Sitting by the waterside as the waves hit my feet
I have a beer in my hand as I’m jamming to the beat
The sun is shining so bright
And getting my tan on feels just right.

This is the life, sitting by the waterside
Nothing but good vibes.
The water is my sanctuary
The breeze my...
Whatever it is, it brings me inner peace.

Filled by love and a prosper of life
I built a fire that will last through the night.
Sing some songs that help you forget about all the bad times,
Share the love that’s in the air and bring on the good times.

Because sitting by the waterside feels so right.
Hearing the wave’s crash in through the night.
Nothing else could be any better, with friends, good vibes and an open sky.
Sitting by the waterside has made me feel alright.

Comin Thro the Rye
by Robert Burns
modern English translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, Jenny's all wet, poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry;
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.

Should a body meet a body
Comin' through the rye,
Should a body kiss a body,
Need anybody cry?

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.

Should a body meet a body
Comin' through the glen,
Should a body kiss a body,
Need all the world know, then?

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.

The poem "Comin Thro the Rye" by Robert Burns may be best-known today because of Holden Caulfield's misinterpretation of it in "The Catcher in the Rye." In the book, Caulfield relates his fantasy to his sister, Phoebe: he's the "catcher in the rye," rescuing children from falling from a cliff. Phoebe corrects him, pointing out that poem is not about a "catcher" in the rye, but about a girl who has met someone in the rye for a kiss (or more), got her underclothes wet (not for the first time), and is dragging her way back to a polite (i.e., Puritanical) society that despises girls who are "easy." Robert Burns, an honest man, was exhibiting empathy for girls who were castigated for doing what all the boys and men longed to do themselves. Keywords/Tags: Robert Burns, Jenny, rye, petticoats, translation, modernization, update, interpretation, modern English, song, wet, body, kiss, gossip, puritanism, prudery


Translations of Scottish Poems

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 of pallid and gentle cast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that, if I could, I would compose her roots again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.



Ballad
by William Soutar
translation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

O, surely you have seen my love
Down where the waters wind:
He walks like one who fears no man
And yet his eyes are kind!

O, surely you have seen my love
At the turning of the tide:
For then he gathers in his nets
Down by the waterside!

Yes, lassie we have seen your love
At the turning of the tide:
For he was with the fisher folk
Down by the waterside.

The fisher folk worked at their trade
No far from Walnut Grove:
They gathered in their dripping nets
And found your one true love!

Keywords/Tags: William Soutar, Scottish, Scot, Scotsman, ballad, water, waterside, tide, nets, nets, fisher, fishers, fisher folk, fishermen, love, sea, ocean, lost, lost love, loss



Lament for the Makaris (“Lament for the Makers, or Poets”)
by William Dunbar (c. 1460-1530)
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;
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;
and the fear of Death dismays me!

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

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

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

He takes the champion of the hour,
the captain of the highest tower,
the beautiful damsel in full flower;
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;
and the fear of Death dismays me!

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

in medicine the most astute
sawbones and surgeons all fall mute;
they cannot save themselves, or flee,
and 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,
and 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 victim will be —poor unfortunate me!—
and how the fear of Death dismays me!

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



To a Mouse
by Robert Burns
modern English translation by Michael R. Burch

Sleek, tiny, timorous, cowering beast,
why's such panic in your breast?
Why dash away, so quick, so rash,
in a frenzied flash
when I would be loath to pursue you
with a murderous plowstaff!

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
has broken Nature's social union,
and justifies that bad opinion
which makes you startle,
when I'm your poor, earth-born companion
and fellow mortal!

I have no doubt you sometimes thieve;
What of it, friend? You too must live!
A random corn-ear in a shock's
a small behest; it-
'll give me a blessing to know such a loss;
I'll never miss it!

Your tiny house lies in a ruin,
its fragile walls wind-rent and strewn!
Now nothing's left to construct you a new one
of mosses green
since bleak December's winds, ensuing,
blow fast and keen!

You saw your fields laid bare and waste
with weary winter closing fast,
and cozy here, beneath the blast,
you thought to dwell,
till crash! the cruel iron ploughshare passed
straight through your cell!

That flimsy heap of leaves and stubble
had cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you're turned out, for all your trouble,
less house and hold,
to endure the winter's icy dribble
and hoarfrosts cold!

But mouse-friend, you are not alone
in proving foresight may be vain:
the best-laid schemes of Mice and Men
go oft awry,
and leave us only grief and pain,
for promised joy!

Still, friend, you're blessed compared with me!
Only present dangers make you flee:
But, ouch!, behind me I can see
grim prospects drear!
While forward-looking seers, we
humans guess and fear!



To a Louse
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hey! Where're you going, you crawling hair-fly?
Your impudence protects you, barely;
I can only say that you swagger rarely
Over gauze and lace.
Though faith! I fear you dine but sparely
In such a place.

You ugly, creeping, blasted wonder,
Detested, shunned by both saint and sinner,
How dare you set your feet upon her—
So fine a lady!
Go somewhere else to seek your dinner
On some poor body.

Off! around some beggar's temple shamble:
There you may creep, and sprawl, and scramble,
With other kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Where horn nor bone never dare unsettle
Your thick plantations.

Now hold you there! You're out of sight,
Below the folderols, snug and tight;
No, faith just yet! You'll not be right,
Till you've got on it:
The very topmost, towering height
Of miss's bonnet.

My word! right bold you root, contrary,
As plump and gray as any gooseberry.
Oh, for some rank, mercurial resin,
Or dread red poison;
I'd give you such a hearty dose, flea,
It'd dress your noggin!

I wouldn't be surprised to spy
You on some housewife's flannel tie:
Or maybe on some ragged boy's
Pale undervest;
But Miss's finest bonnet! Fie!
How dare you jest?

Oh Jenny, do not toss your head,
And lash your lovely braids abroad!
You hardly know what cursed speed
The creature's making!
Those winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice-taking!

O would some Power with vision teach us
To see ourselves as others see us!
It would from many a blunder free us,
And foolish notions:
What airs in dress and carriage would leave us,
And even devotion!



A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns
modern English translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, my love is like a red, red rose
that's newly sprung in June
and my love is like the melody
that's sweetly played in tune.

And you're so fair, my lovely lass,
and so deep in love am I,
that I will love you still, my dear,
till all the seas run dry.

Till all the seas run dry, my dear,
and the rocks melt with the sun!
And I will love you still, my dear,
while the sands of life shall run.  

And fare you well, my only love!
And fare you well, awhile!
And I will come again, my love,
though it were ten thousand miles!



Auld Lange Syne
by Robert Burns
modern English translation by Michael R. Burch

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And days for which we pine?

For times we shared, my darling,
Days passed, once yours and mine,
We’ll raise a cup of kindness yet,
To those fond-remembered times!



Banks o' Doon
by Robert Burns
modern English translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, banks and hills of lovely Doon,
How can you bloom so fresh and fair;
How can you chant, diminutive birds,
When I'm so weary, full of care!
You'll break my heart, small warblers,
Flittering through the flowering thorn:
Reminding me of long-lost joys,
Departed―never to return!

I've often wandered lovely Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And as the lark sang of its love,
Just as fondly, I sang of mine.
Then gaily-hearted I plucked a rose,
So fragrant upon its thorny tree;
And my false lover stole my rose,
But, ah! , he left the thorn in me.

"The Banks o' Doon" is a Scots song written by Robert Burns in 1791. It is based on the story of Margaret (Peggy)Kennedy, a girl Burns knew and the area around the River Doon. Keywords/Tags: Robert Burns, air, song, Doon, banks, Scots, Scottish, Scotland, translation, modernization, update, interpretation, modern English, love, hill, hills, birds, rose, lyric

Back out of all this now too much for us,
Back in a time made simple by the loss
Of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off
Like graveyard marble sculpture in the weather,
There is a house that is no more a house
Upon a farm that is no more a farm
And in a town that is no more a town.
The road there, if you’ll let a guide direct you
Who only has at heart your getting lost,
May seem as if it should have been a quarry—
Great monolithic knees the former town
Long since gave up pretense of keeping covered.
And there’s a story in a book about it:
Besides the wear of iron wagon wheels
The ledges show lines ruled southeast-northwest,
The chisel work of an enormous Glacier
That braced his feet against the Arctic Pole.
You must not mind a certain coolness from him
Still said to haunt this side of Panther Mountain.
Nor need you mind the serial ordeal
Of being watched from forty cellar holes
As if by eye pairs out of forty firkins.
As for the woods’ excitement over you
That sends light rustle rushes to their leaves,
Charge that to upstart inexperience.
Where were they all not twenty years ago?
They think too much of having shaded out
A few old pecker-fretted apple trees.
Make yourself up a cheering song of how
Someone’s road home from work this once was,
Who may be just ahead of you on foot
Or creaking with a buggy load of grain.
The height of the adventure is the height
Of country where two village cultures faded
Into each other. Both of them are lost.
And if you’re lost enough to find yourself
By now, pull in your ladder road behind you
And put a sign up CLOSED to all but me.
Then make yourself at home. The only field
Now left’s no bigger than a harness gall.
First there’s the children’s house of make-believe,
Some shattered dishes underneath a pine,
The playthings in the playhouse of the children.
Weep for what little things could make them glad.
Then for the house that is no more a house,
But only a belilaced cellar hole,
Now slowly closing like a dent in dough.
This was no playhouse but a house in earnest.
Your destination and your destiny’s
A brook that was the water of the house,
Cold as a spring as yet so near its source,
Too lofty and original to rage.
(We know the valley streams that when aroused
Will leave their tatters hung on barb and thorn.)
I have kept hidden in the instep arch
Of an old cedar at the waterside
A broken drinking goblet like the Grail
Under a spell so the wrong ones can’t find it,
So can’t get saved, as Saint Mark says they mustn’t.
(I stole the goblet from the children’s playhouse.)
Here are your waters and your watering place.
Drink and be whole again beyond confusion.

Banks o' Doon
by Robert Burns
modern English translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, banks and hills of lovely Doon,
How can you bloom so fresh and fair;
How can you chant, diminutive birds,
When I'm so weary, full of care!
You'll break my heart, small warblers,
Flittering through the flowering thorn:
Reminding me of long-lost joys,
Departed―never to return!

I've often wandered lovely Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And as the lark sang of its love,
Just as fondly, I sang of mine.
Then gaily-hearted I plucked a rose,
So fragrant upon its thorny tree;
And my false lover stole my rose,
But, ah!, he left the thorn in me.

“The Banks o’ Doon” is a Scots song written by Robert Burns in 1791. It is based on the story of Margaret (Peggy) Kennedy, a girl Burns knew. Keywords/Tags: Robert Burns, song, Doon, banks, Scots, Scottish, Scotland, translation, modernization, update, interpretation, modern English



Translations of Scottish Poems

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 of pallid and gentle cast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that, if I could, I would compose her roots again―
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.



Ballad
by William Soutar
translation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

O, surely you have seen my love
Down where the waters wind:
He walks like one who fears no man
And yet his eyes are kind!

O, surely you have seen my love
At the turning of the tide:
For then he gathers in his nets
Down by the waterside!

Yes, lassie we have seen your love
At the turning of the tide:
For he was with the fisher folk
Down by the waterside.

The fisher folk worked at their trade
No far from Walnut Grove:
They gathered in their dripping nets
And found your one true love!

Keywords/Tags: William Soutar, Scottish, Scot, Scotsman, ballad, water, waterside, tide, nets, nets, fisher, fishers, fisher folk, fishermen, love, sea, ocean, lost, lost love, loss



Lament for the Makaris (“Lament for the Makers, or Poets”)
by William Dunbar (c. 1460-1530)
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;
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;
and the fear of Death dismays me!

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

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

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

He takes the champion of the hour,
the captain of the highest tower,
the beautiful damsel in full flower;
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;
and the fear of Death dismays me!

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

in medicine the most astute
sawbones and surgeons all fall mute;
they cannot save themselves, or flee,
and 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,
and 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 victim will be —poor unfortunate me!—
and how the fear of Death dismays me!

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



To a Mouse
by Robert Burns
modern English translation by Michael R. Burch

Sleek, tiny, timorous, cowering beast,
why's such panic in your breast?
Why dash away, so quick, so rash,
in a frenzied flash
when I would be loath to pursue you
with a murderous plowstaff!

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
has broken Nature's social union,
and justifies that bad opinion
which makes you startle,
when I'm your poor, earth-born companion
and fellow mortal!

I have no doubt you sometimes thieve;
What of it, friend? You too must live!
A random corn-ear in a shock's
a small behest; it-
'll give me a blessing to know such a loss;
I'll never miss it!

Your tiny house lies in a ruin,
its fragile walls wind-rent and strewn!
Now nothing's left to construct you a new one
of mosses green
since bleak December's winds, ensuing,
blow fast and keen!

You saw your fields laid bare and waste
with weary winter closing fast,
and cozy here, beneath the blast,
you thought to dwell,
till crash! the cruel iron ploughshare passed
straight through your cell!

That flimsy heap of leaves and stubble
had cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you're turned out, for all your trouble,
less house and hold,
to endure the winter's icy dribble
and hoarfrosts cold!

But mouse-friend, you are not alone
in proving foresight may be vain:
the best-laid schemes of Mice and Men
go oft awry,
and leave us only grief and pain,
for promised joy!

Still, friend, you're blessed compared with me!
Only present dangers make you flee:
But, ouch!, behind me I can see
grim prospects drear!
While forward-looking seers, we
humans guess and fear!



To a Louse
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hey! Where're you going, you crawling hair-fly?
Your impudence protects you, barely;
I can only say that you swagger rarely
Over gauze and lace.
Though faith! I fear you dine but sparely
In such a place.

You ugly, creeping, blasted wonder,
Detested, shunned by both saint and sinner,
How dare you set your feet upon her—
So fine a lady!
Go somewhere else to seek your dinner
On some poor body.

Off! around some beggar's temple shamble:
There you may creep, and sprawl, and scramble,
With other kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Where horn nor bone never dare unsettle
Your thick plantations.

Now hold you there! You're out of sight,
Below the folderols, snug and tight;
No, faith just yet! You'll not be right,
Till you've got on it:
The very topmost, towering height
Of miss's bonnet.

My word! right bold you root, contrary,
As plump and gray as any gooseberry.
Oh, for some rank, mercurial resin,
Or dread red poison;
I'd give you such a hearty dose, flea,
It'd dress your noggin!

I wouldn't be surprised to spy
You on some housewife's flannel tie:
Or maybe on some ragged boy's
Pale undervest;
But Miss's finest bonnet! Fie!
How dare you jest?

Oh Jenny, do not toss your head,
And lash your lovely braids abroad!
You hardly know what cursed speed
The creature's making!
Those winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice-taking!

O would some Power with vision teach us
To see ourselves as others see us!
It would from many a blunder free us,
And foolish notions:
What airs in dress and carriage would leave us,
And even devotion!



A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns
modern English translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, my love is like a red, red rose
that's newly sprung in June
and my love is like the melody
that's sweetly played in tune.

And you're so fair, my lovely lass,
and so deep in love am I,
that I will love you still, my dear,
till all the seas run dry.

Till all the seas run dry, my dear,
and the rocks melt with the sun!
And I will love you still, my dear,
while the sands of life shall run.  

And fare you well, my only love!
And fare you well, awhile!
And I will come again, my love,
though it were ten thousand miles!



Comin Thro the Rye
by Robert Burns
modern English translation by Michael R. Burch

Oh, Jenny's all wet, poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry;
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.

Should a body meet a body
Comin' through the rye,
Should a body kiss a body,
Need anybody cry?

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.

Should a body meet a body
Comin' through the glen,
Should a body kiss a body,
Need all the world know, then?

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.



Auld Lange Syne
by Robert Burns
modern English translation by Michael R. Burch

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And days for which we pine?

For times we shared, my darling,
Days passed, once yours and mine,
We’ll raise a cup of kindness yet,
To those fond-remembered times!

Stars a'spanglin' across them blue-dye skies,
them mid-night-summer-night none too bright
starred out janglin'– O' them blitzin' skies.

"Hey. Would ya look in that westward?
That western, he's too bored to breathe."

Fire's a'preyin' here nightly. Owl feathers and the soot.
I call crab-apples applied science. Red shone blue by the water.
I'm sayin' don't tread lightly when there's snow underfoot.

"You gotta breathe it if you ain't playin'.
Gotta be sure, be assuring you're right."

Feelin' some skin by the waterside! Them ditches all dug so deep–
Gonna feel it out, all clamorin' with a'drummin' hearts by the ditch.
Majesty, majesty, majesty. Aubergine, neigh. O' Sanguine, you keep.

"I'll mark you.
You mark me."

What a deed by the ditch– skin!
Yea to that red, hot and lit and all a'dangerin'.
O' burning, blood beating–
Embers a'glowin' now. Tobacco's back to bein' lit.
Skin singes and I'll scab up.
I cross'd them arms by that ditch. Waters be dark.
All them remedies be done.

Hidden under the honeysuckle
and hibiscus
Lies a stone.
And as I sit, drinking a gin and tonic
Looking over the spent plates
where crusty bread
fried calamari, which is a fancy word for squid,
and two Oysters Rockefeller
sat
until recently consumed by two parents
both in that awkward state of freedom
and longing
when their child is at camp,
out past the ducks on granite rocks
puffing themselves up
flapping their wings
towards afternoon sun on Winnipesaukee
my thoughts and eyes are drawn back
to the wheel of stone
leaning against the rotting wall of railroad ties
covered in a remoulade of Honeysuckle
Rose of Sharon
and other viney things
that are unidentifiable to me.
It has been painted during its time
but the paint is faded and chipped
and the feeling is that the stone
has outlived the painter.
Yet I do wonder.
What was its job 50, 100, 200
years ago?
Was it in a mill?
Did it lie flat, grinding?
Did it roll, upright, crushing things?
What else did they use round stones for?
Is this what retirement for a working stone is?
Cast to the side,
forgotten
hidden under the honeysuckle
and hibiscus
in an alley next to a waterside Wolfboro restaurant
where parents sit
Looking at Winnipesaukee
over spent plates of bread, squid and Oysters Rockefeller
thinking of a child at camp.

It all started with a walk through a graveyard.
We came to sprinkle glitter,
we came to ring the claw bells,
we came to read the eroded epitaphs on 200 year old tombstones.
Instead we found a “working” aimed at killing someone.
A black bird without a head.
Lopped clean off.
Some kind of voodoo.
Consecrated with a dark blessing by a tombstone.
Naturally we took the bird home.
Laid it out back in the freeze.
It was a “working” aimed at killing someone.
A santera over on east King street informed us of the details.
Told us to burn it and take a sweet bath.
Told us to put water next to the door to catch the demons off our shoes,
tracking in all the demons off the street.
I put water next to my bed to catch the demons in my sleep.
I wondered to myself just what exactly was going on.

A cat got to the bird before we could
but it left us the wings by the fence in the yard.
Monica stretched them open and now they are drying in the garage.
A set of wings to fan the smoke once we light the sage on fire.
I didn’t have a good feeling.
I wanted to burn the black bird.
I wanted to stop the “working”.
I wanted to leave a green pumpkin for Oshun by the waterside.
But instead I only watched it lying on the leaves
out back under a tree
from the kitchen window each time I did the dishes.
Then one morning it was gone,
but I didn’t say anything.
I thought about other things until I saw
the stretched wings in the garage,
until I pulled the Raven card from
the Oracle deck.
Black birds came to visit me.
I was advised I better start getting crafty.
I had been diligent with the water by the bed.
I purified the demons with the singing bowl every morning.
I bless my demons in the water so they don’t use
my mouth to scream
and my eyes to cry.
But the raven came to see me still.
The one without a head, and the one in the oracle deck.
And the ones that fly around the power lines outside where I walk,
cawing and cackling in a crooked ******.

Fancied myself a priest
baptized by the Holy Spirit
home of the Sacred Feminine.
Found myself screaming in hysterics like a little boy in his blanket
after he's told nothing shall be as it was.
So much for the priest hood.
So much for the New Earth.
I pulled the Tower Card.
And that,
along with the ravens
and old man Saturn…
I had never been so afraid for my body in my life.
Now we walk around town and find bird heads on the sidewalk.
Starlings, and a little wren.
I learned my demon’s name is John and that he stands behind me.
Big and wooly like a wild thing on two legs.
He doesn’t fit in a glass of water
so I brought him to the Lemon Street Cemetery
and said bon voyage.
Buried him by a gravestone tree stump and said the prayer of two deaths.
The walk home smelled like ginkgo nuts
and the dust from the crumbing of the Tower hasn’t settled yet.
Now it’s as if I've been inoculated.
I lost my sense of taste for a week and didn’t break a sweat.
I’ve pulled the rug out from under my own
two feet so many times
that if I don’t learn to levitate
my poor tailbone won’t have a chance to heal.
Home of the root
Abode of the World Serpent.
I wasn’t prepared for what was awoken within me
that day up in the promised land,
and it's been climbing my spine ever since.
Now I bless the water by my bedside every night
in case John comes back to roost.

I cover my floors with happy feet
I paint the walls with candle light
I light frankincense and tie prayers to the smoke
I watch them float to heaven
I ring a singing bowl
I put the demons in the water and I drink them.

TRANSLATIONS OF SCOTTISH POETS

These are my modern English translations of poems by the Scottish poets William Dunbar, Robert Burns, William Soutar and Hugh MacDiarmid.

Ballad
by William Soutar
translation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

O, surely you have seen my love
Down where the waters wind:
He walks like one who fears no man
And yet his eyes are kind!

O, surely you have seen my love
At the turning of the tide:
For then he gathers in his nets
Down by the waterside!

Yes, lassie we have seen your love
At the turning of the tide:
For he was with the fisher folk
Down by the waterside.

The fisher folk worked at their trade
No far from Walnut Grove:
They gathered in their dripping nets
And found your one true love!



The Watergaw
by Hugh MacDiarmid
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

One wet forenight in the sheep-shearing season
I saw the uncanniest thing—
a watergaw with its wavering light
shining beyond the wild downpour of rain
and I thought of the last wild look that you gave
when you knew you were destined for the grave.

There was no light in the skylark's nest
that night—no—nor any in mine;
but now often I've thought of that foolish light
and of these irrational hearts of men
and I think that, perhaps, at last I ken
what your look meant then.



Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar
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 men hold 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 nowhere one leaf nor petal of 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.

If the tenth line seems confusing, it helps to know that rue symbolizes pity and also has medicinal uses; thus I believe the unrequiting lover is being accused of a lack of compassion and perhaps of withholding her healing attentions. The penultimate line can be taken as a rather naughty double entendre, but I will leave that interpretation up to the reader! 'Sweet Rose of Virtue' has been described as a 'lovely, elegant poem in the amour courtois tradition' or courtly love tradition. According to Tom Scott, author of 'Dunbar: A Critical Exposition of the Poems, ' this poem is 'Dunbar's most perfect lyric, and one of the supreme lyrics in Scots and English.' William Dunbar [c.1460-1530] has been called the Poet Laureate of the court of King James IV of Scotland.



Lament for the Makaris [Makers, or Poets]
by William Dunbar
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! '



Comin Thro the Rye
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Oh, Jenny's all wet, poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry;
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.

Should a body meet a body
Comin' through the rye,
Should a body kiss a body,
Need anybody cry?

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.

Should a body meet a body
Comin' through the glen,
Should a body kiss a body,
Need all the world know, then?

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.



To a Mouse
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Sleek, tiny, timorous, cowering beast,
why's such panic in your breast?
Why dash away, so quick, so rash,
in a frenzied flash
when I would be loath to pursue you
with a murderous plowstaff!

I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
has broken Nature's social union,
and justifies that bad opinion
which makes you startle,
when I'm your poor, earth-born companion
and fellow mortal!

I have no doubt you sometimes thieve;
What of it, friend? You too must live!
A random corn-ear in a shock's
a small behest; it-
'll give me a blessing to know such a loss;
I'll never miss it!

Your tiny house lies in a ruin,
its fragile walls wind-rent and strewn!
Now nothing's left to construct you a new one
of mosses green
since bleak December's winds, ensuing,
blow fast and keen!

You saw your fields laid bare and waste
with weary winter closing fast,
and cozy here, beneath the blast,
you thought to dwell,
till crash! the cruel iron ploughshare passed
straight through your cell!

That flimsy heap of leaves and stubble
had cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you're turned out, for all your trouble,
less house and hold,
to endure cold winter's icy dribble
and hoarfrosts cold!

But mouse-friend, you are not alone
in proving foresight may be vain:
the best-laid schemes of Mice and Men
go oft awry,
and leave us only grief and pain,
for promised joy!

Still, friend, you're blessed compared with me!
Only present dangers make you flee:
But, ouch! , behind me I can see
grim prospects drear!
While forward-looking seers, we
humans guess and fear!



To a Louse
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Hey! Where're you going, you crawling hair-fly?
Your impudence protects you, barely;
I can only say that you swagger rarely
Over gauze and lace.
Though faith! I fear you dine but sparely
In such a place.

You ugly, creeping, blasted wonder,
Detested, shunned by both saint and sinner,
How dare you set your feet upon her—
So fine a lady!
Go somewhere else to seek your dinner
On some poor body.

Off! around some beggar's temple shamble:
There you may creep, and sprawl, and scramble,
With other kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Where horn nor bone never dare unsettle
Your thick plantations.

Now hold you there! You're out of sight,
Below the folderols, snug and tight;
No, faith just yet! You'll not be right,
Till you've got on it:
The very topmost, towering height
Of miss's bonnet.

My word! right bold you root, contrary,
As plump and gray as any gooseberry.
Oh, for some rank, mercurial resin,
Or dread red poison;
I'd give you such a hearty dose, flea,
It'd dress your noggin!

I wouldn't be surprised to spy
You on some housewife's flannel tie:
Or maybe on some ragged boy's
Pale undervest;
But Miss's finest bonnet! Fie!
How dare you jest?

Oh Jenny, do not toss your head,
And lash your lovely braids abroad!
You hardly know what cursed speed
The creature's making!
Those winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice-taking!

O would some Power with vision teach us
To see ourselves as others see us!
It would from many a blunder free us,
And foolish notions:
What airs in dress and carriage would leave us,
And even devotion!



Auld Lang Syne
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And days for which we pine?

For times we shared, my darling,
Days passed, once yours and mine,
We'll raise a cup of kindness yet,
To those fond-remembered times!

Have you ever wondered just exactly what you're singing? 'Auld lang syne' means something like 'times gone by' or 'times long since passed' and in the context of the song means something like 'times long since passed that we shared together and now remember fondly.' In my translation, which is not word-for-word, I try to communicate what I believe Burns was trying to communicate: raising a toast to fond recollections of times shared in the past.



Banks of Doon
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch

Oh, banks and hills of lovely Doon,
How can you bloom so fresh and fair;
How can you chant, diminutive birds,
When I'm so weary, full of care!

You'll break my heart, small warblers,
Flittering through the flowering thorn:
Reminding me of long-lost joys,
Departed—never to return!

I've often wandered lovely Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And as the lark sang of its love,
Just as fondly, I sang of mine.

Then gaily-hearted I plucked a rose,
So fragrant upon its thorny tree;
And my false lover stole my rose,
But, ah! , he left the thorn in me.

The poem 'Comin Thro the Rye' by Robert Burns may be best-known today because of Holden Caulfield's misinterpretation of it in The Catcher in the Rye. In the book, Caulfield relates his fantasy to his sister, Phoebe: he's the 'catcher in the rye, ' rescuing children from falling from a cliff. Phoebe corrects him, pointing out that poem is not about a 'catcher' in the rye, but about a girl who has met someone in the rye for a kiss (or more) , got her underclothes wet (not for the first time) , and is dragging her way back to a polite (i.e., Puritanical)  society that despises girls who are 'easy.' Robert Burns, an honest man, was exhibiting empathy for girls who were castigated for doing what all the boys and men longed to do themselves.



Comin Thro the Rye
by Robert Burns
modern English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

O, Jenny's a' weet, poor body, // Oh, Jenny's all wet, poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry; // Jenny's seldom dry;
She draigl't a' her petticoattie // She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin thro' the rye. // Comin' through the rye.
Comin thro the rye, poor body, // Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin thro the rye, // Comin' through the rye.
She draigl't a'her petticoatie, // She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin thro the rye! // Comin' through the rye.

Gin a body meet a body // Should a body meet a body
Comin thro the rye, // Comin' through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body, // Should a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry? // Need anybody cry?
Comin thro the rye, poor body, // Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin thro the rye, // Comin' through the rye.
She draigl't a'her petticoatie, // She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin thro the rye! // Comin' through the rye.

Gin a body meet a body // Should a body meet a body
Comin thro the glen, // Comin' through the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body, // Should a body kiss a body,
Need the warld ken? // Need all the world know, then?
Comin thro the rye, poor body, // Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin thro the rye, // Comin' through the rye.
She draigl't a'her petticoatie, // She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin thro the rye! // Comin' through the rye.



A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns
modern English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Oh my luve is like a red, red rose // Oh, my love is like a red, red rose
That's newly sprung in June: // that's newly sprung in June
Oh my luve is like the melodie // and my love is like the melody
That's sweetly play'd in tune. // that's sweetly played in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass, // And you're so fair, my lovely lass,
So deep in luve am I; // and so deep in love am I,
And I will luve thee still, my dear, // that I will love you still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry. // till all the seas run dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, // Till all the seas run dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun; // and the rocks melt with the sun!
And I will luve thee still, my dear, // And I will love you still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run. // while the sands of life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve! // And fare you well, my only love!
And fare thee weel a while! // And fare you well, awhile!
And I will come again, my luve, // And I will come again, my love,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile! // though it were ten thousand miles!


Keywords/Tags: Scot, Scotland, Scottish poem, modern English translation, translations, Robert Burns, William Dunbar, William Soutar, Hugh MacDiarmid

We take a shortcut
through the narrow walkways
of the old village

across the cobblestones
and by the white-washed tabby wall

to the waterside where slave ships
once plied their trade

My dog lingers nose down
as if each stone has a story to tell

and ***** an ear to the wall
where the auctions were held

She looks at people differently now.

last night at the poetry slam i felt like my youth was coming back to me

you see one young bloke went up to me and said don’t forget to cheer

on my mate, it’s his first time, and he keeps his poems to his heart

and i don’t think i am an old timer, because of my love of social media

you see i like the poetry slam because it helps an middle-aged dude like me

to find my mojo, and there are a lot of people who ain’t game enough to read

their stuff because of the heckling, but this young bloke last night really stole the show

i wasn’t clapping to be nice, i think he had a lot of talent and here is a song

you see it’s a great trip to the poetry slam, on his first night ever

you see he stole the night away, and might i add he won oh yeah

you see he had a whole lot of fun

and also dude, he blew everybody off their seat

you see i like poetry slams, because they are so much fun

you see it’s hard for a poor guy like me, to get anywhere on the buses yeah

you see the canberra bus service, dude, is so stupid yeah

the canberra government only care about the rich

they don’t give a **** about the poor

the poetry slam is a way i can really show everyone what i have

i don’t want to be one of those oldies who is too shy to go out

i don’t want to be one of those oldies who worries about family members

i don’t want to be treated like a bad smell, just because of my cracked feet

i don’t want to be treated like a shy person all my life

i am into computers in a big way, so deal with it, big fat rich ****** of this world

i don’t want to be shy at the mall, i like the mall, but not to sit there all day and night

i have a life to lead, i want to be famous, well, people, i am already famous on youtube

and Facebook, even if people film me on the street, when i am dancing, that doesn’t bother me

if you want to film me just to laugh at me, go right ahead, as long as that is all you do

i probably am on Facebook in a famous way, because i have been attracting attention to other people

in the last 8 years, i don’t want people to treat me like an old fogie because i really really extremely love life

i clean my house, and i know how to look after myself, i prefer to catch buses as opposed to getting lifts with strangers

don’t forget i am a person, i don’t care if you wanna tease, but i hate horrible teasing, for i am a real family person

you see mate, last night i really enjoyed myself, and if you want to catch me on bad slam search badslamnobiscuit on yioutube or Facebook

and watch the whole 2 hour show, because i did my own tribute to the great graham kennedy

you see i don’t want to be treated like a hooligan, i liked that man in the july poetry slam at the phoenix

you see he really lifted my spirits high and i liked the young dudes last night, yeah he was rad

when i got home, i watched june’s poetry slam on youtube, and dude, i sounded great

because i don’t believe in horrible teasers treating me like an old fogie, trying to get me to look worried

i don’t **** people off, but i am aware of my age, but i go to poetry slams to have fun

i go on youtuibe to have fun, i write stories to have fun, FUN, i tell you, i go to the christmas carols to have fun

i don’t want voices trying to get me to **** myself, i love my life for that

i know when i was young, i was a tad different to the other kids, but i wasn’t shy, i played basketball i played bowling

i went down the waterside at jamison and i wasn’t scared and i went to the movies

i went to the raiders every weekend, and mate i was a real teaser, and i know i am getting older, but i am ready

to make the poetry slam really work for me, you see i remember when paul berenyi asked me to look at these dogs

and he stuck a drawing pin on my ***, i felt, what fucken give dude, and i wrestled with micheal wright on the green grass

i know i am old now, and i can’t expect young udders to like me, like they used to, but i had a great conversation with

this man named rodney about things that make the poetry slam great

you see my voices are in the past, i ain’t living in the past, i really like my life at the moment

i don’t care if i look like my dad when i am on my computer, but i love computers, i always loved computers

i am constantly told in my head, my poems ****, but i can’t expect everyone to like them, but they should keep their opinions to themselves

because nothing anyone will say to me, will jeopardise my performances at the poetry slam, because it’s so much fun

i must admit, i get inspired my kids on youtube and television

i know i was a koomarri to muck around with, and i still believe in mucking around with my old school friends

i just don’t like these odd movements i get from my medication, i want to lift all my bad fiucked up thoughts up

but that is all, no more, i believe in having a lot of fun, reading writing and watching youtube

i only went to the mall all the time when i was living in mum and dads backyard, to show my independence

and now, i don’t need to be there 24 hours a day, be cause i have my own flat now, i am independent

i really hate when people are trying take my cool credits away just because i ain’t doing what they say

you see i am planning to go on a holiday on the first weekend of october to bate mans bay

and i am off to the carols in the domain on the 19th december

and i might not have very much money, but i can still plan holidays, i want to go Perth one day

i hate when the ghost of my father is trying to make me clean my house the way i used to

cause ya know what used to did, he just used to, my house is clean, occasionally i like to fall asleep on the couch

and do my tapestry, you see dad is being a dad, as he is trying to make me remember my past

i ain’t living or dwelling in the past, i believe in being nice to the youth of today

because they are the future, and i wish online stalkers will leave the young dudes alone

because social media is fun for people of all ages

you see, i want to show the world, how much i support the youth of today

the intellectually disabled and the mentally ill, of today

because my voices are judging me because of my past, and i hate that

saying, don’t muck with brian, because he kidnapped a kid

the truth is i never kidnapped a kid, i just was a crazy person back then, and i don’t want to dwell in that, alright

and i want to enjoy doing badslamnobiscuit, despite my voices saying i am not young

i don’t want people treating me like a cool kid to a tease, ok, i know my stuff can really entertain for this and future generations, dude

so, let’s have fun, dude

Peter sought his merriment
While standing in the sediment
And fishing in his element
For something good to eat
He wasn't unintelligent
But suffered an impediment
Conversing wasn't eloquent
A stutter had him beat

One day, on the r-riverside
With hunger to be satisfied
And p-p-planning homicide
He cast his l-l-line
But bang he was immobilised
Attacked from the w-waterside
A giant p-p-pike astride
The struggling s-swine

The scene w-wasn't glamorous
The p-p-pike was amorous
The gossip would be scandalous
Someone might s-s-see
The struggle was c-clamorous
P-Pete was v-victorious
P-popped up like L-Lazarus
To f-f-f-f-flee

He promptly pattered homewardly
And cursing pikes internally
His hunger sat infernally
His hook remained unlured
The pesky pike had planned to be
Inside of Peter, rectally
To poke and **** him naughtily
But hang on..... he was cured!

Do these lovely grounds permit me
Of my present presence, like thistle
Be unwanted and undaunted

Taken greatly in arbored orchard
May my refuge grow demure
Taken often by lapping banks
May my breath grow slow and slight

By those tentacline roots
Those heightened and lengthy articles
May that shade and slanted sallow
Blanket lightly my discomfort

Ne’er is there such wondrous sedation
Then this lilting life, by waterside
And no bile ink nor vitriol
May ever dissipate this lovely truth

Like hamsters on a wheel we ran
Away from horses hooves
Zig zagging through trees
To be hunted like deer
Hiding in holes
Covered in dirt
Crawling under rocks like insects

One by one, we fell.

In terror, we ran back to the place we knew best. Entered the darkness, remembering our way to the waterside.

Safety, of a kind.

The heavy moon poured light from the star laden sky. We merged from the thick copse to be bathed in the calming white of her rays.

Eyes drawn to the glint of the moons' light, touching the tops of the ripples in the water, made brighter still by the surrounding darkness.

Shimmering, like magic.

It was cold, perfectly cold, and the air was fresh and open, the kind of night the veil stays so thin into the night and you can almost see just by feeling. When you can feel the serene and endless expanse of the universe. An overwhelming sense of purity and clarity.

Nothing, and everything.

The slight movement of air on the trees and the gentle lapping of water on the bank told us we were safe, for now at least.

We returned to the real through trees and fields, passing streams and reeds along the lakeside.

We were separated. I knew then, I felt it. I was strangely comforted by its sadness.

Peaceful sleep, first for an age.

I woke before dawn clutching a vision. A message so clear it could never be dream. Time passed, finally their eyes caught mine and stared into my soul. Then it was gone, in an instant hidden.

The vision was realised.

Hush now, child
It hurts, make it stop!
I can't make it stop hurting child, only you can
But how? It hurts so bad!

Clouds float, drifting over trees that sway
Formed from water of lakes in a valley
White above its waterside where birds fly
Over the mountain tops the clouds turn grey
Darkening skies in the eye of a distant land
Looming fearsomely across many hearts
Yet, in the desert where your nightmares play
The dark clouds bring blessings in it's rain
Pouring to form the oasis of hope and love
Giving solace and strength while you lay

Believe child. Be strong. Promise me.
(Silent nod)
This pain you feel will guide you, child. Follow the sound of the howling wind until you find your fear, child. Only then can you conquer your past. Only then will this pain fade.
......
Promise me, child.
I promise.* This would be the last time I would see her. Looking back, she seemed to know that the end was drawing ever closer. I wish I could have known then, too. Then maybe, just maybe...

i

Confectionery amour', quiet peaceful girl, flower haired gem
Whilst we maketh love to the old spinning record, eyes content;
The moon to leadeth ourn feet, bathed in chocolate fountain,
We prance as freely Galloper's, thither the desert, cool mountain

ii

I'll meeteth thee at the playground, inked in ourn red blotch,
No ticking tumultuous hand, to ruin ourn plan's, none to watch;
A private invitation, a rosey petal to surrender thine oath and vow, a seeded rightful city, conversation open and aroused

iii

Charlatan's to be naysayer's, exactly as the rest hath becometh,
Ourn cloak's to be as spiritual coat's, dashing in none repugnance
The waterside to be ourn resting residence, the pasture plain's to awaken ourn brain's, as we shalt be marksmen of lass and lad.



©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry

So the time
just like a river
lowers each waterside
from a higher
to a small one
or from colorful
to horizon.
Yes.
So the time.

The children,
each fall
the yellow leaves
they gather.

"The Man Who…" 2009

The original:

Сезонът, който не съществуваше

Тъй времето,
подобно на река,
снишава всеки бряг
от по-висок
към малък,
или от цветен
в хоризонт.
Да.
Тъй времето.

Децата,
всяка есен
жълтите листа
събират.

„Човекът, който…“ 2009г.

*Translator bulgarian-english: Vessislava Savova
rarebird

bring me your silence
bring
     me, full of wonder at the waterside
bring me
         a lifetime of long walks
bring me real
               freedom for two, for here
               far from worshipped lights
bring me you
                      and
please take all that I have,
all I will be in your hands

Their gathering tiny shells , laughing , chasing Sand *****
Searching for Blue's by flashlight , ankle deep -
foaming Gulf acidity , warm zephyrs caressing waterside  
Red stars dragnet the tail of the Milky Way , merchant ships -
dot the ever-changing horizon , luminous piers -
in either direction , nighttime romantics holding hands to -
the music of the nocturnal sea , the pull of each descent -
The promise of each crashing wave , unfulfilled
Aromatic , salt water land confluence
Lightning with his attraction , the Butterscotch Moon , waning at the edge of the earth
Children , unfamiliar with loves pain , frolic in the distance

Nothing's left but it's alright

Have a voice
Give an opinion
Express yourself
Lay yourself bare

I'll tell you a story of a boy
His family are farmers - conservatives
At the bottom of the lane, the pub used to burn a cross on bonfire night. It held the letters KWW - Keep Waterside White
His Grandma is agoraphobic, xenophobic and racist who told him in no uncertain terms not to marry a black girl
Before he passed away, his grandad would shoot at people searching for magic mushrooms on their land
His father liked Thatcher, criticised the miners and the unions and was a casual homophobe
His mother judges women by appearance and thinks Nigel Farage is a decent bloke. Her place is in the home.
His brother works for the police
His sister rides horses
One uncle is a millionaire and CEO
The other believes that mental illness does not exist and its treatment is dangerous
The boy is christened, confirmed, went to an all white, Christian primary school and predominantly white, Christian secondary school.
He left secondary school and college with no qualifications through the arts. Only the important subjects.

There is another story about this boy but for now we will look only at these facts.

It may create an image in your mind

It would be easy to condemn this story
Sure enough it was condemned
By those who held the moral right
Opinions stronger than people
The boy grew fearful of people
Tried to hide his story
Became silent
Shut off from the world
Thought of the ways he could end the pain
Sought to become a different person
To deny his past
Outwardly this worked
Inwardly...

People believed the moral of the story was that he had overcome
They missed the point

Inwardly... Sometimes, the majority ... Can feel like the minority

If I said all of that, could I still express myself?
Would you listen?
Or would I be condemned?

It's just another night and I'm staring at the moon
I saw a shooting star and thought of you
I sang a lullaby by the waterside and knew
If you were here, I'd sing to you

You're on the other side
As the skyline splits in two
Miles away from seeing you

But I can see the stars from America
I wonder, do you see them too?

So open your eyes and see
The way our horizons meet
And all of the lights will lead
Into the night with me
And I know these scars will bleed
But both of our hearts believe
All of these stars will guide us home

I can hear your heart on the radio beat
They're playing "Chasing Cars" and I thought of us
Back to the time you were lying next to me
I looked across and fell in love

So I took your hand
Back through lamp-lit streets and knew
Everything led back to you

So can you see the stars over Amsterdam?
Hear the song my heart is beating to

So open your eyes and see
The way our horizons meet
And all of the lights will lead
Into the night with me
And I know these scars will bleed
But both of our hearts believe
All of these stars will guide us home

And oh
And oh
And oh whoa
I can see the stars from America

I See People smiling as colors dance around them
Trees bowing down to the wind with forceful  mercy
Shadows following everyone like a stalker always sneaking closely  

I Hear Water gracefully slamming into the crowded shore
Laugher erupting from the throats of nighbores called friends
Deep conversions running into sharp whispers cutting the silents

I Smell The fresh air run past me quickly
Sickly sweet perfume flow softly along the waterside
Children's sweat barely masked by wilting flowers they carry

I feel The hot sun beating on my back
Like a stalker watching their prey I shiver sorry
Alone even though everyone looks towards me with smiles

It Reminds me of when I was there, alive.

Don't grieve for me, love.
I'm not drowning.
The ancient sandcastles
speckling the shore have crumbled,
grain by grain, desiccated from
seasons in the sun.
I've walked impacted corridors
with shells as cobblestones.
I know the tide has receded
lower ever than before.
Don't grieve for me, love.
I'm not drowning.
'Though the coral architecture
is weathered, bleached and barren.
The thrones sit vacant
hissing sighs like salty grit.
I've left the ghostly kingdoms
for the waterside, to sit.
Don't grieve for me, love.
I'm not drowning.
First a toe, then ankle's depth.
Then hands and hips and shoulders.
Before my eyes drop below the line
I see the sun's farewell.
Somewhere between the rising and falling,
my perspective lost its bearing
but the sun is softly sitting, shining out to me
as a beacon to the joining of two infinities.
Don't grieve for me, love.
I'm not drowning
in this darkened atmosphere
with filtered, softened rays above.
While there may be monsters somewhere,
they don't seem to bother me.
In this place I move around, almost invisibly.
Sometimes I hear a friendly song,
or see an outline pass nearby.
While I'm alone, it's never lonely
because this ocean is alive.
Don't grieve for me, love.
I'm not drowning.
I'm not even lost adrift.

I've got my eyes on the sunrise
Meet me at the gate
And tell me I'm your yesterday

There's a nail in your skull
And you're pulling it free,
I can see
But it's not my place to help

Instead, I'll read mysteries in the café
By the waterside and wish you the best
With your boy trouble in the Golden State
But I really wish you'd
Ask me for advice one of these days

We're the bezel-born,
Birthed on the outskirts
Of all that's known to
The world that chewed us up and
Spat us out

I know my place,
Little angel,
And the time;
It's on the little silver band
On my wrist and
All you have to do is ask

Name me
set me alight and
then tame me or
put me in pictures and
frame me,but
don't keep me hanging around.

You were silent by the waterside as
if your tongue was tied in knots
and I tried so very hard to be
the voices of both you and me.

We flew last night but held on tight
to what we knew
would be.
It's always tomorrow when we see what we
should have seen only yesterday, which
is always only a tomorrow
away.

The gentleman
the Lady too
we flew
we'll fly again.

the park is broad,
a swath of land
with crisp playing fields,
and verdant hillsides,
and tortuous paths, and
split through the middle,
a spine of water,
and we walked those paths
and sat by the waterside,
and angled our sight
through the trees to glimpse
the skulling youth slice
through the cool water
in iridescent hulls,
and then we would up and run,
his pink tongue flopping joyously,
the sleek ebon coat a marvel
day after day, until he sickened,
and he waited patiently,
carried to riverside berth
to laze before the golden marsh grasses
and follow the osprey's search  
until the day cooled and there was
a whimper, a huff
before graying paws were lifted from earth,
chin nuzzled in appreciation,
until I walked that stone path alone,
as I do now,
as I have done for years,
and each day I wait for the
blue jays and the robins to quiet,
and the morning breeze to calm,
to hear the sounds of jostling stones,
old paw steps in tow,
and I smile at the path
that is bright again  
for I know he does not want me to walk alone

The times we danced together in the kitchen,
The moments we shared on the waterside,
The days we spent locked in our own world,
The hours we spent talking about the sky.
All those memories fly through my eyes,
playing like an old film
as tears stream down my face,
as I watch you kiss her,
and smile against her lips,
like you used to do against mine.

Reflection of the sky
shining on the seashore
standing you & I
watching the waves move more.
Walking together by the waterside
sun shining on the water
holding hands side by side
as the sun gets hotter.
The sun rays shining on us
feeling the warm glow
thank the Lord JESUS
made everything a go.
LORD is great
always will be
we never have to wait
he's there for you & me.
Jesus is always around
the love we found in the ocean
our hearts we both found
Jesus gave us the notion.
He opened up a new door
one to our brand-new love
knew what we had in store
our love came from above.
BY SCOTTY BRUNER

Walking along the waterside
Fingers sliding over long grass
I slump and sit in the grass
The sun just having set
You were once familiar

I gaze into the waters
My fingers tracing the ripples
Wandering along the direction
It flows
Wondering, why my fingers
Never seem to grasp
And fall into flow with
The waters that reflect the
Light I always like to see