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Michael R Burch Apr 2020
What Works
by Michael R. Burch

for David Gosselin

What works—
hewn stone;
the blush the iris shows the sun;
the lilac’s pale-remembered bloom.

The frenzied fly: mad-lively, gay,
as seconds tick his time away,
his sentence—one brief day in May,
a period. And then decay.

A frenzied rhyme’s mad tip-toed time,
a ballad’s languid as the sea,
seek, striving—immortality.

When gloss peels off, what works will shine.
When polish fades, what works will gleam.
When intellectual prattle pales,
the dying buzzing in the hive
of tedious incessant bees,
what works will soar and wheel and dive
and milk all honey, leap and thrive,

and teach the pallid poem to seethe.

by Michael R. Burch

The hazy, smoke-filled skies of summer I remember well;
farewell was on my mind, and the thoughts that I can't tell
rang bells within (the din was in) my mind, and I can't say
if what we had was good or bad, or where it is today ...
The endless days of summer's haze I still recall today;
she spoke and smoky skies stood still as summer slipped away ...
We loved and life we left alone and deftly was it done;
we sang our song all summer long beneath the sultry sun.

I wrote this poem as a boy, after seeing an ad for the movie "Summer of ’42," which starred the lovely Jennifer O’Neill and a young male actor who might have been my nebbish twin. I didn’t see the R-rated movie at the time: too young, according to my parents! But something about the ad touched me; even thinking about it today makes me feel sad and a bit out of sorts. The movie came out in 1971, so the poem was probably written around 1971-1972. In any case, the poem was published in my high school literary journal, The Lantern, in 1976. The poem is “rhyme rich” with eleven rhymes in the first four lines: well, farewell, tell, bells, within, din, in, say, today, had, bad. The last two lines appear in brackets because they were part of the original poem but I later chose to publish just the first six lines. I didn’t see the full movie until 2001, around age 43, after which I addressed two poems to my twin, Hermie …

Listen, Hermie
by Michael R. Burch

Listen, Hermie . . .
you can hear the strangled roar
of water inundating that lost shore . . .

and you can see how white she shone

that distant night, before
you blinked
and she was gone . . .

But is she ever really gone from you . . . or are
her lips the sweeter since you kissed them once:
her waist wasp-thin beneath your hands always,
her stockinged shoeless feet for that one dance
still whispering their rustling nylon trope
of―“Love me. Love me. Love me. Give me hope
that love exists beyond these dunes, these stars.”

How white her prim brassiere, her waist-high briefs;
how lustrous her white slip. And as you danced―
how white her eyes, her skin, her eager teeth.
She reached, but not for *** . . . for more . . . for you . . .
You cannot quite explain, but what is true
is true despite our fumbling in the dark.

Hold tight. Hold tight. The years that fall away
still make us what we are. If love exists,
we find it in ourselves, grown wan and gray,
within a weathered hand, a wrinkled cheek.

She cannot touch you now, but I would reach
across the years to touch that chord in you
which sang the pangs of love, and play it true.

Tell me, Hermie
by  Michael R. Burch

Tell me, Hermie ― when you saw
her white brassiere crash to the floor
as she stepped from her waist-high briefs
into your arms, and mutual griefs ―
did you feel such fathomless awe
as mystics in artists’ reliefs?

How is it that dark night remains
forever with us ― present still ―
despite her absence and the pains
of dreams relived without the thrill
of any ecstasy but this ―
one brief, eternal, transient kiss?

She was an angel; you helped us see
the beauty of love’s iniquity.

by Michael R. Burch

I did not delight in love so much
as in a kiss like linnets' wings,
the flutterings of a pulse so soft
the heart remembers, as it sings:
to bathe there was its transport, brushed
by marble lips, or porcelain,—
one liquid kiss, one cool outburst
from pale rosettes. What did it mean ...
to float awhirl on minute tides
within the compass of your eyes,
to feel your alabaster bust
grow cold within? Ecstatic sighs
seem hisses now; your eyes, serene,
reflect the sun's pale tourmaline.

Published by Romantics Quarterly, Poetica Victorian, Nutty Stories (South Africa)

I Pray Tonight
by Michael R. Burch

I pray tonight
the starry light
surround you.

I pray
each day
that, come what may,
no dark thing confound you.

I pray ere tomorrow
an end to your sorrow.
May angels’ white chorales
sing, and astound you.

A Possible Argument for Mercy
by Michael R. Burch

Did heaven ever seem so far?
Remember-we are as You were,
but all our lives, from birth to death―
Gethsemane in every breath.

Gethsemane in Every Breath
by Michael R. Burch

LORD, we have lost our way, and now
we have mislaid love―earth's fairest rose.
We forgot hope's song―the way it goes.
Help us reclaim their gifts, somehow.

LORD, we have wondered long and far
in search of Bethlehem's retrograde star.
Now in night's dead cold grasp, we gasp:
our lives one long-drawn rattling rasp

of misspent breath... before we drown.
LORD, help us through this spiral down
because we faint, and do not see
above or beyond despair's trajectory.

Remember that You, too, once held
imperiled life within your hands
as hope withdrew... that where You knelt
―a stranger in a stranger land―

the chalice glinted cold afar
and red with blood as hellfire.
Did heaven ever seem so far?
Remember―we are as You were,

but all our lives, from birth to death―
Gethsemane in every breath.

Just Smile
by Michael R. Burch

We’d like to think some angel smiling down
will watch him as his arm bleeds in the yard,
ripped off by dogs, will guide his tipsy steps,
his doddering progress through the scarlet house
to tell his mommy "boo-boo!," only two.

We’d like to think his reconstructed face
will be as good as new, will often smile,
that baseball’s just as fun with just one arm,
that God is always Just, that girls will smile,
not frown down at his thousand livid scars,
that Life is always Just, that Love is Just.

We do not want to hear that he will shave
at six, to raze the leg hairs from his cheeks,
that lips aren’t easily fashioned, that his smile’s
lopsided, oafish, snaggle-toothed, that each
new operation costs a billion tears,
when tears are out of fashion.
O, beseech
some poet with more skill with words than tears
to find some happy ending, to believe
that God is Just, that Love is Just, that these
are Parables we live, Life’s Mysteries ...

Or look inside his courage, as he ties
his shoelaces one-handed, as he throws
no-hitters on the first-place team, and goes
on dates, looks in the mirror undeceived
and smiling says, "It’s me I see. Just me."

He smiles, if life is Just, or lacking cures.
Your pity is the worst cut he endures.

Originally published by Lucid Rhythms

by Michael R. Burch

This rainbow is the token of the covenant, which I have established between me and all flesh.—Yahweh

You are gentle now, and in your failing hour
how like the child you were, you seem again,
and smile as sadly as the girl (age ten?)
who held the sparrow with the mangled wing
close to her heart. It marveled at your power
but would not mend. And so the world renews
old vows it seemed to make: false promises
spring whispers, as if nothing perishes
that does not resurrect to wilder hues
like rainbows’ eerie pacts we apprehend
but cannot fail to keep. Now in your eyes
I see the end of life that only dies
and does not care for bright, translucent lies.
Are tears so precious? These few, let us spend
together, as before, then lay to rest
these sparrows’ hearts aflutter at each breast.

To Have Loved
by Michael R. Burch

"The face that launched a thousand ships ..."

Helen, bright accompaniment,
accouterment of war as sure as all
the polished swords of princes groomed to lie
in mausoleums all eternity ...

The price of love is not so high
as never to have loved once in the dark
beyond foreseeing. Now, as dawn gleams pale
upon small wind-fanned waves, amid white sails, ...

now all that war entails becomes as small,
as though receding. Paris in your arms
was never yours, nor were you his at all.
And should gods call

in numberless strange voices, should you hear,
still what would be the difference? Men must die
to be remembered. Fame, the shrillest cry,
leaves all the world dismembered.

Hold him, lie,
tell many pleasant tales of lips and thighs;
enthrall him with your sweetness, till the pall
and ash lie cold upon him.

Is this all? You saw fear in his eyes, and now they dim
with fear’s remembrance. Love, the fiercest cry,
becomes gasped sighs in his once-gallant hymn
of dreamed “salvation.” Still, you do not care

because you have this moment, and no man
can touch you as he can ... and when he’s gone
there will be other men to look upon
your beauty, and have done.

Smile―woebegone, pale, haggard. Will the tales
paint this―your final portrait? Can the stars
find any strange alignments, Zodiacs,
to spell, or unspell, what held beauty lacks?

Published by The Raintown Review, Triplopia, The Electic Muse, The Chained Muse, and The Pennsylvania Review

Fahr an' Ice
(Apologies to Robert Frost and Ogden Nash)
by Michael R. Burch

From what I know of death, I'll side with those
who'd like to have a say in how it goes:
just make mine cool, cool rocks (twice drowned in likker),
and real fahr off, instead of quicker.

Originally published by Light Quarterly

Ordinary Love
by Michael R. Burch

Indescribable—our love—and still we say
with eyes averted, turning out the light,
"I love you," in the ordinary way

and tug the coverlet where once we lay,
all suntanned limbs entangled, shivering, white ...
indescribably in love. Or so we say.

Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray;
you turn your back; you murmur to the night,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

Beneath the sheets our hands and feet would stray
to warm ourselves. We do not touch despite
a love so indescribable. We say

we're older now, that "love" has had its day.
But that which Love once countenanced, delight,
still makes you indescribable. I say,
"I love you," in the ordinary way.

Winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest; published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly, Mandrake Poetry Review, Carnelian, and Famous Poets and Poems

The Locker
by Michael R. Burch

All the dull hollow clamor has died
and what was contained,

adulation or sentiment,
left with the pungent darkness

as remembered as the sudden light.

Originally published by The Raintown Review

by Michael R. Burch

Her predatory eye,
the single feral iris,

Her raptor beak,
all jagged sharp-edged ******,

Her hard talon,
clenched in pinched expectation,

Her clipped wings,
preened against reality,

Published by The Lyric, Verses Magazine, Romantics Quarterly, Journeys, The Raintown Review, MahMag (Iran), The Eclectic Muse (Canada)

Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor
by Michael R. Burch

After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs,
Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs:
“Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!”
(His name, let’s assume, was, er... Percival Queemly.)

“Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes.
“Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise,
for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name...
Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!”

“Continue to live here—carouse as you please!”
the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees.
Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose:
“I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose...
but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.”
(Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.)

Shrill Gulls and Other Skeptics
by Michael R. Burch

for Richard Moore

Shrill gulls,
how like my thoughts
you, struggling, rise
to distant bliss―
the weightless blue of skies
that are not blue
in any atmosphere,
but closest here...

You seek an air
so clear,
so rarified
the effort leaves you famished;
earthly tides
soon call you back―
one long, descending glide...

Disgruntledly you ***** dirt shores for orts
you pull like mucous ropes
from shells’ bright forts...
You eye the teeming world
with nervous darts―
this way and that...
Contentious, shrewd, you scan―
the sky, in hope,
the earth, distrusting man.

Originally published by Able Muse

Caveat Spender
by Michael R. Burch

It’s better not to speculate
"continually" on who is great.
Though relentless awe’s
a Célèbre Cause,
please reserve some time for the contemplation
of the perils of EXAGGERATION.

At Wilfred Owen’s Grave
by Michael R. Burch

A week before the Armistice, you died.
They did not keep your heart like Livingstone’s,
then plant your bones near Shakespeare’s. So you lie
between two privates, sacrificed like Christ
to politics, your poetry unknown
except for that brief flurry’s: thirteen months
with Gaukroger beside you in the trench,
dismembered, as you babbled, as the stench
of gangrene filled your nostrils, till you clenched
your broken heart together and the fist
began to pulse with life, so close to death.
Or was it at Craiglockhart, in the care
of “ergotherapists” that you sensed life
is only in the work, and made despair
a thing that Yeats despised, but also breath,
a mouthful’s merest air, inspired less
than wrested from you, and which we confess
we only vaguely breathe: the troubled air
that even Sassoon failed to share, because
a man in pieces is not healed by gauze,
and breath’s transparent, unless we believe
the words are true despite their lack of weight
and float to us like chlorine—scalding eyes,
and lungs, and hearts. Your words revealed the fate
of boys who retched up life here, gagged on lies.

Safe Harbor
by Michael R. Burch

for Kevin N. Roberts

The sea at night seems
an alembic of dreams—
the moans of the gulls,
the foghorns’ bawlings.

A century late
to be melancholy,
I watch the last shrimp boat as it steams
to safe harbor again.

In the twilight she gleams
with a festive light,
done with her trawlings,
ready to sleep...

Deep, deep, in delight
glide the creatures of night,
elusive and bright
as the poet’s dreams.

Published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly and Angle

The Harvest of Roses
by Michael R. Burch

for Harvey Stanbrough

I have not come for the harvest of roses—
the poets' mad visions,
their railing at rhyme...
for I have discerned what their writing discloses:
weak words wanting meaning,
beat torsioning time.

Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer—
images weak,
too forced not to fail;
gathered by poets who worship their luster,
they shimmer, impendent,
resplendently pale.

Originally published by The Raintown Review when Harvey Stanbrough was the editor

The Pain of Love
by Michael R. Burch

for T.M.

The pain of love is this:
the parting after the kiss;

the train steaming from the station
whistling abnegation;

each interstate’s bleak white bar
that vanishes under your car;

every hour and flower and friend
that cannot be saved in the end;

dear things of immeasurable cost...
now all irretrievably lost.

Note: The title “The Pain of Love” was suggested by an interview with Little Richard, then eighty years old, in Rolling Stone. He said that someone should create a song called “The Pain of Love.” I have always found the departure platforms of railway stations and the vanishing broken white bars of highway dividing lines depressing.

Lean Harvests
by Michael R. Burch

for T.M.

the trees are shedding their leaves again:
another summer is over.
the Christians are praising their Maker again,
but not the disconsolate plover:
i hear him berate
the fate
of his mate;
he claims God is no body’s lover.

Published by The Rotary Dial and Angle

The Heimlich Limerick
by Michael R. Burch

for T. M.

The sanest of poets once wrote:
"Friend, why be a sheep or a goat?
Why follow the leader
or be a blind *******?"
But almost no one took note.

Millay Has Her Way with a Vassar Professor
by Michael R. Burch

After a night of hard drinking and spreading her legs,
Millay hits the dorm, where the Vassar don begs:
“Please act more chastely, more discretely, more seemly!”
(His name, let’s assume, was, er... Percival Queemly.)

“Expel me! Expel me!”—She flashes her eyes.
“Oh! Please! No! I couldn’t! That wouldn’t be wise,
for a great banished Shelley would tarnish my name...
Eek! My game will be lame if I can’t milque your fame!”

“Continue to live here—carouse as you please!”
the beleaguered don sighs as he sags to his knees.
Millay grinds her crotch half an inch from his nose:
“I can live in your hellhole, strange man, I suppose...
but the price is your firstborn, whom I’ll sacrifice to Moloch.”
(Which explains what became of pale Percy’s son, Enoch.)

by Michael R. Burch

after Philip Larkin's "Aubade"

It is hard to understand or accept mortality—
such an alien concept: not to be.
Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion,
or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea

boiling like goopy green tea in a kettle.
Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle
than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists
simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle.

And so we abide...
even in life, staring out across that dark brink.
And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink,
it is best not to drink
(or, drinking, certainly not to think).

by Michael R. Burch

Here I scrawl extravagant rainbows.
And there you go, skipping your way to school.
And here we are, drifting apart
like untethered balloons.

Here I am, creating "art,"
chanting in shadows,
pale as the crinoline moon,
ignoring your face.

There you go,
in diaphanous lace,
making another man’s heart swoon.

Suddenly, unthinkably, here he is,
taking my place.

Published by Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly, Centrifugal Eye, and The Eclectic Muse

by Michael R. Burch

Moonbeams on water —
the reflected light
of a halcyon star
now drowning in night ...
So your memories are.

Footprints on beaches
now flooding with water;
the small, broken ribcage
of some primitive slaughter ...
So near, yet so far.

Originally published by The HyperTexts

Step Into Starlight
by Michael R. Burch

Step into starlight,
lovely and wild,
lonely and longing,
a woman, a child . . .

Throw back drawn curtains,
enter the night,
dream of his kiss
as a comet ignites . . .

Then fall to your knees
in a wind-fumbled cloud
and shudder to hear
oak hocks groaning aloud.

Flee down the dark path
to where the snaking vine bends
and withers and writhes
as winter descends . . .

And learn that each season
ends one vanished day,
that each pregnant moon holds
no spent tides in its sway . . .

For, as suns seek horizons―
boys fall, men decline.
As the grape sags with its burden,
remember―the wine!

Originally published by The Lyric

hymn to Apollo
by Michael R. Burch

something of sunshine attracted my i
as it lazed on the afternoon sky,
splashed on the easel of god . . .
i thought,
could this airy stuff be,
to, phantomlike,
flit through tall trees
on fall days, such as these?

and the breeze
whispered a dirge
to the vanishing light;
enchoired with the evening, it sang;
its voice
chanting “Night!” . . .

till all the bright light

This poem appeared in my high school literary journal; I believe I was around 16 when I wrote it.

****** Analysis
by Michael R. Burch

This is not what I need . . .
as though I were a seed
to be planted,
with a stick and some string
until I emerge.
Your words
are not water. I need something
more nourishing,
like cherishing,
something essential, like love
so that when I climb
out of the lime
and the mulch. When I shove
myself up
from the muck . . .
we can ****.

The One and Only
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

If anyone ever loved me,
It was you.

If anyone ever cared
beyond mere things declared;
if anyone ever knew ...
My darling, it was you.

If anyone ever touched
my beating heart as it flew,
it was you,
and only you.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller

#2 - Love Poetry

She says an epigram’s too terse
to reveal her tender heart in verse ...
but really, darling, ain’t the thrill
of a kiss much shorter still?
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

#5 - Criticism

Why don’t I openly criticize the man? Because he’s a friend;
thus I reproach him in silence, as I do my own heart.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

#11 - Holiness

What is holiest? This heart-felt love
binding spirits together, now and forever.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

#12 - Love versus Desire

You love what you have, and desire what you lack
because a rich nature expands, while a poor one retracts.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

#19 - Nymph and Satyr

As shy as the trembling doe your horn frightens from the woods,
she flees the huntsman, fainting, uncertain of love.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

#20 - Desire

What stirs the ******’s heaving ******* to sighs?
What causes your bold gaze to brim with tears?
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

#23 - The Apex I

Everywhere women yield to men, but only at the apex
do the manliest men surrender to femininity.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

#24 - The Apex II

What do we mean by the highest? The crystalline clarity of triumph
as it shines from the brow of a woman, from the brow of a goddess.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

#25 -Human Life

Young sailors brave the sea beneath ten thousand sails
while old men drift ashore on any bark that avails.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

#35 - Dead Ahead

What’s the hardest thing of all to do?
To see clearly with your own eyes what’s ahead of you.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

#36 - Unexpected Consequence

Friends, before you utter the deepest, starkest truth, please pause,
because straight away people will blame you for its cause.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

#41 - Earth vs. Heaven

By doing good, you nurture humanity;
but by creating beauty, you scatter the seeds of divinity.
―from “Xenia” by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe and Friedrich Schiller, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The Poet
by Michael R. Burch

He walks to the sink,
takes out his teeth,
rubs his gums.
He tries not to think.

In the mirror, on the mantle,
Time—the silver measure—
does not stare or blink,
but in a wrinkle flutters,
in a hand upon the brink
of a second, hovers.

Through a mousehole,
something scuttles
on restless incessant feet.
There is no link

between life and death
or from a fading past
to a more tenuous present
that a word uncovers
in the great wink.

The white foam lathers
at his thin pink
stretched neck
like a tightening noose.
He tries not to think.

These are poems I wrote in my early teens on the themes of play, playing, playmates, vacations, etc.

by Michael R. Burch

WHEN you were my playmate and I was yours,
we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and the sorrows and cares of our indentured days
were uncomprehended... far, far away...
for the temptations and trials we had yet to face
were lost in the shadows of an unventured maze.

Then simple pleasures were easy to find
and if they cost us a little, we didn't mind;
for even a penny in a pocket back then
was one penny too many, a penny to spend.

Then feelings were feelings and love was just love,
not a strange, complex mystery to be understood;
while "sin" and "damnation" meant little to us,
since forbidden cookies were our only lusts!

Then we never worried about what we had,
and we were both sure—what was good, what was bad.
And we sometimes quarreled, but we didn't hate;
we seldom gave thought to the uncertainties of fate.

Hell, we seldom thought about the next day,
when tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away.
Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past,
and wondered, at times, why things couldn't last.

Still, we never worried about getting by,
and we didn't know that we were to die...
when we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and I was your playmate, and we were boys.

This is probably the poem that "made" me, because my high school English teacher called it "beautiful" and I took that to mean I was surely the Second Coming of Percy Bysshe Shelley! "Playmates" is the second longish poem I remember writing; I believe I was around 13 or 14 at the time.

by Michael R. Burch

a sequel to “Playmates”

There was a time, as though a long-forgotten dream remembered,
when you and I were playmates and the days were long;
then we were pirates stealing plaits of daisies
from trembling maidens fearing men so strong . . .

Our world was like an unplucked Rose unfolding,
and you and I were busy, then, as bees;
the nectar that we drank, it made us giddy;
each petal within reach seemed ours to seize . . .

But you were more the doer, I the dreamer,
so I wrote poems and dreamed a noble cause;
while you were linking logs, I met old Merlin
and took a dizzy ride to faery Oz . . .

But then you put aside all "silly" playthings;
with sunburned hands you built, from bricks and stone,
tall buildings, then a life, and then you married.
Now my fantasies, again, are all my own.

I believe “Playthings” was written in my late teens, around 1977. According to my notes, I revised the poem in 1991, then again in 2020 and 2021.

hey pete
by Michael R. Burch

for Pete Rose

hey pete,
it's baseball season
and the sun ascends the sky,
encouraging a schoolboy's dreams
of winter whizzing by;
go out, go out and catch it,
put it in a jar,
set it on a shelf
and then you'll be a Superstar.

This is another of my boyhood poems about play and playing. When I was a boy, Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player; this poem is not a slam at him, but rather an ironic jab at the term "superstar."

Have I been too long at the fair?
by Michael R. Burch

Have I been too long at the fair?
The summer has faded,
the leaves have turned brown;
the Ferris wheel teeters ...
not up, yet not down.
Have I been too long at the fair?

This is one of my earliest poems, written around age 15.

Ironic Vacation
by Michael R. Burch

Seeing Mozart’s baby grand piano.
Standing in the presence of sheer incalculable genius.
Grabbing my childish pen to write a poem & challenge the Immortals.
Next stop, the catacombs!

This is a poem I wrote about a vacation my family took to Salzburg when I was a boy, age 11 or perhaps a bit older. But I wrote the poem much later in life: around 50 years later, in 2020.

Of course the ultimate form of play is love ...

An Illusion
by Michael R. Burch

The sky was as hushed as the breath of a bee
and the world was bathed in shades of palest gold
when I awoke.

She came to me with the sound of falling leaves
and the scent of new-mown grass;
I held out my arms to her and she passed

into oblivion ...

This little dream-poem appeared in my high school literary journal, the Lantern, so I was no older than 18 when I wrote it, probably younger. I will guess around age 16.

by Michael R. Burch

The hazy, smoke-filled skies of summer I remember well;
farewell was on my mind, and the thoughts that I can't tell
rang bells within (the din was in) my mind, and I can't say
if what we had was good or bad, or where it is today.
The endless days of summer's haze I still recall today;
she spoke and smoky skies stood still as summer slipped away ...

This poem appeared in my high school journal, the Lantern, in 1976. It also appeared in my college literary journal, Homespun, in 1977. I was probably around 14 when I wrote the poem.

by Michael R. Burch

Here the recalcitrant wind
sighs with grievance and remorse
over fields of wayward gorse
and thistle-throttled lanes.

And she is the myth of the scythed wheat
hewn and sighing, complete,
waiting, lain in a low sheaf—
full of faith, full of grief.

Here the immaculate dawn
requires belief of the leafed earth
and she is the myth of the mown grain—
golden and humble in all its weary worth.

I believe I wrote the first version of this poem toward the end of my senior year of high school, around age 18.

The Communion of Sighs
by Michael R. Burch

There was a moment
  without the sound of trumpets or a shining light,
    but with only silence and darkness and a cool mist
      felt more than seen.
      I was eighteen,
    my heart pounding wildly within me like a fist.
  Expectation hung like a cry in the night,
and your eyes shone like the corona of a comet.

There was an instant ...
  without words, but with a deeper communion,
    as clothing first, then inhibitions fell;
      liquidly our lips met
      —feverish, wet—
    forgotten, the tales of heaven and hell,
  in the immediacy of our fumbling union ...
when the rest of the world became distant.

Then the only light was the moon on the rise,
and the only sound, the communion of sighs.

I believe this poem was written around age 18 as the poem itself says.

by Michael R. Burch

Have you tasted the bitterness of tears of despair?
Have you watched the sun sink through such pale, balmless air
that your heart sought its shell like a crab on a beach,
then scuttled inside to be safe, out of reach?

Might I lift you tonight from earth’s wreckage and damage
on these waves gently rising to pay the moon homage?
Or better, perhaps, let me say that I, too,
have dreamed of infinity ... windswept and blue.

This is one of the first poems that made me feel like a "real" poet. I remember reading the poem and asking myself, "Did I really write that?" I believe I wrote it around age 17 or 18.

Will There Be Starlight
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

Will there be starlight
while she gathers
and lilac
and sweet-scented heathers?

And will she find flowers,
or will she find thorns
guarding the petals
of roses unborn?

Will there be starlight
while she gathers
and mussels
and albatross feathers?

And will she find treasure
or will she find pain
at the end of this rainbow
of moonlight on rain?

If I remember correctly, I wrote the first version of this poem toward the end of my senior year in high school, around age 18, then forgot about it for fifteen years until I met my future wife Beth and she reminded me of the poem’s mysterious enchantress.

Childhood's End
by Michael R. Burch

How well I remember
those fiery Septembers:
dry leaves, dying embers of summers aflame
lay trampled before me
and fluttered, imploring
the bright, dancing rain to descend once again.

Now often I’ve thought on
the meaning of autumn,
how the moons those pale mornings enchanted dark clouds
while robins repeated
gay songs they had heeded
so wisely when winters before they’d flown south.

And still, in remembrance,
I’ve conjured a semblance
of childhood and how the world seemed to me then;
but early this morning,
when, rising and yawning,
my lips brushed your ******* . . . I celebrated its end.

I believe I wrote this poem in my early twenties, no later than 1982, but probably around 1980.

The Tender Weight of Her Sighs
by Michael R. Burch

The tender weight of her sighs
lies heavily upon my heart;
apart from her, full of doubt,
without her presence to revolve around,
found wanting direction or course,
cursed with the thought of her grief,
believing true love is a myth,
with hope as elusive as tears,
hers and mine, unable to lie,
I sigh ...

This poem has an unusual rhyme scheme, with the last word of each line rhyming with the first word of the next line. The final line is a “closing couplet” in which both words rhyme with the last word of the preceding line. I believe I invented this ***** form and will dub it the "End-First Curtal Sonnet."

Starting from Scratch with Ol’ Scratch
by Michael R. Burch

for the Religious Right

Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh
went to the ovens. Please don’t bother to cry.
You could have saved her, but you were all *******
complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp.

Scratch that. You were born after World War II.
You had something more important to do:
while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza
with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a
religious tract against homosexual marriage
and various things gods and evangelists disparage.)

Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I’m quite sure
that your intentions were good and ineluctably pure.
After all, what the hell does he care about Palestinians?
Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians.
Scratch that. You’re one of the Devil’s minions.

by Michael R. Burch

for and after William Blake

Many a sun
and many a moon
I walked the earth
and whistled a tune.

I did not whistle
as I worked:
the whistle was my work.
I shirked

nothing I saw
and made a rhyme
to children at play
and hard time.

Among the prisoners
I saw
the leaden manacles
of Law,

the heavy ball and chain,
the quirt.
And yet I whistled
at my work.

Among the children’s
daisy faces
and in the women’s
frowsy laces,

I saw redemption,
and I smiled.
Satanic millers,

were swayed by neither girl,
nor child,
nor any God of Love.
Yet mild

I whistled at my work,
and Song
broke out,
ere long.

Duet (II)
by Michael R. Burch

If love is just an impulse meant to bring
two tiny hearts together, skittering
like hamsters from their Quonsets late at night
in search of lust’s productive exercise . . .

If love is the mutation of some gene
made radiant—an accident of bliss
played out by two small actors on a screen
of silver mesh, who never even kiss . . .

If love is evolution, nature’s way
of sorting out its DNA in pairs,
of matching, mating, sculpting flesh’s clay . . .
why does my wrinkled hamster climb his stairs

to set his wheel revolving, then descend
and stagger off . . . to make hers fly again?

Originally published by Bewildering Stories

Rant: The Elite
by Michael R. Burch

When I heard Harold Bloom unsurprisingly say:
Poetry is necessarily difficult. It is our elitist art ...
I felt a small suspicious thrill. After all, sweetheart,
isn’t this who we are? Aren’t we obviously better,
and certainly fairer and taller, than they are?

Though once I found Ezra Pound
perhaps a smidgen too profound,
perhaps a bit over-fond of Benito
and the advantages of fascism
to be taken ad finem, like high tea
with a pure white spot of intellectualism
and an artificial sweetener, calorie-free.

I know! I know! Politics has nothing to do with art
And it tempts us so to be elite, to stand apart ...
but somehow the word just doesn’t ring true,
echoing effetely away—the distance from me to you.

Of course, politics has nothing to do with art,
but sometimes art has everything to do with becoming elite,
with climbing the cultural ladder, with being able to meet
someone more Exalted than you, who can demonstrate how to ****
so that everyone below claims one’s odor is sweet.
You had to be there! We were falling apart
with gratitude! We saw him! We wept at his feet!

Though someone will always be far, far above you, clouding your air,
gazing down at you with a look of wondering despair.

Chinese Poets: English Translations

These are modern English translations of poems by some of the greatest Chinese poets of all time, including Du Fu, Huang O, Li Bai, Li Ching-jau, Li Qingzhao, Po Chu-I, Tzu Yeh, Yau Ywe-Hwa and Xu Zhimo.

Lines from Laolao Ting Pavilion
by Li Bai (701-762)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The spring breeze knows partings are bitter;
The willow twig knows it will never be green again.

A Toast to Uncle Yun
by Li Bai (701-762)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Water reforms, though we slice it with our swords;
Sorrow returns, though we drown it with our wine.

Li Bai (701-762) was a romantic figure who has been called the Lord Byron of Chinese poetry. He and his friend Du Fu (712-770) were the leading poets of the Tang Dynasty era, which has been called the "Golden Age of Chinese poetry." Li Bai is also known as Li Po, Li Pai, Li T’ai-po, and Li T’ai-pai.

Moonlit Night
by Du Fu (712-770)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Alone in your bedchamber
you gaze out at the Fu-Chou moon.

Here, so distant, I think of our children,
too young to understand what keeps me away
or to remember Ch'ang-an ...

A perfumed mist, your hair's damp ringlets!
In the moonlight, your arms' exquisite jade!

Oh, when can we meet again within your bed's drawn curtains,
and let the heat dry our tears?

Moonlit Night
by Du Fu (712-770)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tonight the Fu-Chou moon
watches your lonely bedroom.

Here, so distant, I think of our children,
too young to understand what keeps me away
or to remember Ch'ang-an ...

By now your hair will be damp from your bath
and fall in perfumed ringlets;
your jade-white arms so exquisite in the moonlight!

Oh, when can we meet again within those drawn curtains,
and let the heat dry our tears?

Lone Wild Goose
by Du Fu (712-770)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The abandoned goose refuses food and drink;
he cries querulously for his companions.

Who feels kinship for that strange wraith
as he vanishes eerily into the heavens?

You watch it as it disappears;
its plaintive calls cut through you.

The indignant crows ignore you both:
the bickering, bantering multitudes.

Du Fu (712-770) is also known as Tu Fu. The first poem is addressed to the poet's wife, who had fled war with their children. Ch'ang-an is an ironic pun because it means "Long-peace."

The Red Cockatoo
by Po Chu-I (772-846)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A marvelous gift from Annam—
a red cockatoo,
bright as peach blossom,
fluent in men's language.

So they did what they always do
to the erudite and eloquent:
they created a thick-barred cage
and shut it up.

Po Chu-I (772-846) is best known today for his ballads and satirical poems. Po Chu-I believed poetry should be accessible to commoners and is noted for his simple diction and natural style. His name has been rendered various ways in English: Po Chu-I, Po Chü-i, Bo Juyi and Bai Juyi.

The Migrant Songbird
Li Qingzhao aka Li Ching-chao (c. 1084-1155)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The migrant songbird on the nearby yew
brings tears to my eyes with her melodious trills;
this fresh downpour reminds me of similar spills:
another spring gone, and still no word from you ...

The Plum Blossoms
Li Qingzhao aka Li Ching-chao (c. 1084-1155)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

This year with the end of autumn
I find my reflection graying at the edges.
Now evening gales hammer these ledges ...
what shall become of the plum blossoms?

Li Qingzhao was a poet and essayist during the Song dynasty. She is generally considered to be one of the greatest Chinese poets. In English she is known as Li Qingzhao, Li Ching-chao and The Householder of Yi’an.

Star Gauge
Sui Hui (c. 351-394 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

So much lost so far away
on that distant rutted road.

That distant rutted road
wounds me to the heart.

Grief coupled with longing,
so much lost so far away.

Grief coupled with longing
wounds me to the heart.

This house without its master;
the bed curtains shimmer, gossamer veils.

The bed curtains shimmer, gossamer veils,
and you are not here.

Such loneliness! My adorned face
lacks the mirror's clarity.

I see by the mirror's clarity
my Lord is not here. Such loneliness!

Sui Hui, also known as Su Hui and Lady Su, appears to be the first female Chinese poet of note. And her "Star Gauge" or "Sphere Map" may be the most impressive poem written in any language to this day, in terms of complexity. "Star Gauge" has been described as a palindrome or "reversible" poem, but it goes far beyond that. According to contemporary sources, the original poem was shuttle-woven on brocade, in a circle, so that it could be read in multiple directions. Due to its shape the poem is also called Xuanji Tu ("Picture of the Turning Sphere"). The poem is now generally placed in a grid or matrix so that the Chinese characters can be read horizontally, vertically and diagonally. The story behind the poem is that Sui Hui's husband, Dou Tao, the governor of Qinzhou, was exiled to the desert. When leaving his wife, Dou swore to remain faithful. However, after arriving at his new post, he took a concubine. Lady Su then composed a circular poem, wove it into a piece of silk embroidery, and sent it to him. Upon receiving the masterwork, he repented. It has been claimed that there are up to 7,940 ways to read the poem. My translation above is just one of many possible readings of a portion of the poem.

Xu Hui (627–650)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Confronting the morning she faces her mirror;
Her makeup done at last, she paces back and forth awhile.
It would take vast mountains of gold to earn one contemptuous smile,
So why would she answer a man's summons?

Due to the similarities in names, it seems possible that Sui Hui and Xu Hui were the same poet, with some of her poems being discovered later, or that poems written later by other poets were attributed to her.

Zhai Yongming (1955-)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The waves manhandle me like a midwife pounding my back relentlessly,
and so the world abuses my body—
accosting me, bewildering me, according me a certain ecstasy ...

Zhai Yongming (1955-)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am a wild thought, born of the abyss
and—only incidentally—of you. The earth and sky
combine in me—their concubine—they consolidate in my body.

I am an ordinary embryo, encased in pale, watery flesh,
and yet in the sunlight I dazzle and amaze you.

I am the gentlest, the most understanding of women.
Yet I long for winter, the interminable black night, drawn out to my heart's bleakest limit.

When you leave, my pain makes me want to ***** my heart up through my mouth—
to destroy you through love—where's the taboo in that?

The sun rises for the rest of the world, but only for you do I focus the hostile tenderness of my body.
I have my ways.

A chorus of cries rises. The sea screams in my blood but who remembers me?
What is life?

Zhai Yongming is a contemporary Chinese poet, born in Chengdu in 1955. She was one of the instigators and prime movers of the “Black Tornado” of women’s poetry that swept China in 1986-1989. Since then Zhai has been regarded as one of China’s most prominent poets.

Guan Daosheng (1262-1319)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You and I share so much desire:
this love―like a fire—
that ends in a pyre's
charred coffin.

"Married Love" or "You and I" or "The Song of You and Me"
Guan Daosheng (1262-1319)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You and I shared a love that burned like fire:
two lumps of clay in the shape of Desire
molded into twin figures. We two.
Me and you.

In life we slept beneath a single quilt,
so in death, why any guilt?
Let the skeptics keep scoffing:
it's best to share a single coffin.

Guan Daosheng (1262-1319) is also known as Kuan Tao-Sheng, Guan Zhongji and Lady Zhongji. A famous poet of the early Yuan dynasty, she has also been called "the most famous female painter and calligrapher in the Chinese history ... remembered not only as a talented woman, but also as a prominent figure in the history of bamboo painting." She is best known today for her images of nature and her tendency to inscribe short poems on her paintings.

Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I heard my love was going to Yang-chou
So I accompanied him as far as Ch'u-shan.
For just a moment as he held me in his arms
I thought the swirling river ceased flowing and time stood still.

Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Will I ever hike up my dress for you again?
Will my pillow ever caress your arresting face?

Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Night descends ...
I let my silken hair spill down my shoulders as I part my thighs over my lover.
Tell me, is there any part of me not worthy of being loved?

Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I will wear my robe loose, not bothering with a belt;
I will stand with my unpainted face at the reckless window;
If my petticoat insists on fluttering about, shamelessly,
I'll blame it on the unruly wind!

Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When he returns to my embrace,
I’ll make him feel what no one has ever felt before:
Me absorbing him like water
Poured into a wet clay jar.

Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Bare branches tremble in a sudden breeze.
Night deepens.
My lover loves me,
And I am pleased that my body's beauty pleases him.

Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Do you not see
that we
have become like branches of a single tree?

Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I could not sleep with the full moon haunting my bed!
I thought I heard―here, there, everywhere―
disembodied voices calling my name!
Helplessly I cried "Yes!" to the phantom air!

Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have brought my pillow to the windowsill
so come play with me, tease me, as in the past ...
Or, with so much resentment and so few kisses,
how much longer can love last?

Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When she approached you on the bustling street, how could you say no?
But your disdain for me is nothing new.
Squeaking hinges grow silent on an unused door
where no one enters anymore.

Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I remain constant as the Northern Star
while you rush about like the fickle sun:
rising in the East, drooping in the West.

Tzŭ-Yeh (or Tzu Yeh) was a courtesan of the Jin dynasty era (c. 400 BC) also known as Lady Night or Lady Midnight. Her poems were pinyin ("midnight songs"). Tzŭ-Yeh was apparently a "sing-song" girl, perhaps similar to a geisha trained to entertain men with music and poetry. She has also been called a "wine shop girl" and even a professional concubine! Whoever she was, it seems likely that Rihaku (Li-Po) was influenced by the lovely, touching (and often very ****) poems of the "sing-song" girl. Centuries later, Arthur Waley was one of her translators and admirers. Waley and Ezra Pound knew each other, and it seems likely that they got together to compare notes at Pound's soirees, since Pound was also an admirer and translator of Chinese poetry. Pound's most famous translation is his take on Li-Po's "The River Merchant's Wife: A Letter." If the ancient "sing-song" girl influenced Li-Po and Pound, she was thus an influence―perhaps an important influence―on English Modernism. The first Tzŭ-Yeh poem makes me think that she was, indeed, a direct influence on Li-Po and Ezra Pound.―Michael R. Burch

The Day after the Rain
Lin Huiyin (1904-1955)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I love the day after the rain
and the meadow's green expanses!
My heart endlessly rises with wind,
gusts with wind ...
away the new-mown grasses and the fallen leaves ...
away the clouds like smoke ...
vanishing like smoke ...

Music Heard Late at Night
Lin Huiyin (1904-1955)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

for Xu Zhimo

I blushed,
hearing the lovely nocturnal tune.

The music touched my heart;
I embraced its sadness, but how to respond?

The pattern of life was established eons ago:
so pale are the people's imaginations!

Perhaps one day You and I
can play the chords of hope together.

It must be your fingers gently playing
late at night, matching my sorrow.

Lin Huiyin (1904-1955), also known as Phyllis Lin and Lin Whei-yin, was a Chinese architect, historian, novelist and poet. Xu Zhimo died in a plane crash in 1931, allegedly flying to meet Lin Huiyin.

Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again
Xu Zhimo (1897-1931)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Quietly I take my leave,
as quietly as I came;
quietly I wave good-bye
to the sky's dying flame.

The riverside's willows
like lithe, sunlit brides
reflected in the waves
move my heart's tides.

Weeds moored in dark sludge
sway here, free of need,
in the Cam's gentle wake ...
O, to be a waterweed!

Beneath shady elms
a nebulous rainbow
crumples and reforms
in the soft ebb and flow.

Seek a dream? Pole upstream
to where grass is greener;
rig the boat with starlight;
sing aloud of love's splendor!

But how can I sing
when my song is farewell?
Even the crickets are silent.
And who should I tell?

So quietly I take my leave,
as quietly as I came;
gently I flick my sleeves ...
not a wisp will remain.

(6 November 1928)

Xu Zhimo's most famous poem is this one about leaving Cambridge. English titles for the poem include "On Leaving Cambridge," "Second Farewell to Cambridge," "Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again,"  and "Taking Leave of Cambridge Again."

The Leveler
by Michael R. Burch

The nature of Nature
is bitter survival
from Winter’s bleak fury
till Spring’s brief revival.

The weak implore Fate;
bold men ravish, dishevel her . . .
till both are cut down
by mere ticks of the Leveler.

I believe I wrote this poem around age 20, in 1978 or thereabouts. It has since been published in The Lyric, Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly and The Aurorean.

Keywords/Tags: poets, poetry, writing, art, work, works, rhyme, ballad, immortality, passion, emotion, desire, mrbwork, mrbworks

Published as the collection "What Works"
Yeh waade
Yeh kasme
Yeh Silsila
Yeh Ishq
Yeh junooniyat
Yeh aashiqui
Yeh Lamhe
Mein sharaabi
Woh waade
Woh iraade
Woh baatein
Woh nazm
Woh aaina
Woh Aankhen
Woh hi woh
Mein Kanha
Ghul sa Gaya
Yeh Woh yaadon me
Aur mein neend e Khamoshiyaan
Bin piye maikhane me
Neend me jaagta
Yeh Woh khwaabo liye
Mann hi Mann me
Hazaaron  khwaahish e fitoor..
Syed S M Tabish Mar 2014
Main Aur mere roommates
aksar Yeh Baatain Karte Hain
Ghar saaf hota to kaisa hota
Main kitchen saaf karta, tum bathrooom dhote
main hall saaf karta, tum balcony dekhte
Log is baat pe hairaan hote
aur us baat pe haste….

Main aur mere roommates,
aksar Yeh Baatain Karte Hain
Yeh hara bhara sink hai
ya bartanon ki jang chidi hui hai
Yeh colour full kitchen hai
ya masalon se holi kheli hai
Hai farsh ki nayi design
ya doodh, beer se dhuli hui hain

Yeh cellphone hai ya dhakkan,
sleeping bag ya kisika aanchal,
ye airfreshner ka naya flavour hai,
ya trash bag se ati badboo
Yeh pattiyon ki hai sarsarahut
ke heater phirse kharab hua hai
Yeh sonchta hain roommate kab se gum sum -
Ke jab ke usko bhi yeh khabar hai
Ke machar nahi hai, kaheen nahi hai
magar uska dil hai ke kah raha hai
machar yaheen hai, yaheen kaheen hai !

Toand ( pet ) ki ye haalat, meri bhi hai, uski bhi,
dil mein ek tasvir idhar bhi hai, udhar bhi
Karne ko bohot kuch hai magar kab kare hum
Kab tak yoon hi is tarah rahe hum
Dil kahta hai Safeway se koi vaccum cleaner la de
ye Carpet jo jine ko zoonz raha hai, fikwa de
Hum saaf rahe sakte hai, logon ko bata dain,
Haan hum roommates hai – roommates hai – roommates hai

Ab dil main yehi baaaat, idhar bhi hai udhar bhi..

Sab ko bata dain..
Eshan Mar 2011
Nikle to hum bhi the ghar se yahi soch kar ki shayad is bar manzil tak pahuch jayenge,
kyunki daudna to unhone hume bachpan mein hi sikha diya tha yeh kehkar,
ki agar nahin bhagoge to woh tumhe peeche chod jayenge.

Daudne ki kuch aisi adat se ** gayi hai ki pair ab rukne ka nam hi nahin lete,
lekin hume kya pata tha ki itna age nikal ane se, apne hi paraye,
aur woh sabhi raste anjane se ** jayenge.

Sabse door rehte hue bhi, in anjanon ki bheed mein woh ek chehra apna sa lagta tha,
lekin woh bhi hamesha kisi aur chehre ki talash mein rehta tha.

Sahi raste ko dhoondhne nikle to the, magar yeh nahin pata tha ki itni jaldi thak jayenge.
Kabhi kabhi to lagta hai ki ab ruk jana chahiye, thoda aram kar lena chahiye,
lekin woh bhi namumkin lagta hai kyunki, ab to sapne bhi ajeeb se ate hain.

Chalte chalte, wade to kafi kiye the is safar mein, kuch unse, kuch apne ap se,
lekin yeh andaza bhi nahin tha ki un sabhi umeedon par pani ferte hue chale jayenge.

Yeh mehsoos bhi nahin hua ki apne hi apnon ke pankh kat chuke the,
talash thi to bas us kandhe ki jo is ladkhadate hue ko sahara de sake.

Fir bhi, dheere dheere is katon ki chadar par age badna hai, dil yahi kehta rehta hai,
kyunki jhoothi hansi ki kuch aisi adat si ** gayi hai, ki ab chahte hue bhi dard ka ehsas nahin hota hai.
Shrivastva MK Jun 2015
Yeh bharat hai
     un veer jawano ka,
Jahan samman hota aurato ka
    Atithi aur kisaano ka,

Yeha bahati hai Ganga ki suddh dhara,
Rahenge sda hum ek hamara yahi nara,

Manaye jate hain id yaha harsho-ullas se,
Khele jate holiya bhi rango aur gulal se,

Kheto ki hariyali hi bharat ki pahchan,
Ugate hai sona bhi mitti se yahan ke kisaan,

Yeh bharat hai
     un naujawano ka,
Jo tay karte desh ka bhavishya, vishav me pahchan hain enke ek alag karnamo ka,

Yehan ke log jite hain sirf es watan ke liye,
Kadi dhup ** ya kadkdati thand karte hain mehnat dinbhar do roti aur us pet ke liye,

Yahan thirakati hain nariya kathak ke dhuno par,
Barsate hain phul yahan us thinranga jhande par,

Likh do sabd  MANISH  bhi bataya apni desh ki pahchan,
Jiski sabheyata aur sanskriti hain sarvopari
Jahan sabhi log ek saman...
Ted Rufflepuff Mar 2015
Darr lagta hai, ki Kahi Tumhe kho na de hum,
Shabdo Mein byaan Nahi kara ja sakta Yeh pyaar,
Aasuyo Mein behaya hua dukh,
Hasi Mein chupaya hua dard,
Zubaan par aane se darta hai, ki kahi tumhe kho na de hum.

Anjaani raaton mein jab mile tum, Toh Aisa laga,
Sansaar mil gaya, par yeh dil hai ki maanta Nahi,
Nikamma banakar dukh deta raha,
Kyunki darr hai tumhe kho na de hum.

Iss aakaash ke soonepan se tanha hai Yeh Dil,
Ki kabhi tumse duuriya na badh jaaye,
Jag ne cheena mujhse, Mujhe ** bhi laga pyaara,
Hoontho se chuloo tum, Mera geet Amar kar lo.

Na ruthne ka dava kiya tha, par wafa Toh Hona hi tha,
Kya hua tera vaada, voh Kasam, voh irada,
Voh kehne vaale, Mujhe 'fareebi' , Kon farebi hai Yeh bata,
Voh jisme gam liya pyaar ke khatir, Ya jisne pyaar ko bech diya?

Shama chahte hai, kyunki darr se darr te hai.
Few lines are used by an indian singer.
misterN Oct 2018
Samaj nahi sakai
Mera Yeh Dard.
Saat  Rehtaa Hai
Mera Yeh Dard.
Bai Zabaan Hai
Mera Yeh Dard.
Dil Mai Qaid
Mera Yeh Dard.  
Har Ek Lamha
Mera Yeh Dard.  
Dard Hi Dard
Mera Yeh Dard
The Pain.  
No one can Understand
My Pain.
Always Remains Inside
My Pain
Its is without a Tounge ( Dumb)
My Pain.
It is imprisioned in my Heart
My Pain.
Every Moment
My Pain.
Pain O Pain
My Pain
Nirvana Nov 2015
woh zindagi bhi kya zindagi hogi
jisme zindagi hi naa **
koi gam nhi
aur koi shikva bhi naa **

Teri yaad bhi naa **
naa tera koi zikra **

woh zindagi bhi kya zindagi hogi
jaha koi alfaaz hi naa **
naa tujhe paane ki koi chaah
aur naa hi tujhe khone ka koi dard **

woh zindagi bhi kya zindagi hogi
jaha mai naa rahu aur tu bhi naa **
naa koi dikhavti hasi
aur koi aasu bhi naa **

woh zindagi bhi kya zindagi hogi
jaha seeney ki dhadkan sirf dhadke
aur dimaag sirf apna kaam kare
koi khwaahish hi naa **
koi aarzoo bhi naa **
yeh saasein toh chale
bas koi zindagi hi naa **

woh zindagi bhi kya zindagi hogi...
woh zindagi bhi kya zindagi hogi...
jaha main naa rahu aur tum bhi naa **
yeh **** toh rahe
par koi aatma naa **
yeh saasein toh chale
bas koi zindagi hi naa **

woh zindagi bhi kya zindagi hogi...
jaha main naa rahu aur tum bhi naa **...!
Ain Sep 2020
Bhale se door hain hum tum Bhale se chu nahi sakte. ...
Bhale se saath saath hum is safar mein chal nahi sakte....

Bhale se hum Kadam tu aur maiñ ab  ** nahi sakte......
To kya jo haath mere tere baalon mein nahi tikte. ....

To kya jo honth ki garmi mere honthon pe nahi hai. ...
Bhale se **** tera mujh se kuch lipta sa nahi hai. .....

Mere is dil mein jo ehsaas hai Woh kam to nahi hai. ...
Teri jo rooh chhuti hai mujhe woh kam to nahi hai. ...

Tune hai jo diya woh pyar mujhe kam to nahi hai. ....
Tera na hoke bhi mujh par Jo haq hai kam to nahi hai. ...

Labon pe hai mere muskaan aankhein nam to nahi hai. ...
Meri nida pe tu aayega yaqeen kam to nahi hai. ....

Tere khayaal ki garmi ko main mehsoos karti ***. ...
Tasawwur mein sahi tujh se mulaqaat roz karti ***. ....

Tere wujood se mera yeh jo wujood juda hai....
Marasim kuch tera aisa meri dhadkan se juda hai......

Bhale se tu tadapta hai udhar main bhi tadapti ***....
Tadap mein hain jo yaksaan hum yeh bhi to kam to nahi hai. ....

Tumhara zikr hote hi labon pe yeh jo aati hai. ..
Khushi ki lehr mein woh muskurahat kam to nahi hai. ....

Woh raaton ki woh baaton ke natije kam to nahi hai. ....
Mohabbat ki humari daastaanein kam to nahi hai. ....

Mujhe pukarti hai tere aahon ki woh khamoshi.....
Mujhe sanwaarti hai tere aankhon ki woh madhoshi......

Tamannaon ke dariya pe yeh kashti chal to rahi hai. ...
Ke jab tak saans hai "Ain" teri tujh par mar to rahi hai. ....

Suno zara ke maiñ jo keh rahi *** aaj yeh tum se.....
Maiñ ab tak *** hayat is dehr mein yeh kam to nahi hai. ....

Yeh sab jo zikr hai maine kiya yeh kam to nahi hai. ....
Mana ke paas tu Mere nahi par gham to nahi hai. ...
Bleeding Doc Jun 2018
Barsat ki Ek raat dil ne dimag se pucha,  jo Badal raha wo 'waqt' hai?  
  waqt to Aaj bhi waisa he hai  bachpan me jaisa hota tha wohi savera wahi sham Or baki cheeje tamam
Par tab naa bhigne se lagta tha darr  or  naa sardi jukam,
or wo pani ki shrarate tamam
Jinki Yaad bhar se aa jati hai hothon pe muskan  
par ab aisa kya hua jivan ki iss Dagar me
kahan bhatak gaya in jhuthe rit riwazo me
Kaise jivan ke Arth badalte gaye
Kyo ek funny poem likhne wale
Emotional likhne pe majboor ** gaye

Hawa k jharoko se kashti hilti gayi
waqt k sath mein tau badlta gaya
aur yeh zindagi chalti rahi

pal pal nayi hasratein
har pal naye khwab bunti gayi
aur yeh zindagi chalti gayi

raah mein manzar tau bahut aaye
bulate rahe mujhe mere saaye
mein tau ek pal ko ruk sa gaya
par yeh zindagi chalti gayi

yaadon k saaye mein zinda *** abhi
lagta hai tham sa gay *** mein kahin
par zindagi bewafa sanam si nikli
mein tau ruka reh gaya aur yeh chalti gayi

jindagi har pal apne arth badalti rahi
ham hanste rahe chahhe rote rahe
par woh apni rafataar se bas behati rahi
kabhi ban ke sawal ,kabhi ban ke utar
woh  hame har mod per milti rahi
ham tutate rahe, bikharate rahe
 fir khud hi gir ke sambhalte rahe
aur jindagi yun hi jalti bhujhati rahi

gum mile kuch is tarah ki gum hi gum na lage
khushiyuon  ki baat bhi hame gum ban ke milti rahi
kya kare kisi se shikva, kya kare kisi se shikayat
apne hi jab todate rahe......
toh saans meri har pal ghutati rahi
bas jindagi yuh hi chalti rahi
har pal apne arth badalati rahi
Aabid Rumi Apr 2017
Tere  khaboon mai koi aur hai,aur tere sayee mai  koi aur hai
Kaisay tu dekhay hasrat mere,tu haqeeqat mai koi aur hai
Yeh dil kab tak arizoo karta rahai ,ab koi sabab-e-furkat **
Kaisay tu pehchaanay mere ulfat,tu zahir mai koi ,aur batin mai koi aur hai

Itrey sabnum ki tarah jalah hai mera daman bhi
Mai manzil ki jistu ju kya karoon, ab rasta bhi nazar nhi
yadoon kay samandhar mai dhoob chukka ab toh
Mai haar chukka hoon zindagi  aur ab toh moat bhi ati nhi

Bhulavou yeh gum kaisay ,dil ko kya dawaa doon bhar janay ki
Mai kyun nhi rub a ru khudsay  ,mai kon hoon  ya mujmai he koi aur hai

Faryaad bhi kya ** , naa ashinaa hai yahaan sabhi
Kis  mode pay kya  hogaye koi khabar nhi hummay
Mai toota huva taraa hoon mujmai ab wo  timtimhath kahaan
Lagta Aasmaan bhaag rahaa hai aur zameen fisal rahe ** jaisay

muntazir-e-humraah ** kya,jo rahai thi wo rahai he badhal gaye
Mud kay ab dekhoon  kya, akela rahai safar tha ya koi aur be hai
Mubarak ** tummay ab yeh jahaan dard baraa
Na mud kay kabhi dekhay **** issay dhoobara
Ab aur palkoon pay ashikay baar saha nhi jata
Laboon  pay ab aur bahaana bardast nhi hota

Waqt guzra hai, kyun naa mera bhi saleeka badhal gaye Rumi
Ab aur ranjishay nhi,bhula do ghar koi ghilla aur bhi hai
                                 written by: Aabid Rumi
                             suggested by:Tanzeelah Illahi
when believe becomes faith,life ruins
I know I've said this before
but this time it's true
I know you don't have to believe me
but I'm over hating you
Cause this time I was wrong

Oh and I know
You've tried so hard to make amends
I've pushed you away
Yet you still wanted... to stay friends
I just want you to understand
(want you to understand)
The power's in your hands
(the power's in your hands)

Oh I've been such a fool
I'm over acting like I'm cool-er
than you (or anyone)
Cause this time I was wrong

Yeh this time I was wrong
Yeh this time I was wrong
Yeh this time, oh yeh this time
You were right all along

Oh I've been such an idiot
I don't expect you to forgive me yet
And all of the neglect
Was born from the pain I felt
But its over now
Cause this time I was wrong

Cause I've had time to think it through
(My minds clear and I feel all right now)
So I can't hate you for being yourself
Girl you gotta let yourself shine through
Stop trying to clean up everybody else's mess
Cause you're better than this

Don't ever let anyone tell you you're a liar
Girl you got to live like you're made of fire
Be unpredictable
And light you're path
Just be careful who you burn
Cause this time...
You were right all along...
Mitchell Duran Dec 2011
When the pages of life
Get worn, burnt and torn
When your eyes are red
And you can't remember what was said
Call me once or twice baby
I promise to never say maybe

When haste drips like paste
Like paint from a babies fingers
Don't sit down and linger
For the smoke in your mind is for real
Just call on me once or twice baby
And I won't tell you maybe

Make your way to my place
I'll shout out "This is what it's all about!"
And the grey clouds will turn white
No longer having to put up a fight
Call on me once or twice baby
You won't ever be hearing maybe

If you start to believe our worries
And dogs no longer bark but growl
You say hello to strangers
And they won't even hand you a towel
Just call on me once or twice baby,
You won't ever hear a maybe

After the sun has set
And the fishermen have reeled in their nets
Your stomach is done n' empty
And death starts to look temping
Call on me once or twice,
Cause you'll never be hearing maybe

I am back where I started
Like time stopped and im back in it
The lonesome whisper
Those lonesome sisters
They make you cry and they
Make your heart sigh

Pass the sergeant whose *** knee
Is broken and is about to sneeze
All this repetition is bringing to fruition
A new kind of terror that
This mind can't handle and the
Body melts like a candle

The bed is burning as I'm yearning
For another shot of the hard stuff and
A kiss from a lover that seems to hover
Across the floorboards of my flat as she
Wears an old worn coonskin cap

Repeated love affairs that bare
A resemblance to the rear of a steer
Cause' that is the way time works on us
Forcing us to remember though
All we want is to forget an' disregard

And in the heart of the black night
That dances with no shame only ******
Her finger is naked where the gold used to be
Pale in the sunlight that strikes her stony bones
Hearts hear the beating of their own and
Love is alone sitting atop its private throne

Coursing where the blunt fact of our age
Shakes trembles crumbles in the hands
Of the judges whose chocolate smudges
Remind me of their nubile weak baby bodies
Protruding their souls out from their mothers womb
Cracking their lips and knuckles from the
Chill wind now alone with tasks and obligation
Falling to the way side

Former ways of living are now taken aback
They are heated in the sun across the lake of tons
Misunderstood medallions with princes and their wives
Dancing to the music they will hear when they die
No note knows no length or death
For in that final step to rest be not afraid
Friends will guide your hand like the wind
Does the sane

I scratch my eyes as I think of Alice
Alone in the far away from me
Her sight vanishing like our love just the same
The smoke still resting on the waves
The bears still resting inside their caves
Ice on the horizon where inside is the stink
Tell me what I am as my speech turns to a drawl
Out of the states so far away
Inside I know these words will make it all O.K.

But now with the droopy piano man
And whispers that aren't mine but his
I recall a guy I used to stare at and know
He mentioned his name before he had to go
Cause' now I am a new man
With nothing and everything left to give
Attention to the pain of the people around me
Save the love for the one that deserves it
She was the one and I let her slip away
And for that I pay and pay
Every single day

Let me let you in a little secret
Hot like an iron and sweet like a rose
An alley where no one ventures or goes
A tune that is quiet but you try and deny it
Let me let you where I have been
In between living and the fall of the dice
Where time has no face and
The joker's are always present
Where money moves through your sheets
Like your long cheating husband or
The smell of cheap bourbon

In this hour years turn to sand and
The thought of yourself turns blue
Out of breathe the sirens of the sea call
And misery makes its final chess move
They is a maddening presence where
Every pain in the world is true
You cannot escape from the maze like labyrinth
It tells you it loves you so
You have nowhere to go and nothing else
To do

Dream through the mist where clouds are the mountains
And rivers are painted with flecks of metallic gold
Candy cane tongues with a chocolate kiss eyes
Her way was forbidden but never in the sky
A shout from the corridor a murmur from the hall
Tell the tale loudly or the pail of life will seem pale

There is nowhere to go from here
You are here with me
We are here together
And there is no where new to go from here
Do not fret, no
Do not whimper and please
Do not be scared
We are meant to be here together
You are forever here with me
We will learn how to love
How to live and
Learn to see
All over again

And the ways that were have now changed
"Culture will turn into steam"
"Hearts will turn to stone"
"Minds to mush and computers to man"
Forgetting the way the wind blows through the thicket
The moon casting its white hate on the lovely night
Creaking boards as crippling rivers
Collect their wares and head down the road
Strangers to a home they have always known
Gibberish in the eyes of God and his counterparts
Confusion: the only comfort in a world of immediacy
The only sanity in a world of the opposite

There must be a way out of this way
There must be another bay
It is on the horizon or this is a lie
Entranced by the entrance
Not myself, no not this time
A shake and a cry never mentioning the whistling lie
Forbearance here weighs out its own death
Too much here rather too much then there

Poor joe that tells himself he stills sane
That music is the only way out
The only price that one can pay
The crouched hidden gem that litters his ears
Standing on the street corner florescent and majestic
Glitter in his eyes and fire in his soul
Not a thought in his mind only the notes in his hand
Telling the bar man just him and her on the next one
That this is the place where they place his favorite song
And the haste at which his fire was made
God's hands were blistered for he didn't have a plan
Knocking around the **** like he whipped out at the john
And the ball is outta' the park and the girls are all screaming
A leaning beaming loud crack of all reasons
Mentioning professionalism at a bar filled with shining stars
The bathroom is broken so shake on out and grab your sandals
Oh yeh oh yeh oh yeh oh oh yeh
They tell me I belong here but most days I just don't see it
Nothing rhymes Jul 2011
in life we live for several moments actually.....
i dont believe in living for the moment... at a micro level, that day... u ll end up miserable the next..
but that doesnt mean u shud plan ahead and live for the days to come.. living in the future is not living at all.... what really matters is when the game is over...u should have no regrets... live for that moment....phir...mazaa aayega... then u ll live life...
Yeh Mera Apna Tajurba Hai
Tumhe Batla Raha Hoon Main
Koi lab chooh Gaya tha tab
Ki ab tak ga raha *** main

Bichadd Kar Yaar Se
Kaise Jiya Jayee Bina Tadpe
Jo Main Khud Hi Nahin samjha
Wohi samjha raha Hoon Main

Kisi Pathar Main Moorat Hai
Koi Pathar ki Moorat Hai
Lo Hum Ne Dekh Li Duniya
Jo Itni Khoobsurat Hai

Jamaana Ab Nahi Samjhe
Par Mujhe Apni Khabar Yeh Hai
Tujhe Meri Zaroorat Hai
Mujhe Teri Zaroorat Hai
Copyright© Shashank K Dwivedi
Follow me on Facebook-
Purcy Flaherty Mar 2018
I’m the hot dog man!
I put my sausage on your roll !
I put my sausage in your roll !
I can go all night long;
Singing this crazy song,
Put my sausage on your roll,
I’ll put my sausage in your roll,
I’ll be your hot dog man,
You can be the hot dog stand,
I’ll put my onions on your roll,
Put my mustard in your hole.
I’ll be your jelly!
I put my jelly on your roll !
I put my jelly in your roll !
I can go all night long;
Singing this crazy song,
Put my jelly on your roll,
I’ll put my jelly in your roll,
I’ll be your jelly,
You can be my sweet confection Jenny,
I’ll put my sugar on your roll,
Put my cream in your hole.

I’m the hot dog man !
I’ll be your jelly !
I’m the hot dog man !
I’ll be your jelly !
Jenny !
Mucky food !
Sakshi goyal Oct 2020
Aa ab laut chalein apne ghar
Aa ab laut chalein apne ghar
Bht lamba hogaya yeh safar

Jaha teri shetaniyon ka manzar tha
Jaha pyar ka samndar tha
Jaha thak kar sona ata tha
Jaha har kona muskurata tha
Jaha beeta har din yadgaar tha
Jaha ka har pal suhana khwab tha

Aa laut chalein apne ghar
ab bht taay kar liya yeh safar

jaha khul kar tu bhi hansti thi
jaha muskura mein bhi leta tha
jaha teri badmashiyo mein
bacha me bhi bann leta tha
jaha naachti tu thi aur jhumta me tha
jaha bachon si ladhai aur dil ka mehal tha
jaha na kabhi dur hone ka dar
na adhuri koi aas thi
jaha sath beshumar tha aur poori har saans thi
jaha rote rote hans dete the hum
na koi fikar ki bat thi
jaha ghanton batein karte the hum
ghadi ki sui na humare sath thi

Aa laut chalein apne ghar
Bht lamba hogaya yeh safar

Jaha tera kam se ana tha
Phr mujhko gale lagana tha
Jaha teri bematlab ki baton me
Mera kahn gum hojana tha
jaha har sapna jee rahe the hum
jaha nahi thi kisi ki koi sharam
jaha dikhawa koso tak na tha
har jagah tha bass pagal pan

Aa laut chalein apne ghar
Bht lamba hogaya yeh safar

jaha jhagde bhi suljhe se the
jaha ansun bhi uljhe se the
jaha hothon pe muskan bhi thi
jaha ankhein kuch naadan bhi thi
jaha nanhe kadmon ki awaz bhi thi
jaha lori ki chankar bhi thi
jaha ghungru si tumari payal bhi thi
jaha kangan ki awaz bhi thi
jaha hansta hua tera chehra bhi tha
jaha ghurti meri ankhein bhi thi
jaha band woh darwaze bhi the
jaha do **** ek jaan bhi the

Aa laut chalein na apne ghar
waqai bht lamba ** gaya yeh safar....
waqai bht lamba hogaya yeh safar..!!!

Third Eye Candy Apr 2013
yeh, That Happened... 'member ? you had all the helium and the softshell crab !
i had the battlements of sham. i choked on the bone of our contention
and wrestled a bare conscience.
what have you done to remain constant
by hurting the ones you love
by way of " What's Love ? "
by osmosis. by no means that means well
but a means  to face hell.
yeh, i caught your eye at the burger joint, on Grant.
you had pie in a mode of dairy, chilled to a cream of white heretic.
switch to the new black finch, and be quick about it !
don't cloud the Garofalo.  laugh in the jungle of perpetual jungles.
don't feed the monkeys, but nobody knows you're here.

feed the monkeys. but don't tell
how we can't. '  tell god '
He mocks.

and has nothing to show for it.

or not.
Mujhe wo aksar kehta tha
Muhabat kuch nhi hoti

Hijar ka khauf be matlab
Wasl k khwab bemani

... Nighaoon main koi soorat
Kahan din rat rehti hai

Usy q khamoshi kahain
K jis main bat rehti hai

Wo ankhain kaisi hoti hain?
Jahan barsat rehti hai

Yeh ansu bezaban ansu
Bhala kya bol saktay hain

Or uski narm palko pe nami
Din rat rehti hai

Mujhe wo aksar kehta tha
Mohabbat kuch nahi hoti

Magar jab aj barson bad
Main ne usko dekha hai

K uski jheel ankho main
Hijar ka khof rehta hai

Wasl k khwab rehtay hain
Wahan barsat rehti hai

Yun lagta hai k barson se
Wo soya v nahi shayad

Yun lagta hai kisi ki yada barson se
Usy din rat rehti hai

Or uski narm palkon pe
Haseen saay be geelay hain

Or uski khamoshi aisi k
Jis main bat rehti hai

Mujhe ab wo nahee kehta
Muhabat kch nahee hoti.
Copyright© Shashank K Dwivedi
Follow me on Facebook -
Baa, baa, Green sheep,
Have you any kush?
Yeh, mon, yeh, mon,
Three bongs full;
One hit for ma tyke,
And one for ma ****,
And one for the batti boi
Who lives by caribe.

Baa, baa, Green sheep,
Have you any ******?
nah, mon, nah, mon,
no spliffs mon;
blast from da past mon
Jis Ki Janib Woh Nazar Apni Uttha Lete Hain
Uss Ki Soyee Hui Taqdeer Jaga Dete Hain

Towards whom they raise their glance
His resting destiny they awaken in a trance

Teri Duzdeeda Nigahon Ko Dua Dete Hain
Jitne Chubte Hain Yeh Teer Utna Maza Dete Hain

For your peeking gazes, I pray
The more these arrows wound, the more delighted I lay

Jab Se Dekha Hai Unhein Apna Mujhe Hosh Nahin
Jane Kya Cheez Woh Nazroon Se Pila Dete Hain

Ever since them I saw, senseless I have become
What they pour from their glances, a mystery it has become

Takht Kya Cheez Hai Aur Laal-o-Jawahir Kya Hai
Ishq Wale To Khudai Bhi Loota Dete Hain

What is a throne and what are lustrous jewels?
Lovers surrender divinity against the rules

Aik Din Aisa Bhi Ata Hai Mohabbat Mein Zaroor
Khud Ko Ghabra Ke Naqab Apna Uttah Lete Hain

There is one such moment in love, indeed!
With nervousness, they raise their veil

Apni Barbadi Pe Khush Hoon Yeh Suna Hai Jabse
Woh Jisse Apna Samajhte Hain Mitta Dete Hain

Happy with my own ruin I am, ever since I have learned
Who they consider their own, obliterated have turned

Apne Daman Ko Zara Aap Bacha Kar Rakhna
Sakhat Aahon Se Bhi Hum Aag Laga Dete Hain

Your own hem a little, you save and claim
With deep sighs, we set the fire aflame

Jis Ki Janib Woh Nazar Apni Uttha Lete Hain
Uss Ki Soyee Hui Taqdeer Jaga Dete Hain*

Towards whom they raise their glance
His resting destiny they awaken in a trance

— Translated by Jamil Hussain, Sung by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
Jules Apr 2014
You hear it all the time
Jesus died for our sins, isn't He great!
Yeh yeh, that's pretty amazing, thank goodness for that

But actually think about it
Just a regular person.... a person who feels physical pain, emotional pain
He let people make fun of Him for claiming to be, basically, magical
No matter how much He proved them wrong, He was still a fraud
Then after all He has done for them, He got nails stuck into Him

Just think about that for a second
He didn't just get cut with nails, they were stabbed through Him
Do you think He wasn't feeling some sort of hatred towards us?
Of course He was
But the point is, He was looking at something greater

He got nails stabbed through himself because He knew we were destined for greater things
He didn't want us to suffer like He had
He wanted us to be able to go and live with His Dad, who we love so dearly for creating this world and everything in it
Even though after all we've done against God, we clearly don't deserve to go and live with Him
We were given a second chance

Now you may just think, He chose to die and got made fun of, big deal
But that isn't it at all
He endured so much more
He went through His entire life being the outcast, being the ******
Everything that came out of His mouth was a lie
Well that's what everyone thought

And even when he physically showed proof, He was still looked down on
And then He goes to save all the people who did this to Him?
What a guy.

Granted, God sent Him down to earth to do this and it wasn't necessarily His idea, Jesus still agreed to do this, despite everything He had been through
He could've easily turned His back on His father and think about it, not sure how many people would agree to such a thing
But He still did it.

So next time you hear of Jesus and how He died for our sins
Don't think it's some old story that doesn't involve us at all
Because it actually does
When Jesus was hanging on a piece of wood with nails in His hands
He was doing it for every person who lived and was to be born
Not just the people who were watching, laughing at Him

He did it for everybody
He did it for you.

Jesus is the most selfless man in history and we should strive to act the way He acted and spoke the way He spoke and He should be our model

And we definitely need to remember everything He did for us :)
Not quite a poem but it's just a little reminded to all Christians out there of how much you're loved and how awesome Jesus is! And hopefully spoke to any non-believers? :D If it did, I encourage you to delve deeper because personally, being a part of Christianity and having the creator or the world as your best friend makes life definitely a whole lot more satisfying and a lot less lonely too! <3
Aarushi Vijay Jun 2016
Tera meri iss ujadi zindagi main aana,
Kaash koi shabd bayaan kar paate.

Par kya Karen zindagi ka hai yeh dastoor..
Ki hum jisko sabse zyada chahte ,
Ussiko nahi bata paate.
Eryck Mar 2018
Like a tank he barges in
talking loud shaking hands
hard almost mad.
  Yeh thats my dad.
   Your opinions be ******
while his are grand
his advice taken
not To be forsaken
or he'll  be mad.
  That's my dad.
His lessons you'll learn
or you'll  get burned
by the outside world
or some sneaky girl
don't question or you'll end up sad.
That's my dad.
   No laziness or wallowing
his rules are for following
no goofing around
sun up to sun down,
eee  gad!
Yeh that's my dad.
But in the end it's true,
he's the only father that I knew
now he's dead
our family head
He's the only father I ever had.
Yeh that's my dad.
George was lying in his trailer, flat on his back, watching a small portable T.V. His
dinner dishes were undone, his breakfast dishes were undone, he needed a shave, and ash
from his rolled cigarettes dropped onto his undershirt. Some of the ash was still burning.
Sometimes the burning ash missed the undershirt and hit his skin, then he cursed, brushing
it away. There was a knock on the trailer door. He got slowly to his feet and answered the
door. It was Constance. She had a fifth of unopened whiskey in a bag.
"George, I left that *******, I couldn't stand that *******
"Sit down."
George opened the fifth, got two glasses, filled each a third with whiskey, two thirds
with water. He sat down on the bed with Constance. She took a cigarette out of her purse
and lit it. She was drunk and her hands trembled.
"I took his **** money too. I took his **** money and split while he was at work.
You don't know how I've suffered with that *******." "
Lemme have a smoke," said George. She handed it to him and as she leaned near,
George put his arm around her, pulled her over and kissed her.
"You *******," she said, "I missed you."
"I miss those good legs of yours , Connie. I've really missed those good
"You still like 'em?"
"I get hot just looking."
"I could never make it with a college guy," said Connie. "They're too
soft, they're milktoast. And he kept his house clean. George , it was like having a maid.
He did it all. The place was spotless. You could eat beef stew right off the crapper. He
was antisceptic, that's what he was."
"Drink up, you'll feel better."
"And he couldn't make love."
"You mean he couldn't get it up?"
"Oh he got it up, he got it up all the time. But he didn't know how to make a
woman happy, you know. He didn't know what to do. All that money, all that education, he
was useless."
"I wish I had a college education."
"You don't need one. You have everything you need, George."
"I'm just a flunkey. All the **** jobs."
"I said you have everything you need, George. You know how to make a woman
"Yes. And you know what else? His mother came around! His mother! Two or three
times a week. And she'd sit there looking at me, pretending to like me but all the time
she was treating me like I was a *****. Like I was a big bad ***** stealing her son away
from her! Her precious Wallace! Christ! What a mess!" "He claimed he loved me.
And I'd say, 'Look at my *****, Walter!' And he wouldn't look at my *****. He said, 'I
don't want to look at that thing.' That thing! That's what he called it! You're not afraid
of my *****, are you, George?"
"It's never bit me yet." "But you've bit it, you've nibbled it, haven't
you George?"
"I suppose I have."
"And you've licked it , ****** it?"
"I suppose so."
"You know **** well, George, what you've done."
"How much money did you get?"
"Six hundred dollars."
"I don't like people who rob other people, Connie."
"That's why you're a ******* dishwasher. You're honest. But he's such an ***,
George. And he can afford the money, and I've earned it... him and his mother and his
love, his mother-love, his clean l;ittle wash bowls and toilets and disposal bags and
breath chasers and after shave lotions and his little hard-ons and his precious
love-making. All for himself, you understand, all for himself! You know what a woman
wants, George."
"Thanks for the whiskey, Connie. Lemme have another cigarette."
George filled them up again. "I missed your legs, Connie. I've really missed those
legs. I like the way you wear those high heels. They drive me crazy. These modern women
don't know what they're missing. The high heel shapes the calf, the thigh, the ***; it
puts rythm into the walk. It really turns me on!"
"You talk like a poet, George. Sometimes you talk like that. You are one hell of a
"You know what I'd really like to do?"
"I'd like to whip you with my belt on the legs, the ***, the thighs. I'd like to
make you quiver and cry and then when you're quivering and crying I'd slam it into you
pure love."
"I don't want that, George. You've never talked like that to me before. You've
always done right with me."
"Pull your dress up higher."
"Pull your dress up higher, I want to see more of your legs."
"You like my legs, don't you, George?"
"Let the light shine on them!"
Constance hiked her dress.
"God christ ****," said George.
"You like my legs?"
"I love your legs!" Then george reached across the bed and slapped Constance
hard across the face. Her cigarette flipped out of her mouth.
"what'd you do that for?"
"You ****** Walter! You ****** Walter!"
"So what the hell?"
"So pull your dress up higher!"
"Do what I say!" George slapped again, harder. Constance hiked her skirt.
"Just up to the *******!" shouted George. "I don't quite want to see the
"Christ, george, what's gone wrong with you?"
"You ****** Walter!"
"George, I swear, you've gone crazy. I want to leave. Let me out of here,
"Don't move or I'll **** you!"
"You'd **** me?"
"I swear it!" George got up and poured himself a shot of straight whiskey,
drank it, and sat down next to Constance. He took the cigarette and held it against her
wrist. She screamed. HE held it there, firmly, then pulled it away.
"I'm a man , baby, understand that?"
"I know you're a man , George."
"Here, look at my muscles!" george sat up and flexed both of his arms.
"Beautiful, eh ,baby? Look at that muscle! Feel it! Feel it!"
Constance felt one of the arms, then the other.
"Yes, you have a beautiful body, George."
"I'm a man. I'm a dishwasher but I'm a man, a real man."
"I know it, George." "I'm not the milkshit you left."
"I know it."
"And I can sing, too. You ought to hear my voice."
Constance sat there. George began to sing. He sang "Old man River." Then he
sang "Nobody knows the trouble I've seen." He sang "The St. Louis
Blues." He sasng "God Bless America," stopping several times and laughing.
Then he sat down next to Constance. He said, "Connie, you have beautiful legs."
He asked for another cigarette. He smoked it, drank two more drinks, then put his head
down on Connie's legs, against the stockings, in her lap, and he said, "Connie, I
guess I'm no good, I guess I'm crazy, I'm sorry I hit you, I'm sorry I burned you with
that cigarette."
Constance sat there. She ran her fingers through George's hair, stroking him, soothing
him. Soon he was asleep. She waited a while longer. Then she lifted his head and placed it
on the pillow, lifted his legs and straightened them out on the bed. She stood up, walked
to the fifth, poured a jolt of good whiskey in to her glass, added a touch of water and
drank it sown. She walked to the trailer door, pulled it open, stepped out, closed it. She
walked through the backyard, opened the fence gate, walked up the alley under the one
o'clock moon. The sky was clear of clouds. The same skyful of clouds was up there. She got
out on the boulevard and walked east and reached the entrance of The Blue Mirror. She
walked in, and there was Walter sitting alone and drunk at the end of the bar. She walked
up and sat down next to him. "Missed me, baby?" she asked. Walter looked up. He
recognized her. He didn't answer. He looked at the bartender and the bartender walked
toward them They all knew eachother.
Manas Madrecha Jun 2015
English Tranliteration - Pratishod Ek Mithya Hain

Ghisi peeti baate hain ab, tum naa uljho ateet mein,
Tyaag dwesh gar maaf karo, badle shatru bhi meet mein...

Sugalte badle ki chingaari ko, nahi lagti der badalte aag mein,
Barsaao kshama ka paani us par, katutaa badle prembaag mein...

Sabhi jeev hain mitra tumhare, fir bair bhav ka kya prayojan,
Waqt rehte thook do gussa, behtar hain apna lo sanyam...

Pratishod ek mithya hain, mat uljho iske jaal mein,
Saajisho aur yojaanaao mein, aur badle ki chaal mein...

Krodh ke angaare oor mein rakh, khud hi ko jalaa baithoge...
Man ki chinta chittaa samaan, yeh baat puraani bhulaa baithoge...

Der nahi huyi hain ab tak, maafi ki ehmiyat jaan lo,
Thoda maaf tum kar do ab, aur thodi tum bhi maang lo...

- - - - -

English Translation - Vengeance Is An Illusion

Begone and ancient thing it is, you don't get indulged in the past,
By abandoning hatred, if you forgive (someone) , then even an enemy gets transformed into a friend.

It doesn't take much time for a burning vengeance of cinder to change into fire,
Pour the water of forgiveness onto it, and even bitterness will change into garden of love.

All the beings are friends of yours, then what is the use of aversion?
In time, spit away your anger, and it's better to adopt temperance (sobriety/control) .

Vengeance is an illusion, don't get entwined in its trap,
In its conspiracies & plans, as well as in its schemes.

By keeping the burning coals of anger in heart, you will burn yourself alone,
Mind's worry is like a crematory pyre: you'll forget this ancient wisdom.

It's not too late still; know the significance of forgiveness,
You should now forgive a little and you should also ask for it a little...

- - - - -

Original Poem - प्रतिशोद इक मिथ्या है*

घिसी पीटी बातें हैं अब, तुम ना उलझो अतीत में।
त्याग द्वेष गर माफ़ करो, बदले शत्रु भी मीत में।।

सुलगते बदले की चिंगारी को, नहीं लगती देर बदलते आग मे।
बरसाओ क्षमा का पानी उस पर, कटुता बदले प्रेमबाग मे।।

सभी जीव हैं मित्र तुम्हारे, फिर बैरभाव का क्या प्रयोजन।
वक़्त रहते थूक दो गुस्सा, बेहतर है अपना लो संयम।।

प्रतिशोद इक मिथ्या है, मत उलझो इसके जाल में।
साजिशों और योजनाओं में, और बदले की चाल में।।

क्रोध के अँगारें रख उर में, खुद ही को जला बैठोगे।
मन की चिन्ता चित्ता समान, यह बात पुरानी भुला बैठोगे।।

© Poem by *
Manas Madrecha
This poem was first published on the blog 'Simplifying Universe'
( in May, 2015.
Rohini Raj Jan 2015
Nai umangey nai tajgi,
Laker aai subah aaj ki.
Aaj subah kuch hoga khas
Sab ko yeh  hoga ehasah.
Nai subah ki nai bauchhar
Sabko mile khub sara pyar
Yahi hamari dua hai rab se
Sabko khusiaa mile ham sb se.
Aai nai bouchhar,
lekar khub sara pyar.
Nai umange......
Har muskurahat hoti hai kimati
Par log karte eski na ginti.
Har din har roj
Karte ham eski khoj.
Sbki khusiaa rahe salamat,
Ham sb ki yahi hai amanat.
Jb khamosi chaye
To hm sb muskuraye
Ye duniaa ki rit ham sb nibhay,
Agar  chot lagti koi apno ko
Bahot dukh hota mere es dill ko
Magar mai na sochi kv aoro ki
jo phirte hai dharti pe bina apno ke,
Par muskil hai sb ko ye bat batana.
Ye duniaa me apni aawaj uthana
Ye bouchhar aai bahot pyar lai,
Barsat ke sath nai subah aai.
Nai umange nai tazgi,
Lekar Aai subah aaj ki.......!!!!!!

-Muhabatey ki lamhe-

— The End —