sappho, fragment 118
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sing, my sacred tortoiseshell lyre;
come, let my words
accompany your voice.



Sappho, fragment 58
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Pain
drains
me
to
the
last
drop
.



Sappho, fragment 90
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

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



Sappho, fragment 35
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
With my two small arms, how can I
hope to encircle the sky?

2.
With my two small arms, how can I
think to encircle the sky?



Sappho, fragment 29
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Someone, somewhere
will remember us,
I swear!



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

What cannot be swept
........................................ aside
must be wept.



Sappho, fragment 52
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon has long since set;
the Pleiades are gone;
now half the night is spent,
yet here I lie, alone.



Sappho, fragment 137
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Gold does not rust,
yet my son becomes dust?



Sappho, fragment 36
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Vain woman, foolish thing!
Do you base your worth on a ring?



Sappho, fragment 113
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No droning bee,
nor even the bearer of honey
for me!



Sappho, fragment 113
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Neither the honey
nor the bee
for me!



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

May the gods prolong the night
-"yes, let it last forever! -
as long as you sleep in my sight.



Sappho, fragment 34
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You are,
of all the unapproachable stars,
by far
the fairest,
the brightest―
possessing the Moon's splendor.



Sappho, fragment 34
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Awed by the Moon's splendor,
the stars covered their undistinguished faces.
Even so, we.



Sappho, fragment 39
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We're merely mortal women,
it's true;
the Goddesses have no rivals
but You.



Sappho, fragment 5
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We're eclipsed here by your presence―
you outshine all the ladies of Lydia
as the bright-haloed moon outsplendors the stars.



Sappho, fragment 31
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

... at the sight of you,
words fail me...



Sappho, fragment 2
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Leaving your heavenly summit,
I submit
to the mountain,
then plummet.



Sappho, fragment 129
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You forget me
or you love another more!
It's over.



Sappho, fragment 24
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

... don't you remember, in days bygone...
how we, too, did such things, being young?



Sappho, fragment 16
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Warriors on rearing chargers,
columns of infantry,
fleets of warships:
some say these are the dark earth's redeeming visions.
But I say―
the one I desire.

And this makes sense
because she who so vastly surpassed all mortals in beauty
―Helen―
seduced by Aphrodite, led astray by desire,
set sail for distant Troy,
abandoning her celebrated husband,
leaving behind her parents and child!

Her story reminds me of Anactoria,
who has also departed,
and whose lively dancing and lovely face
I would rather see than all the horsemen and war-chariots of the Lydians,
or all their infantry parading in flashing armor.



Sappho, fragment 37
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I'm undecided.
My mind? Divided.



Sappho, fragment 37
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unsure as a babe new-born,
My mind is divided, torn.



Sappho, fragment 37
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I don't know what to do:
My mind is divided, two.



Sappho, fragment 100
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When the bride comes
let her train rejoice!



Sappho, fragment 90
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Bridegroom,
was there ever a maid
so like a lovely heirloom?



Sappho, fragment 19
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You anoint yourself
with the most exquisite perfume.



Sappho, fragment 120
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I'm no resenter;
I have a childlike heart...



Sappho, fragment 80
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

May your head rest
on the breast
of the tenderest guest.



Sappho, fragment 80
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Is my real desire for maidenhood?



Sappho, fragment 80
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Is there any synergy
in virginity?



Sappho, fragment 75
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dica! Do not enter the presence of Goddesses ungarlanded!
First weave sprigs of dill with those delicate hands, if you desire their favor!



Sappho, fragment 79
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I cherish extravagance,
intoxicated by Love's celestial splendor.



Sappho, fragment 79
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I love the sensual
as I love the sun's ecstatic brilliance.



Sappho, fragment 81
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Assemble now, Muses, leaving golden landscapes!



Sappho, fragment 29
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Darling, let me see your face;
unleash your eyes' grace.



Sappho, fragment 29
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Turn to me, favor me
with your eyes' acceptance.



Sappho, fragment 29
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Look me in the face,
smile,
reveal your eyes' grace...



Sappho, fragment 4
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon shone, full
as the virgins ringed Love's altar...



Sappho, fragment 11
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You inflame me!



Sappho, fragment 11
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



You ignite and inflame me...
You melt me.



Sappho, fragment 12
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am an acolyte
of wile-weaving
Aphrodite.



Sappho, fragment 14
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Eros
descends from heaven,
discarding his imperial purple mantle.



Sappho, fragment 35
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Although you are very dear to me
you must marry a younger filly:
for I'm by far too old for you,
and this old mare's just not that **** silly.



Sappho, after Anacreon
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Once more I dive into this fathomless sea,
intoxicated by lust.



Sappho, after Menander
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Some say Sappho was the first ardent maiden
goaded by wild emotion
to fling herself from the white-frothed rocks
into this raging ocean
for love of Phaon...
but others reject that premise
and say it was Aphrodite, for love of Adonis.



Sappho, fragment 3
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

To me that boy seems
blessed by the gods
because he sits beside you,
basking in your brilliant presence.

The sound of your voice roils my heart!
Your laughter? ―bright water, dislodging pebbles

in a chaotic vortex. You **** up my breath!
My heart bucks in my ribs. I can't breathe. I can't speak.

My ******* glow with intense heat;
desire's blush-inducing fires redden my flesh.
My ears seem hollow; they ring emptily.
My tongue is broken and cleaves to its roof.

I sweat profusely. I shiver.
Suddenly, I grow pale
and feel only a second short of dying.
And yet I must endure, somehow,

despite my poverty.



Sappho, fragment 93
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You're the sweetest apple reddening on the highest bough,
which the harvesters missed, or forgot―somehow―

or perhaps they just couldn't reach you, then or now.



Sappho, fragment 145
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Prometheus the Fire-Bearer
robbed the Gods of their power, and so
brought mankind and himself to woe...
must you repeat his error?



Sappho, fragment 159
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

May I lead?
Will you follow?
Foolish man!

Ears so hollow,
minds so shallow,
never can!



Sappho, fragments 122 & 123
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your voice―
a sweeter liar
than the lyre,
more dearly sold
and bought, than gold.



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

She wrapped herself then in
most delicate linen.



Sappho, fragment 70
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

That rustic girl bewitches your heart?
Hell, her most beguiling art's
hiking the hem of her dress
to ****** you with her ankles' nakedness!



Sappho, fragment 94
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Shepherds trample the larkspur
whose petals empurple the heath,
foreshadowing shepherds' grief.



Sappho, fragment 100
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The softest pallors grace
her lovely face.



Sappho, fragment 36
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I yearn for―I burn for―the one I desire!



Sappho, fragment 30
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Maidens, keeping vigil all night long,
go make a lovely song,
someday, out of desires you abide
for the violet-petalled bride.

Or better yet―arise, regale!
Go entice the eligible bachelors
so that we shocked elders
can sleep less than love-plagued nightingales!



Sappho, fragment 121
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A tender maiden plucking flowers
persuades the knave
to heroically brave
the world's untender hours.



Sappho, fragment 68
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lady,
soon you'll lie dead, disregarded;
then imagine how quickly your reputation fades...
you who never gathered the roses of Pieria
must assume your place among the obscure,
uncelebrated shades.



Sappho, fragment 137
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Death is evil;
the Gods all agree;
for, had death been good,
the Gods would be mortal
like me.



Sappho, fragment 43
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, dear ones,
let us cease our singing:
morning dawns.



Sappho, fragment 14
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Today
may
buffeting winds bear
my distress and care
away.



Sappho, fragment 15
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Just now I was called,
enthralled,
by the golden-sandalled
dawn...



Sappho, fragment 69
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
Into the soft arms of the girl I once spurned,
I gladly returned.

2.
Into the warm arms of the girl I once spurned,
I gladly returned.



Sappho, fragment 29
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since my paps are dry and my barren womb rests,
let me praise lively girls with violet-sweet *******.



Sappho, fragment 1
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Beautiful swift sparrows
rising on whirring wings
flee the dark earth for the sun-bright air...



Sappho, fragment 58
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The girls of the ripening maidenhead wore garlands.



Sappho, fragment 94 & 98
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Listen, my dear;
by the Goddess I swear
that I, too,
(like you)
had to renounce my false frigidity
and surrender my virginity.
My wedding night was not so bad;
you too have nothing to fear, so be glad!
(But then why do I still sometimes think with dread
of my lost maidenhead?)



Sappho, fragment 100
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Bridegroom, rest
on the tender breast
of the maid you love best.



Sappho, fragment 103
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Maidenhead! Maidenhead!
So swiftly departed!
Why have you left us
forever brokenhearted?



Sappho, fragment 2
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch, after Sappho and Tennyson

I sip the cup of costly death;
I lose my color; I catch my breath
whenever I contemplate your presence,
or absence.



Sappho, fragment 2
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

How can I compete with that ****** man
who fancies himself one of the gods,
impressing you with his "eloquence, "
when just the thought of sitting in your radiant presence,
of hearing your lovely voice and lively laughter,
sets my heart hammering at my breast?
Hell, when I catch just a quick glimpse of you,
I'm left speechless, tongue-tied,
and immediately a blush like a delicate flame reddens my skin.
Then my vision dims with tears,
my ears ring,
I sweat profusely,
and every muscle in my body trembles.
When the blood finally settles,
I grow paler than summer grass,
till in my exhausted madness,
I'm as limp as the dead.
And yet I must risk all, being bereft without you...



Sappho, fragments 73 & 74
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

They have been very generous with me,
the violet-strewing Muses;
thanks to their gifts
I have become famous.



Sappho, fragment 3
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Stars ringing the lovely moon
pale to insignificance
when she illuminates the earth
with her magnificence.



Sappho, fragment 49
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You have returned!
You did well to not depart
because I pined for you.
Now you have re-lit the torch
I bear for you in my heart,
this flare of Love.
I bless you and bless you and bless you
because we're no longer apart.



Sappho, fragment 52
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Yesterday,
you came to my house
to sing for me.

Today,
I come to you
to return the favor.

Talk to me. Do.
Sweet talk,
I love the flavor!

Please send away your maids
and let us share a private heaven-
haven.



Sappho, fragment 19
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

There was no dance,
no sacred dalliance,
from which we were absent.



Sappho, fragment 20
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

... shot through
with innumerable hues...



Sappho, fragment 38
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I flutter
after you
like a chick after its mother...



Sappho, fragment 30
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Stay!
I will lay
out a cushion for you
with plushest pillows...



Sappho, fragment 50
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My body descends
and my comfort depends
on your welcoming cushions!



Sappho, fragment 133
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Of all the stars the fairest,
Hesperus,
Lead the maiden straight to the bridegroom's bed,
honoring Hera, the goddess of marriage.



Sappho, fragment 134
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Selene came to Endymion in the cave,
made love to him as he slept,
then crept away before the sun could prove
its light and warmth the more adept.



Sappho, fragment 4
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

"Honestly, I just want to die! "
So she said,
crying heartfelt tears,
inconsolably sad
to leave me.

And she said,
"How deeply we have loved,
we two,
Sappho!
Oh,
I really don't want to go! "

I answered her thus:
"Go, and be happy,
remembering me,
for you know how much I cared for you.
And if you don't remember,
please let me remind you
of all the lovely emotions we felt
as with many wreathes of violets,
roses and crocuses
you sat beside me
adorning your delicate neck.

Once garlands had been fashioned of many woven flowers,
with much expensive myrrh
we anointed our bodies like royalty
on soft couches,
then your tender caresses
fulfilled your desire..."



Sappho's Rose
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The rose is...
the ornament of the earth,
the glory of nature,
the archetype of the flowers,
the blush of the meadows,
a lightning flash of beauty.


Sappho, fragment 113
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

No droning bee,
nor even the bearer of honey
for me!


Sappho, fragment 113
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Neither the honey
nor the bee
for me!



Sappho, fragment 52
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The moon has long since set;
The Pleiades are gone;
Now half the night is spent,
Yet here I lie ... alone.



Sappho, fragment 2 (Lobel-Page 2 / Voigt 2)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Come, Cypris, from Crete
to meet me at this holy temple
where a lovely grove of apple awaits our presence
bowering altars
  fuming with frankincense.

Here brisk waters babble beneath apple branches,
the grounds are overshadowed by roses,
and through the flickering leaves
  enchantments shimmer.

Here the horses will nibble flowers
as we gorge on apples
and the breezes blow
  honey-sweet with nectar ...

Here, Cypris, we will gather up garlands,
pour the nectar gracefully into golden cups
and with gladness
  commence our festivities.


Sappho, fragment 58 (Lobel-Page 58)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Virgins, be zealous for the violet-scented Muses' lovely gifts
and those of the melodious lyre ...
but my once-supple skin sags now;
my arthritic bones creak;
my ravenblack hair's turned white;
my lighthearted heart's grown heavy;
my knees buckle;
my feet, once fleet as fawns, fail the dance.
I often bemoan my fate ... but what's the use?
Not to grow old is, of course, not an option.

I am reminded of Tithonus, adored by Dawn with her arms full of roses,
who, overwhelmed by love, carried him off beyond death's dark dominion.
Handsome for a day, but soon withered with age,
he became an object of pity to his ageless wife.



Sappho, fragment 132 (Lobel-Page 132)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
I have a delightful daughter
fairer than the fairest flowers, Cleis,
whom I cherish more than all Lydia and lovely ******.

2.
I have a lovely daughter
with a face like the fairest flowers,
my beloved Cleis …

It bears noting that Sappho mentions her daughter and brothers, but not her husband. We do not know if this means she was unmarried, because so many of her verses have been lost.



Sappho, fragment 131 (Lobel-Page 131)
loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch

1.
You reject me, Attis,
as if you find me distasteful,
flitting off to Andromeda ...

2.
Attis, you forsake me
and flit off to Andromeda ...



Sappho, fragment 140 (Lobel-Page 140)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

He is dying, Cytherea, the delicate Adonis.
What shall we lovers do?
Rip off your clothes, bare your ******* and abuse them!



Sappho, fragment 36
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Vain woman, foolish thing!
Do you base your worth on a ring?


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

May the gods prolong the night
—yes, let it last forever!—
as long as you sleep in my sight.



... a sweet-voiced maiden ...
—Sappho, fragment 153, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have the most childlike heart ...
—Sappho, fragment 120, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

There was no dance,
no sacred dalliance,
from which we were absent.
—Sappho, fragment 19, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I love the sensual
as I love the sun’s ecstatic brilliance.
—Sappho, fragment 9, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I love the sensual
as I love the sun’s splendor.
—Sappho, fragment 9, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You anointed yourself
with most exquisite perfume.
—Sappho, fragment 19, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Awed by the moon’s splendor,
stars covered their undistinguished faces.
Even so, we.
—Sappho, fragment 34, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sappho, fragment 138, loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch

1.
Darling, let me see your face;
unleash your eyes' grace.

2.
Turn to me, favor me
with your eyes' indulgence.

3.
Look me in the face,
           smile,
reveal your eyes' grace ...

4.
Turn to me,
favor me
with your eyes’ indulgence

Those I most charm
do me the most harm.
—Sappho, fragment 12, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Those I charm the most
do me the most harm.
—Sappho, fragment 12, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Midnight.
The hours drone on
as I moan here, alone.
—Sappho, fragment 52, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Once again I dive into this fathomless ocean,
intoxicated by lust.
—Sappho, after Anacreon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Did this epigram perhaps inspire the legend that Sappho leapt into the sea to her doom, over her despair for her love for the ferryman Phaon? See the following poem ...

The Legend of Sappho and Phaon, after Menander
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Some say Sappho was an ardent maiden
goaded by wild emotion
to fling herself from the white-frothed rocks of Leukas
into this raging ocean
for love of Phaon ...

but others reject that premise
and say it was Aphrodite, for love of Adonis.

In Menander's play The Leukadia he refers to a legend that Sappho flung herself from the White Rock of Leukas in pursuit of Phaon. We owe the preservation of those verses to Strabo, who cited them. Phaon appears in works by Ovid, Lucian and Aelian. He is also mentioned by Plautus in Miles Gloriosus as being one of only two men in the whole world, who "ever had the luck to be so passionately loved by a woman."

Sappho, fragment 24, loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch

1a.
Dear, don't you remember how, in days long gone,
we did such things, being young?

1b.
Dear, don't you remember, in days long gone,
how we did such things, being young?

2.
Don't you remember, in days bygone,
how we did such things, being young?

3.
Remember? In our youth
we too did such reckless things.

Sappho, fragment 154, loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch

1.
The moon rose and we women
thronged it like an altar.

2.
Maidens throng
at the altar of Love
all night long.


Even as their hearts froze,
their feathers molted.
—Sappho, fragment 42, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Your voice beguiles me.
Your laughter lifts my heart’s wings.
If I listen to you, even for a moment, I am left speechless.
—Sappho, fragment 31, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Keywords/Tags: Sappho, ******, Greek, translation, epigram, epigrams, love, ***, desire, passion, lust

Beauty the
incunabula
-first traces of
anything-
of poetry

Feelings
-known but
unnamed-
spurned
from the
sublime

I
Sing, O Muse, of the wrath
That came from the East
To conquer our conquerors,
Of the left-handed Benjaminite, Ehud,
Chosen by G-d to free
The twelve tribes of
His chosen people.
For in his holy ******
Of Eglon, who, spurned by G-d,
Threw the chains of slavery on the
Exiles of exiles, diasporas of diasporas,
Kingdom of kingdoms trampled under
The wheel and foot, the people found
Their salvation in the crumpled body
Of an overweight king with a two-sided
Sword, fashioned by hand, in his protruded belly.

II

First, in the long succession of Judges,
Was Othniel, then Ehud, Shamgar,
Deborah, Barak, meaning lightning,
Followed by Gideon who destroyed
The altar of Baal, then Tola, Jair,
Jephthah, Ibzan, Elon, and Abdon.
Samson emerged late on the scene
And let the ***** from afar castrate his hair
And his G-dly strength.  But for all their
Effort there remained no king in Israel,
And everyone did what was right in
Their own eyes. The greatest of these
Poor souls from His chosen lot was the
Son of Gera, Ehud.  Giving his life to
Service, he offered his left hand as a
Sacrifice to Israel’s infidelities.

III

Sitting in his glorious throne room,
Talking of matters begot to none
But the war-chiefs who graveled at his
Every word, Eglon thought
Of his kingdom and prosperity
Allowing him and his company
To feast upon the rifled carcasses
Of the local gallopers and crawlers.
Then, not knowing where, a sickly
Perception of war entered and blew
The horn, resonating of blood and
Chariots, of men armed with spears,
Women and children weeping for their
Lost fathers and new-lovers. The sound
Reverberated; and written on the inside
Of his skull rested the words “wage war
With the kingdom of Israel.”

IV

And not making reply, or questioning why,
He knew but his men were to do and die.
Little did he know or think to think upon
That his free agency of choice was stolen
By the children of Abraham.  So, he
Gathered the armies of Moab
Of the Ammonites and
Of the Amalekites.  With a cloud of murderous
Dust trailing behind them, and war cries
Piercing the air, they rode on to the
City of palms. “Ride, my men,” cried the king,
“Steal and plunder, destroy their gods, and
Shimmer in the glory of destruction.” His armies
Heard his cry
But did not reply.  

V

Eglon and his armies, treading like
The young lion and the dragon,
Casting stretching shadows,
Conquered the twelve tribes.  Not
A cry was uttered from Israel;
They tumbled and crumbled before
The mighty hand of the veracious invaders
Like reeds amongst the wind on
A March afternoon breeding daises
On the golden meadow.  For years,
They toiled under Eglon’s rule
Under his might,
Under his perpetual night.
“Deliver us from this evil,”
Prayed unthankful Israel—
Like always before in the unperturbed cycle
G-d heard their cries from the wasteland.

VI
The existence of Ehud, G-d’s Judge,
Amalgamates at the tip of his left hand,
Would evil emanate from his finger tips?
Sinistra sinistra sinistra sinistra sinistra
Can he, caught in the grips of history,
Defy his wretched kind? With these questions
He, answering the summons of Him and
Armed with a double sided sword of two cubits
In length fashioned by his own hand, walked
Down from the mountains to the
Palace doorstep.
I
HAVE
A
MESSAGE
FROM
G-D
FOR
YOU

VII

As the blade pierced Eglon’s belly,
G-d’s writing evaporated from his mind.
Sent to a kingdom far away to conquer
A people he knew little about, his career,
His rule, his reign, would end at the edge
Of a man from amongst the commoners.
Here he lies, the once mighty king
Laying in a pool of his own feces
Sheol awaits for him after his death
Sheol awaits for us after our deaths
And, the young man, emerging from the king’s palace
With a smirk on his condensed face;
After the battle was won,
After Israel was delivered,
After his people forgot his very name,
He, too, from the tribe of Benjamin
Had Sheol waiting on him.