Modern Charon
by Michael R. Burch
I, too, have stood―paralyzed at the helm
watching onrushing, inevitable disaster.
I too have felt sweat (or ecstatic tears) plaster
damp hair to my eyes, as a slug’s dense film
becomes mucous-insulate. Always, thereafter
living in darkness, bright things overwhelm.
Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea. I wrote this poem in 2001 after the 911 terrorist attacks.
Davenport Tomorrow
by Michael R. Burch
Davenport tomorrow ...
all the trees stand stark-naked in the sun.
Now it is always summer
and the bees buzz in cesspools,
adapted to a new life.
There are no flowers,
but the weeds, being hardier,
have survived.
The small town has become
a city of millions;
there is no longer a sea,
only a huge sewer,
but the children don't mind.
They still study
rocks and stars,
but biology is a forgotten science ...
after all, what is life?
Davenport tomorrow ...
all the children murmur through vein-streaked gills
whispered wonders of long-ago.
Burn
by Michael R. Burch
for Trump
Sunbathe,
ozone baby,
till your parched skin cracks
in the white-hot flash
of radiation.
Incantation
from your pale parched lips
shall not avail;
you made this hell.
Now burn.
Bikini
by Michael R. Burch
Undersea, by the shale and the coral forming,
by the shell’s pale rose and the pearl’s bright eye,
through the sea’s green bed of lank seaweed worming
like tangled hair where cold currents rise ...
something lurks where the riptides sigh,
something old, and odd, and wise.
Something old when the world was forming
now lifts its beak, its snail-blind eye,
and, with tentacles like Medusa's squirming,
it feels the cloud blot out the skies' ...
then shudders, settles with a sigh,
understanding man’s demise.
This poem has over 800,000 Google results for the eleventh line. That's a lot of cutting and pasting!
First They Came for the Muslims
by Michael R. Burch
after Martin Niemoller
First they came for the Muslims
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Muslim.
Then they came for the homosexuals
and I did not speak out
because I was not a homosexual.
Then they came for the feminists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a feminist.
Now when will they come for me
because I was too busy and too apathetic
to defend my sisters and brothers?
Published in Amnesty International’s Words That Burn anthology, and by Borderless Journal (India), The Hindu (India), Matters India, New Age Bangladesh, Convivium Journal, PressReader (India) and Kracktivist (India)
It is indeed an honor to have one of my poems published by an outstanding organization like Amnesty International. A stated goal for the "Words That Burn" anthology is to teach students about human rights through poetry.
Warming Her Pearls
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Warming her pearls, her *******
gleam like constellations.
Her belly is a bit rotund ...
she might have stepped out of a Rubens.
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, Grassroots Poetry, Romantics Quarterly, Angle, Poetry Life & Times
Distances
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 Poetry Porch/Sonnet Scroll
Fascination with Light
by Michael R. Burch
Desire glides in on calico wings,
a breath of a moth
seeking a companionable light,
where it hovers, unsure,
sullen, shy or demure,
in the margins of night,
a soft blur.
With a frantic dry rattle
of alien wings,
it rises and thrums one long breathless staccato
and flutters and drifts on in dark aimless flight.
And yet it returns
to the flame, its delight,
as long as it burns.
Originally published by The HyperTexts
Kin
by Michael R. Burch
O pale, austere moon,
haughty beauty ...
what do we know of love,
or duty?
Water and Gold
by Michael R. Burch
You came to me as rain breaks on the desert
when every flower springs to life at once,
but joy's a wan illusion to the expert:
the Bedouin has learned how not to want.
You came to me as riches to a miser
when all is gold, or so his heart believes,
until he dies much thinner and much wiser,
his gleaming bones hauled off by chortling thieves.
You gave your heart too soon, too dear, too vastly;
I could not take it in; it was too much.
I pledged to meet your price, but promised rashly.
I died of thirst, of your bright Midas touch.
I dreamed you gave me water of your lips,
then sealed my tomb with golden hieroglyphs.
Published by The Lyric, Black Medina, The Eclectic Muse, Kritya (India), Shabestaneh (Iran), Anthology of Contemporary American Poetry, Captivating Poetry (Anthology), Strange Road, Freshet, Shot Glass Journal, Better Than Starbucks, Famous Poets and Poems, Sonnetto Poesia, Poetry Life & Times
escape!!!
by michael r. burch
for anaïs vionet
to live among the daffodil folk . . .
slip down the rainslickened drainpipe . . .
suddenly pop out
the GARGANTUAN SPOUT . . .
minuscule as alice, shout
yippee-yi-yee!
in wee exultant glee
to be leaving behind the
LARGE
THREE-DENALI GARAGE.
Leave Taking
by Michael R. Burch
Brilliant leaves abandon battered limbs
to waltz upon ecstatic winds
until they die.
But the barren and embittered trees,
lament the frolic of the leaves
and curse the bleak November sky ...
Now, as I watch the leaves' high flight
before the fading autumn light,
I think that, perhaps, at last I may
have learned what it means to say—
goodbye.
This poem started out as a stanza in a much longer poem, "Jessamyn's Song," that dates to around age 14 or 15.
Passionate One
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Love of my life,
light of my morning―
arise, brightly dawning,
for you are my sun.
Give me of heaven
both manna and leaven―
desirous Presence,
Passionate One.
Stay With Me Tonight
by Michael R. Burch
Stay with me tonight;
be gentle with me as the leaves are gentle
falling to the earth.
And whisper, O my love,
how that every bright thing, though scattered afar,
retains yet its worth.
Stay with me tonight;
be as a petal long-awaited blooming in my hand.
Lift your face to mine
and touch me with your lips
till I feel the warm benevolence of your breath’s
heady fragrance like wine.
That which we had
when pale and waning as the dying moon at dawn,
outshone the sun.
And so lead me back tonight
through bright waterfalls of light
to where we shine as one.
Originally published by The Lyric
bachelorhoodwinked
by Michael R. Burch
u
are
charming
& disarming,
but mostly alarming
since all my resolve
dissolved!
u
are
chic
as a sheikh's
harem girl in the sheets
but my castle’s no longer my own
and my kingdom's been overthrown!
chrysalis
by Michael R. Burch
these are the days of doom
u seldom leave ur room
u live in perpetual gloom
yet also the days of hope
how to cope?
u pray and u *****
toward self illumination ...
becoming an angel
(pure love)
and yet You must love Your Self
Self Reflection
by Michael R. Burch
(for anyone struggling with self-image)
She has a comely form
and a smile that brightens her dorm ...
but she's grossly unthin
when seen from within;
soon a griefstricken campus will mourn.
Yet she'd never once criticize
a friend for the size of her thighs.
Do unto others—
sisters and brothers?
Yes, but also ourselves, likewise.
War is Obsolete
by Michael R. Burch
Trump’s war is on children and their mothers.
"An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind." ― Gandhi
War is obsolete;
even the strange machinery of dread
weeps for the child in the street
who cannot lift her head
to reprimand the Man
who failed to countermand
her soft defeat.
But war is obsolete;
even the cold robotic drone
that flies far overhead
has sense enough to moan
and shudder at her plight
(only men bereft of Light
with hearts indurate stone
embrace war’s Siberian night.)
For war is obsolete;
man’s tribal “gods,” long dead,
have fled his awakening sight
while the true Sun, overhead,
has pity on her plight.
O sweet, precipitate Light!―
embrace her, reject the night
that leaves gentle fledglings dead.
For each brute ancestor lies
with his totems and his “gods”
in the slavehold of premature night
that awaited him in his tomb;
while Love, the ancestral womb,
still longs to give birth to the Light.
So which child shall we ****** tonight,
or which Ares condemn to the gloom?
Originally published by The Flea. While campaigning for president in 2016, Donald Trump said that, as commander-in-chief of the American military, he would order American soldiers to track down and ****** women and children as "retribution" for acts of terrorism. When aghast journalists asked Trump if he could possibly have meant what he said, he verified more than once that he did. Keywords/Tags: war, terrorism, retribution, violence, ******, children, Gandhi, Trump, drones
In My House
by Michael R. Burch
When you were in my house
you were not free―
in chains bound.
Manifest Destiny?
I was wrong;
my plantation burned to the ground.
I was wrong.
This is my song,
this is my plea:
I was wrong.
When you are in my house,
now, I am not free.
I feel the song
hurling itself back at me.
We were wrong.
This is my history.
I feel my tongue
stilting accordingly.
We were wrong;
brother, forgive me.
Published by Black Medina
Shock
by Michael R. Burch
It was early in the morning of the forming of my soul,
in the dawning of desire, with passion at first bloom,
with lightning splitting heaven to thunder's blasting roll
and a sense of welling fire and, perhaps, impending doom―
that I cried out through the tumult of the raging storm on high
for shelter from the chaos of the restless, driving rain ...
and the voice I heard replying from a rift of bleeding sky
was mine, I'm sure, and, furthermore, was certainly insane.
I may have been reading too many gothic ghost stories when I wrote this one! I think it shows a good touch with meter for a young poet, since I wrote it in my early teens.
In Praise of Meter
by Michael R. Burch
The earth is full of rhythms so precise
the octave of the crystal can produce
a trillion oscillations, yet not lose
a second's beat. The ear needs no device
to hear the unsprung rhythms of the couch
drown out the mouth's; the lips can be debauched
by kisses, should the heart put back its watch
and find the pulse of love, and sing, devout.
If moons and tides in interlocking dance
obey their numbers, what's been left to chance?
Should poets be more lax―their circumstance
as humble as it is?―or readers wince
to see their ragged numbers thin, to hear
the moans of drones drown out the Chanticleer?
Originally published by The Eclectic Muse, then in The Best of the Eclectic Muse 1989-2003
Completing the Pattern
by Michael R. Burch
Walk with me now, among the transfixed dead
who kept life’s compact and who thus endure
harsh sentence here—among pink-petaled beds
and manicured green lawns. The sky’s azure,
pale blue once like their eyes, will gleam blood-red
at last when sunset staggers to the door
of each white mausoleum, to inquire—
What use, O things of erstwhile loveliness?
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.
Published by Grassroots Poetry and Poetry Webring
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
White in the Shadows
by Michael R. Burch
White in the shadows
I see your face,
unbidden. Go, tell
Love it is commonplace;
tell Regret it is not so rare.
Our love is not here
though you smile,
full of sedulous grace.
Lost in darkness, I fear
the past is our resting place.
Published by Carnelian, The Chained Muse, Poetry Life & Times, A-Poem-A-Day and in a YouTube video by Aurora G. with the titles “Ghost,” “White Goddess” and “White in the Shadows”
The Octopi Jars
by Michael R. Burch
Long-vacant eyes
now lodged in clear glass,
a-swim with pale arms
as delicate as angels'...
you are beyond all hope
of salvage now...
and yet I would pause,
no fear!,
to once touch
your arcane beaks...
I, more alien than you
to this imprismed world,
notice, most of all,
the scratches on the inside surfaces
of your hermetic cells ...
and I remember documentaries
of albino Houdinis
slipping like wraiths
over the walls of shipboard aquariums,
slipping down decks'
brine-lubricated planks,
spilling jubilantly into the dark sea,
parachuting through clouds of pallid ammonia...
and I know now in life you were unlike me:
your imprisonment was never voluntary.
The Children of Gaza
Nine of my poems have been set to music by the composer Eduard de Boer and have been performed in Europe by the Palestinian soprano Dima Bawab. My poems that became “The Children of Gaza” were written from the perspective of Palestinian children and their mothers. On this page the poems come first, followed by the song lyrics, which have been adapted in places to fit the music …
Epitaph for a Child of Gaza
by Michael R. Burch
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
Frail Envelope of Flesh
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers and children of Gaza
Frail envelope of flesh,
lying cold on the surgeon’s table
with anguished eyes
like your mother’s eyes
and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...
Frail crucible of dust,
brief flower come to this―
your tiny hand
in your mother’s hand
for a last bewildered kiss ...
Brief mayfly of a child,
to live two artless years!
Now your mother’s lips
seal up your lips
from the Deluge of her tears ...
For a Child of Gaza, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch
Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails
when thunder howls
when hailstones scream
while winter scowls
and nights compound dark frosts with snow?
Where does the butterfly go?
Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?
I Pray Tonight
by Michael R. Burch
for the children of Gaza and their mothers
I pray tonight
the starry Light
might
surround you.
I pray
by 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.
Something
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers and children of Gaza
Something inescapable is lost―
lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight,
vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars
immeasurable and void.
Something uncapturable is gone―
gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn,
scattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass
and remembrance.
Something unforgettable is past―
blown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less,
and finality has swept into a corner where it lies
in dust and cobwebs and silence.
Mother’s Smile
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers of Gaza and their children
There never was a fonder smile
than mother’s smile, no softer touch
than mother’s touch. So sleep awhile
and know she loves you more than “much.”
So more than “much,” much more than “all.”
Though tender words, these do not speak
of love at all, nor how we fall
and mother’s there, nor how we reach
from nightmares in the ticking night
and she is there to hold us tight.
There never was a stronger back
than father’s back, that held our weight
and lifted us, when we were small,
and bore us till we reached the gate,
then held our hands that first bright mile
till we could run, and did, and flew.
But, oh, a mother’s tender smile
will leap and follow after you!
Such Tenderness
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers of Gaza
There was, in your touch, such tenderness―as
only the dove on her mildest day has,
when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing
and coos to them softly, unable to sing.
What songs long forgotten occur to you now―
a babe at each breast? What terrible vow
ripped from your throat like the thunder that day
can never hold severing lightnings at bay?
Time taught you tenderness―time, oh, and love.
But love in the end is seldom enough ...
and time?―insufficient to life’s brief task.
I can only admire, unable to ask―
what is the source, whence comes the desire
of a woman to love as no God may require?
who, US?
by Michael R. Burch
jesus was born
a palestinian child
where there’s no Room
for the meek and the mild
... and in bethlehem still
to this day, lambs are born
to cries of “no Room!”
and Puritanical scorn ...
under Herod, Trump, Bibi
their fates are the same―
the slouching Beast mauls them
and WE have no shame:
“who’s to blame?”
My nightmare ...
I had a dream of Jesus!
Mama, his eyes were so kind!
But behind him I saw a billion Christians
hissing "You're nothing!," so blind.
―The Child Poets of Gaza (written by Michael R. Burch for the children of Gaza)
I, too, have a dream ...
I, too, have a dream ...
that one day Jews and Christians
will see me as I am:
a small child, lonely and afraid,
staring down the barrels of their big bazookas,
knowing I did nothing
to deserve their enmity.
―The Child Poets of Gaza (written by Michael R. Burch for the children of Gaza)
Suffer the Little Children
by Nakba
I saw the carnage . . . saw girls' dreaming heads
blown to red atoms, and their dreams with them . . .
saw babies liquefied in burning beds
as, horrified, I heard their murderers’ phlegm . . .
I saw my mother stitch my shroud’s black hem,
for in that moment I was one of them . . .
I saw our Father’s eyes grow hard and bleak
to see frail roses severed at the stem . . .
How could I fail to speak?
―Nakba is an alias of Michael R. Burch
Here We Shall Remain
by Tawfiq Zayyad
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Like twenty impossibilities
in Lydda, Ramla and Galilee ...
here we shall remain.
Like brick walls braced against your chests;
lodged in your throats
like shards of glass
or prickly cactus thorns;
clouding your eyes
like sandstorms.
Here we shall remain,
like brick walls obstructing your chests,
washing dishes in your boisterous bars,
serving drinks to our overlords,
scouring your kitchens' filthy floors
in order to ****** morsels for our children
from between your poisonous fangs.
Here we shall remain,
like brick walls deflating your chests
as we face our deprivation clad in rags,
singing our defiant songs,
chanting our rebellious poems,
then swarming out into your unjust streets
to fill dungeons with our dignity.
Like twenty impossibilities
in Lydda, Ramla and Galilee,
here we shall remain,
guarding the shade of the fig and olive trees,
fermenting rebellion in our children
like yeast in dough.
Here we wring the rocks to relieve our thirst;
here we stave off starvation with dust;
but here we remain and shall not depart;
here we spill our expensive blood
and do not hoard it.
For here we have both a past and a future;
here we remain, the Unconquerable;
so strike fast, penetrate deep,
O, my roots!
Labor Pains
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Tonight the wind wafts pollen through ruined fields and homes.
The earth shivers with love, with the agony of giving birth,
while the Invader spreads stories of submission and surrender.
O, Arab Aurora!
Tell the Usurper: childbirth’s a force beyond his ken
because a mother’s wracked body reveals a rent that inaugurates life,
a crack through which light dawns in an instant
as the blood’s rose blooms in the wound.
Hamza
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Hamza was one of my hometown’s ordinary men
who did manual labor for bread.
When I saw him recently,
the land still wore its mourning dress in the solemn windless silence
and I felt defeated.
But Hamza-the-unextraordinary said:
“Sister, our land’s throbbing heart never ceases to pound,
and it perseveres, enduring the unendurable, keeping the secrets of mounds and wombs.
This land sprouting cactus spikes and palms also births freedom-fighters.
Thus our land, my sister, is our mother!”
Days passed and Hamza was nowhere to be seen,
but I felt the land’s belly heaving in pain.
At sixty-five Hamza’s a heavy burden on her back.
“Burn down his house!”
some commandant screamed,
“and slap his son in a prison cell!”
As our town’s military ruler later explained
this was necessary for law and order,
that is, an act of love, for peace!
Armed soldiers surrounded Hamza’s house;
the coiled serpent completed its circle.
The bang at his door came with an ultimatum:
“Evacuate, **** it!'
So generous with their time, they said:
“You can have an hour, yes!”
Hamza threw open a window.
Face-to-face with the blazing sun, he yelled defiantly:
“Here in this house I and my children will live and die, for Palestine!”
Hamza's voice echoed over the hemorrhaging silence.
An hour later, with impeccable timing, Hanza’s house came crashing down
as its rooms were blown sky-high and its bricks and mortar burst,
till everything settled, burying a lifetime’s memories of labor, tears, and happier times.
Yesterday I saw Hamza
walking down one of our town’s streets ...
Hamza-the-unextraordinary man who remained as he always was:
unshakable in his determination.
Enough for Me
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Enough for me to lie in the earth,
to be buried in her,
to sink meltingly into her fecund soil, to vanish ...
only to spring forth like a flower
brightening the play of my countrymen's children.
Enough for me to remain
in my native soil's embrace,
to be as close as a handful of dirt,
a sprig of grass,
a wildflower.
Palestine
by Mahmoud Darwish
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This land gives us
all that makes life worthwhile:
April's blushing advances,
the aroma of bread warming at dawn,
a woman haranguing men,
the poetry of Aeschylus,
love's trembling beginnings,
a boulder covered with moss,
mothers who dance to the flute's sighs,
and the invaders' fear of memories.
This land gives us
all that makes life worthwhile:
September's rustling end,
a woman leaving forty behind, still full of grace, still blossoming,
an hour of sunlight in prison,
clouds taking the shapes of unusual creatures,
the people's applause for those who mock their assassins,
and the tyrant's fear of songs.
This land gives us
all that makes life worthwhile:
Lady Earth, mother of all beginnings and endings!
In the past she was called Palestine
and tomorrow she will still be called Palestine.
My Lady, because you are my Lady, I deserve life!
Distant light
by Walid Khazindar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Bitterly cold,
winter clings to the naked trees.
If only you would free
the bright sparrows
from the tips of your fingers
and release a smile—that shy, tentative smile—
from the imprisoned anguish I see.
Sing! Can we not sing
as if we were warm, hand-in-hand,
shielded by shade from a glaring sun?
Can you not always remain this way,
stoking the fire, more beautiful than necessary, and silent?
Darkness increases; we must remain vigilant
and this distant light is our only consolation—
this imperiled flame, which from the beginning
has been flickering,
in danger of going out.
Come to me, closer and closer.
I don't want to be able to tell my hand from yours.
And let's stay awake, lest the snow smother us.
Walid Khazindar was born in 1950 in Gaza City. He is considered one of the best Palestinian poets; his poetry has been said to be "characterized by metaphoric originality and a novel thematic approach unprecedented in Arabic poetry." He was awarded the first Palestine Prize for Poetry in 1997.
Excerpt from “Speech of the Red Indian”
by Mahmoud Darwish
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let's give the earth sufficient time to recite
the whole truth ...
The whole truth about us.
The whole truth about you.
In tombs you build
the dead lie sleeping.
Over bridges you *****
file the newly slain.
There are spirits who light up the night like fireflies.
There are spirits who come at dawn to sip tea with you,
as peaceful as the day your guns mowed them down.
O, you who are guests in our land,
please leave a few chairs empty
for your hosts to sit and ponder
the conditions for peace
in your treaty with the dead.
Existence
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In my solitary life, I was a lost question;
in the encompassing darkness,
my answer lay concealed.
You were a bright new star
revealed by fate,
radiating light from the fathomless darkness.
The other stars rotated around you
—once, twice —
until I perceived
your unique radiance.
Then the bleak blackness broke
and in the twin tremors
of our entwined hands
I had found my missing answer.
Oh you! Oh you intimate, yet distant!
Don't you remember the coalescence
Of our spirits in the flames?
Of my universe with yours?
Of the two poets?
Despite our great distance,
Existence unites us.
Nothing Remains
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Tonight, we’re together,
but tomorrow you'll be hidden from me again,
thanks to life’s cruelty.
The seas will separate us ...
Oh!—Oh!—If I could only see you!
But I'll never know ...
where your steps led you,
which routes you took,
or to what unknown destinations
your feet were compelled.
You will depart and the thief of hearts,
the denier of beauty,
will rob us of all that's dear to us,
will steal our happiness,
leaving our hands empty.
Tomorrow at dawn you'll vanish like a phantom,
dissipating into a delicate mist
dissolving quickly in the summer sun.
Your scent—your scent!—contains the essence of life,
filling my heart
as the earth absorbs the lifegiving rain.
I will miss you like the fragrance of trees
when you leave tomorrow,
and nothing remains.
Just as everything beautiful and all that's dear to us
is lost—lost!—when nothing remains.
Identity Card
by Mahmoud Darwish
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Record!
I am an Arab!
And my identity card is number fifty thousand.
I have eight children;
the ninth arrives this autumn.
Will you be furious?
Record!
I am an Arab!
Employed at the quarry,
I have eight children.
I provide them with bread,
clothes and books
from the bare rocks.
I do not supplicate charity at your gates,
nor do I demean myself at your chambers' doors.
Will you be furious?
Record!
I am an Arab!
I have a name without a title.
I am patient in a country
where people are easily enraged.
My roots
were established long before the onset of time,
before the unfolding of the flora and fauna,
before the pines and the olive trees,
before the first grass grew.
My father descended from plowmen,
not from the privileged classes.
My grandfather was a lowly farmer
neither well-bred, nor well-born!
Still, they taught me the pride of the sun
before teaching me how to read;
now my house is a watchman's hut
made of branches and cane.
Are you satisfied with my status?
I have a name, but no title!
Record!
I am an Arab!
You have stolen my ancestors' orchards
and the land I cultivated
along with my children.
You left us nothing
but these bare rocks.
Now will the State claim them
as it has been declared?
Therefore!
Record on the first page:
I do not hate people
nor do I encroach,
but if I become hungry
I will feast on the usurper's flesh!
Beware!
Beware my hunger
and my anger!
NOTE: Darwish was married twice, but had no children. In the poem above, he is apparently speaking for his people, not for himself personally.
Passport
by Mahmoud Darwish
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
They left me unrecognizable in the shadows
that bled all colors from this passport.
To them, my wounds were novelties—
curious photos for tourists to collect.
They failed to recognize me. No, don't leave
the palm of my hand bereft of sun
when all the trees recognize me
and every song of the rain honors me.
Don't set a wan moon over me!
All the birds that flocked to my welcoming wave
as far as the distant airport gates,
all the wheatfields,
all the prisons,
all the albescent tombstones,
all the barbwired boundaries,
all the fluttering handkerchiefs,
all the eyes—
they all accompanied me.
But they were stricken from my passport
shredding my identity!
How was I stripped of my name and identity
on soil I tended with my own hands?
Today, Job's lamentations
re-filled the heavens:
Don't make an example of me, not again!
Prophets! Gentlemen!—
Don't require the trees to name themselves!
Don't ask the valleys who mothered them!
My forehead glistens with lancing light.
From my hand the riverwater springs.
My identity can be found in my people's hearts,
so invalidate this passport!
Autumn Conundrum
by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers and children of Gaza
It's not that every leaf must finally fall,
it's just that we can never catch them all.
Piercing the Shell
for the mothers and children of Gaza
If we strip away all the accouterments of war,
perhaps we'll discover what the heart is for.
gimME that ol’ time religion!
by michael r. burch
fiddle-dee-dum, fiddle-dee-dee,
jesus loves and understands ME!
safe in his grace, I’LL **** them to hell—
the strumpet, the harlot, the wild jezebel,
the alky, the druggie, all queers short and tall!
let them drink ashes and wormwood and gall,
’cause fiddle-dee-DUMB, fiddle-dee-WEEEEEEEEEee ...
jesus loves and understands
ME!
To the boy Elis
by Georg Trakl
translation by Michael R. Burch
Elis, when the blackbird cries from the black forest,
it announces your downfall.
Your lips sip the rock-spring's blue coolness.
Your brow sweats blood
recalling ancient myths
and dark interpretations of birds' flight.
Yet you enter the night with soft footfalls;
the ripe purple grapes hang suspended
as you wave your arms more beautifully in the blueness.
A thornbush crackles;
where now are your moonlike eyes?
How long, oh Elis, have you been dead?
A monk dips waxed fingers
into your body's hyacinth;
Our silence is a black abyss
from which sometimes a docile animal emerges
slowly lowering its heavy lids.
A black dew drips from your temples:
the lost gold of vanished stars.
TRANSLATOR'S NOTE: I believe that in the second stanza the blood on Elis's forehead may be a reference to the apprehensive ****** sweat of Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane. If my interpretation is correct, Elis hears the blackbird's cries, anticipates the danger represented by a harbinger of death, but elects to continue rather than turn back. From what I have been able to gather, the color blue had a special significance for Georg Trakl: it symbolized longing and perhaps a longing for death. The colors blue, purple and black may represent a progression toward death in the poem.
Habeas Corpus
by Michael R. Burch
from “Songs of the Antinatalist”
I have the results of your DNA analysis.
If you want to have children, this may induce paralysis.
I wish I had good news, but how can I lie?
Any offspring you have are guaranteed to die.
It wouldn’t be fair—I’m sure you’ll agree—
to sentence kids to death, so I’ll waive my fee.
Bittersight
by Michael R. Burch
for Abu al-Ala Al-Ma'arri, an ancient antinatalist poet
To be plagued with sight
in the Land of the Blind,
—to know birth is death
and that Death is kind—
is to be flogged like Eve
(stripped, sentenced and fined)
because evil is “good”
as some “god” has defined.
In His Kingdom of Corpses
by Michael R. Burch
In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to speak
in many enraged discourses,
high, high from some mountain peak
where He’s lectured man on compassion
while the sparrows around Him fell,
and babes, for His meager ration
of rain, died and went to hell,
unbaptized, for that’s His fashion.
In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to vent
in many obscure discourses
on the need for man to repent,
to admit that he’s a sinner;
give up ***, and riches, and fame;
be disciplined at his dinner
though always he dies the same,
whether fatter or thinner.
In his kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to speak
in many absurd discourses
of man’s Ego, precipitous Peak!,
while demanding praise and worship,
and the bending of every knee.
And though He sounds like the Devil,
all religious men now agree
He loves them indubitably.
Uyghur Poetry Translations
With my translations I am trying to build awareness of the plight of Uyghur poets and their people, who are being sent in large numbers to Chinese "reeducation" concentration camps.
Perhat Tursun (1969-????) is one of the foremost living Uyghur language poets, if he is still alive. Unfortunately, Tursun was "disappeared" into a Chinese "reeducation" concentration camp where extreme psychological torture is the norm. According to a disturbing report he was later "hospitalized." Apparently no one knows his present whereabouts or condition, if he has one. According to John Bolton, when Donald Trump learned of these "reeducation" concentration camps, he told Chinese President Xi Jinping it was "exactly the right thing to do." Trump’s excuse? "Well, we were in the middle of a major trade deal."
Elegy
by Perhat Tursun
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
"Your soul is the entire world."
―Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha
Asylum seekers, will you recognize me among the mountain passes' frozen corpses?
Can you identify me here among our Exodus's exiled brothers?
We begged for shelter but they lashed us bare; consider our naked corpses.
When they compel us to accept their massacres, do you know that I am with you?
Three centuries later they resurrect, not recognizing each other,
Their former greatness forgotten.
I happily ingested poison, like a fine wine.
When they search the streets and cannot locate our corpses, do you know that I am with you?
In that tower constructed of skulls you will find my dome as well:
They removed my head to more accurately test their swords' temper.
When before their swords our relationship flees like a flighty lover,
Do you know that I am with you?
When men in fur hats are used for target practice in the marketplace
Where a dying man's face expresses his agony as a bullet cleaves his brain
While the executioner's eyes fail to comprehend why his victim vanishes, ...
Seeing my form reflected in that bullet-pierced brain's erratic thoughts,
Do you know that I am with you?
In those days when drinking wine was considered worse than drinking blood,
did you taste the flour ground out in that blood-turned churning mill?
Now, when you sip the wine Ali-Shir Nava'i imagined to be my blood
In that mystical tavern's dark abyssal chambers,
Do you know that I am with you?
TRANSLATOR NOTES: This is my interpretation (not necessarily correct) of the poem's frozen corpses left 300 years in the past. For the Uyghur people the Mongol period ended around 1760 when the Qing dynasty invaded their homeland, then called Dzungaria. Around a million people were slaughtered during the Qing takeover, and the Dzungaria territory was renamed Xinjiang. I imagine many Uyghurs fleeing the slaughters would have attempted to navigate treacherous mountain passes. Many of them may have died from starvation and/or exposure, while others may have been caught and murdered by their pursuers. If anyone has a better explanation, they are welcome to email me at mikerburch@gmail.com (there is an "r" between my first and last names).
The Fog and the Shadows
adapted from a novel by Perhat Tursun
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
“I began to realize the fog was similar to the shadows.”
I began to realize that, just as the exact shape of darkness is a shadow,
even so the exact shape of fog is disappearance
and the exact shape of a human being is also disappearance.
At this moment it seemed my body was vanishing into the human form’s final state.
After I arrived here,
it was as if the danger of getting lost
and the desire to lose myself
were merging strangely inside me.
While everything in that distant, gargantuan city where I spent my five college years felt strange to me; and even though the skyscrapers, highways, ditches and canals were built according to a single standard and shape, so that it wasn’t easy to differentiate them, still I never had the feeling of being lost. Everyone there felt like one person and they were all folded into each other. It was as if their faces, voices and figures had been gathered together like a shaman’s jumbled-up hair.
Even the men and women seemed identical.
You could only tell them apart by stripping off their clothes and examining them.
The men’s faces were beardless like women’s and their skin was very delicate and unadorned.
I was always surprised that they could tell each other apart.
Later I realized it wasn’t just me: many others were also confused.
For instance, when we went to watch the campus’s only TV in a corridor of a building where the seniors stayed when they came to improve their knowledge. Those elderly Uyghurs always argued about whether someone who had done something unusual in an earlier episode was the same person they were seeing now. They would argue from the beginning of the show to the end. Other people, who couldn’t stand such endless nonsense, would leave the TV to us and stalk off.
Then, when the classes began, we couldn’t tell the teachers apart.
Gradually we became able to tell the men from the women
and eventually we able to recognize individuals.
But other people remained identical for us.
The most surprising thing for me was that the natives couldn’t differentiate us either.
For instance, two police came looking for someone who had broken windows during a fight at a restaurant and had then run away.
They ordered us line up, then asked the restaurant owner to identify the culprit.
He couldn’t tell us apart even though he inspected us very carefully.
He said we all looked so much alike that it was impossible to tell us apart.
Sighing heavily, he left.
The Encounter
by Abdurehim Otkur
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I asked her, why aren’t you afraid? She said her God.
I asked her, anything else? She said her People.
I asked her, anything more? She said her Soul.
I asked her if she was content? She said, I am Not.
The Distance
by Tahir Hamut
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
We can’t exclude the cicadas’ serenades.
Behind the convex glass of the distant hospital building
the nurses watch our outlandish party
with their absurdly distorted faces.
Drinking watered-down liquor,
half-****, descanting through the open window,
we speak sneeringly of life, love, girls.
The cicadas’ serenades keep breaking in,
wrecking critical parts of our dissertations.
The others dream up excuses to ditch me
and I’m left here alone.
The cosmopolitan pyramid
of drained bottles
makes me feel
like I’m in a Turkish bath.
I lock the door:
Time to get back to work!
I feel like doing cartwheels.
I feel like self-annihilation.
Refuge of a Refugee
by Ablet Abdurishit Berqi aka Tarim
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I lack a passport,
so I can’t leave legally.
All that’s left is for me to smuggle myself to safety,
but I’m afraid I’ll be beaten black and blue at the border
and I can’t afford the trafficker.
I’m a smuggler of love,
though love has no national identity.
Poetry is my refuge,
where a refugee is most free.
The following excerpts, translated by Anne Henochowicz, come from an essay written by Tang Danhong about her final meeting with Dr. Ablet Abdurishit Berqi, aka Tarim. Tarim is a reference to the Tarim Basin and its Uyghur inhabitants...
I’m convinced that the poet Tarim Ablet Berqi the associate professor at the Xinjiang Education Institute, has been sent to a “concentration camp for educational transformation.” This scholar of Uyghur literature who conducted postdoctoral research at Israel’s top university, what kind of “educational transformation” is he being put through?
Chen Quanguo, the Communist Party secretary of Xinjiang, has said it’s “like the instruction at school, the order of the military, and the security of prison. We have to break their blood relations, their networks, and their roots.”
On a scorching summer day, Tarim came to Tel Aviv from Haifa. In a few days he would go back to Urumqi. I invited him to come say goodbye and once again prepared Sichuan cold noodles for him. He had already unfriended me on Facebook. He said he couldn’t eat, he was busy, and had to hurry back to Haifa. He didn’t even stay for twenty minutes. I can’t even remember, did he sit down? Did he have a glass of water? Yet this farewell shook me to my bones.
He said, “Maybe when I get off the plane, before I enter the airport, they’ll take me to a separate room and beat me up, and I’ll disappear.”
Looking at my shocked face, he then said, “And maybe nothing will happen …”
His expression was sincere. To be honest, the Tarim I saw rarely smiled. Still, layer upon layer blocked my powers of comprehension: he’s a poet, a writer, and a scholar. He’s an associate professor at the Xinjiang Education Institute. He can get a passport and come to Israel for advanced studies. When he goes back he’ll have an offer from Sichuan University to be a professor of literature … I asked, “Beat you up at the airport? Disappear? On what grounds?”
“That’s how Xinjiang is,” he said without any surprise in his voice. “When a Uyghur comes back from being abroad, that can happen.”…
This poem helps us understand the nomadic lifestyle of many Uyghurs, the hardships they endure, and the character it builds...
Iz (“Traces”)
by Abdurehim Otkur
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
We were children when we set out on this journey;
Now our grandchildren ride horses.
We were just a few when we set out on this arduous journey;
Now we're a large caravan leaving traces in the desert.
We leave our traces scattered in desert dunes' valleys
Where many of our heroes lie buried in sandy graves.
But don't say they were abandoned: amid the cedars
their resting places are decorated by springtime flowers!
We left the tracks, the station... the crowds recede in the distance;
The wind blows, the sand swirls, but here our indelible trace remains.
The caravan continues, we and our horses become thin,
But our great-grand-children will one day rediscover those traces.
My Feelings
by Dolqun Yasin
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The light sinking through the ice and snow,
The hollyhock blossoms reddening the hills like blood,
The proud peaks revealing their ******* to the stars,
The morning-glories embroidering the earth’s greenery,
Are not light,
Not hollyhocks,
Not peaks,
Not morning-glories;
They are my feelings.
The tears washing the mothers’ wizened faces,
The flower-like smiles suddenly brightening the girls’ visages,
The hair turning white before age thirty,
The night which longs for light despite the sun’s laughter,
Are not tears,
Not smiles,
Not hair,
Not night;
They are my nomadic feelings.
Now turning all my sorrow to passion,
Bequeathing to my people all my griefs and joys,
Scattering my excitement like flowers festooning fields,
I harvest all these, then tenderly glean my poem.
Therefore the world is this poem of mine,
And my poem is the world itself.
To My Brother the Warrior
by Téyipjan Éliyow
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When I accompanied you,
the commissioners called me a child.
If only I had been a bit taller
I might have proved myself in battle!
The commission could not have known
my commitment, despite my youth.
If only they had overlooked my age and enlisted me,
I'd have given that enemy rabble hell!
Now, brother, I’m an adult.
Doubtless, I’ll join the service soon.
Soon enough, I’ll be by your side,
battling the enemy: I’ll never surrender!
Keywords/Tags: Uyghur, translation, Uighur, Xinjiang, elegy, Kafka, China, Chinese, reeducation, prison, concentration camp, desert, nomad, nomadic, race, racism, discrimination, Islam, Islamic, Muslim, mrbuyghur
Free Fall to Liftoff
by Michael R. Burch
for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.
I see the longing for departure gleam
in his still-keen eye,
and I understand his desire
to test this last wind, like those late autumn leaves
with nothing left to cling to ...
The One True Poem
by Michael R. Burch
Love was not meaningless ...
nor your embrace, nor your kiss.
And though every god proved a phantom,
still you were divine to your last dying atom ...
So that when you are gone
and, yea, not a word remains of this poem,
even so,
We were One.
The Poem of Poems
by Michael R. Burch
This is my Poem of Poems, for you.
Every word ineluctably true:
I love you.
Peace Prayer
by Michael R. Burch
Be calm.
Be still.
Be silent, content.
Be one with the buffalo cropping the grass to a safer height.
Seek the composure of the great depths, barely moved by exterior storms.
Lift your face to the dawning light; feel how it warms.
And be calm.
Be still.
Be silent, content.
Sometimes the Dead
by Michael R. Burch
Sometimes we catch them out of the corners of our eyes—
the pale dead.
After they have fled
the gourds of their bodies, like escaping fragrances they rise.
Once they have become a cloud’s mist, sometimes like the rain
they descend;
they appear, sometimes silver like laughter,
to gladden the hearts of men.
Sometimes like a pale gray fog, they drift
unencumbered, yet lumbrously,
as if over the sea
there was the lightest vapor even Atlas could not lift.
Sometimes they haunt our dreams like forgotten melodies
only half-remembered.
Though they lie dismembered
in black catacombs, sepulchers and dismal graves; although they have committed felonies,
yet they are us. Someday soon we will meet them in the graveyard dust
blood-engorged, but never sated
since Cain slew Abel.
But until we become them, let us steadfastly forget them, even as we know our children must ...
What the Poet Sees
by Michael R. Burch
What the poet sees,
he sees as a swimmer
~~~underwater~~~
watching the shoreline blur
sees through his breath’s weightless bubbles ...
Both worlds grow obscure.
Published by ByLine, Mandrake Poetry Review, Poetically Speaking, E Mobius Pi, Underground Poets, Little Brown Poetry, Little Brown Poetry, Triplopia, Poetic Ponderings, Poem Kingdom, PW Review, Neovictorian/Cochlea, Muse Apprentice Guild, Mindful of Poetry, Poetry on Demand, Poet’s Haven, Famous Poets and Poems, and Bewildering Stories
Finally to Burn
(the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus)
by Michael R. Burch
Athena takes me
sometimes by the hand
and we go levitating
through strange Dreamlands
where Apollo sleeps
in his dark forgetting
and Passion seems
like a wise bloodletting
and all I remember
,upon awaking,
is: to Love sometimes
is like forsaking
one’s Being―to glide
heroically beyond thought,
forsaking the here
for the There and the Not.
O, finally to Burn, To plummet is Bliss rain down red scabs Feathers and wax Flocculent sheep, I will rock me to sleep
gravity beyond escaping!
when the blisters breaking
on the earth’s mudpuddle ...
and the watchers huddle ...
O, and innocent lambs!,
on the waves’ iambs.
To sleep's sweet relief
from Love’s exhausting Dream,
for the Night has Wings
gentler than moonbeams―
they will flit me to Life
like a huge-eyed Phoenix
fluttering off
to quarry the Sphinx.
Riddlemethis, Rynosseross, Quixotic, I seek Love rusted-out steel To Dream―that’s the thing! soak by the candle,
riddlemethat,
throw out the Welcome Mat.
amid the tarnished
when to live is varnish.
Aye, that Genie I’ll rub,
aflame in the tub.
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,
Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.
Somewhither, somewhither
aglitter and strange,
we must moult off all knowledge
or perish caged.
I am reconciled to Life I’ll Live the Elsewhere, Methinks it no journey; so fatten the oxen; I’m coming, Fool Tom, though we injure noone, Published by The Lyric and The Ekphrastic Review Chit Chat: In the Poetry Chat Room WHY SHULD I LERN TO SPELL? Sing for the cool night, I WUS HURT IN LUV I’M DYIN’ i abide beyond serenities I WAS IN, LOVE, AND HE ******* ME!!! i loved her once, before, when i I JUST DON’T GET POETRY, SOMETIMES. Travail, inherent to all flesh, POETRY IS BORING. The words like breath, i find them here, WHY DON’T YOU LIKE MY PERFICKT WORDS What use is love, to me, or Thou? Each Color a Scar What she left here, She did not speak, and I was meek, What she can never take for now we, apart, scattered afar Ultimate Sunset for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr. he now faces the Ultimate Sunset, Free Fall for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr. I see the longing for departure gleaming Sanctuary at Dawn I have walked these thirteen miles Through thirteen miles of rain I slogged, The door is wet; my cheeks are wet, Now you stand outlined in the doorway Your eyes are grayer "My father!" NOTE: “Sanctuary at Dawn” was written either in high school or during my first two years of college. All Things Galore for my grandfathers George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Paul Ray Burch Sr. Grandfather, somehow more near and remind me that, wish that ululate soft phrase, and everywhere above, each hopeful star gleamed down and seemed to speak of times before and taught me heaven, omen, meteor . . . Attend Upon Them Still for my grandparents George and Ena Hurt With gentleness and fine and tender will, Nor let men’s feet here muddy as they pass nor let the fuse to wave, to grow, to gleam, to lighten their paths, make them complete. The Composition of Shadows for poets who write late at night We breathe and so we write; the night And what we mean we write to learn: sounds’ shadows mass beneath bright glass that insulates our hearts. Nowhere Published by The Lyric, Contemporary Rhyme, Candelabrum, Iambs & Trochees (Poem of the Week), Triplopia, Romantics Quarterly, Hidden Treasures (Selected Poem), ImageNation (United Kingdom), Yellow Bat Review, Poetry Life & Times, Vallance Review, Poetica Victorian First Steps for Caitlin Shea Murphy To her a year is like infinity, I would caution her, "No! Wait! But her time is not a time for cautious words, Little does she know that her first few steps brrExit what would u give then from behind Vacuum Over hushed quadrants leaving odd relics of lives half-revealed, that once intrigued us so. Come then, let us quickly repent There’s nothing left of us; it’s time to go. Spring Young lovers, What is their brazen goal? They grab at whatever passes, Oft in My Thought So often in my busy mind I sought, For me to keep my manner and my thought Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost When I praise her, or hear her praises raised, Confession of a Stolen Kiss My ghostly father, I confess, My ghostly father, I confess, But I shall restore it, doubtless, My ghostly father, I confess, Translator note: By "ghostly father" I take Charles d'Orleans to be confessing to a priest. If so, it's ironic that the kiss was "stolen" at a window and the confession is being made at the window of a confession booth. But it also seems possible that Charles could be confessing to his human father, murdered in his youth and now a ghost. There is wicked humor in the poem, as Charles is apparently vowing to keep asking for forgiveness because he intends to keep stealing kisses at every opportunity! Charles d'Orleans translations of Rondels/Roundels/Rondeaux Note: While there is some confusion about the names and definitions of poetic forms such as the rondel, roundel, rondelle and rondeau, these are all rhyming poems with refrains. Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray, It is my fetish when you're far away So would I beg you, if I only may, I'll be obsessed until my dying day The season has cast its coat aside The season has cast its coat aside There isn't a bird or beast astride Now rivers, fountains, springs and tides The year lays down his mantle cold The year lays down his mantle cold Winter has cast his cloak away Winter has cast his cloak away Note: This rondeau was set to music by Debussy in his "Trois chansons de France." Caedmon's Hymn (circa 658-680 AD) Humbly now we honour heaven-kingdom's Guardian, Les Bijoux (The Jewels) My lover **** and knowing my heart's whims She danced for me with a gay but mocking air, Naked she lay and offered herself to me, A tigress tamed, her eyes met mine, intent ... Her limbs, her *****, her abdomen, her thighs, Skilled in more spells than evil imps can muster, Her waist awrithe, her ******* enormously The room grew dark, the lamp had flickered out. Duellem (The Duel) Two combatants charged! Their fearsome swords But now their blades lie broken, like our hearts! In a deep ravine haunted by lynxes and panthers, Come, let us roll here too, cruel Amazon; Le Balcon (The Balcony) Paramour of memory, ultimate mistress, Each night illumined by the burning coals How beautiful the sunsets these sultry days, Night thickens around us like a wall; I have mastered the sweet but difficult art O vows! O perfumes! O infinite kisses! Il pleure dans mon coeur (“It rains in my heart”) It rains in my heart Oh, the sweet-sounding rain Still it rains without reason As my heart floods with pain, Spleen The roses were so very red; The sky was too gentle, too blue; Now I'm tired of the glossy waxed holly, In the Whispering Night for George King In the whispering night, when the stars bend low Dispensing Keys The imbecile Infectious! I became infected with happiness tonight The Tally Lovers This is admittedly a VERY loose translation of the original Hafiz poem! Mirror My era's obscuring mirror The Lonely Earth The pale celestial bodies Kurds are Birds Per the latest scientific classification, Kurds Birdsong Birdsong relieves After the Deluge She was kinder than light She shocked me to life, Like blithe showers that fled grave request come to ur doom the stars stark and chill care nothing for ur desire; still, imagine they wish u no ill, for there’s nothing to life but the thrill so come, spend ur last hardearned bill Defenses Beyond the silhouettes of trees Now whom they guard and how they guard, Pool's Prince Charming (this is my tribute poem, written on the behalf of his fellow pool sharks, for the legendary Saint Louie Louie Roberts) Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool, Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis, Louie, Louie, fearless gambler, Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic, The Aery Faery Princess for Keira There once was a princess lighter than fluff pretty pickle u’d blaspheme if u could and then i was made whole ... and then i was made whole, singing a little of this and of that, Album I caress them—trapped in brittle cellophane— And I touch them here through leaves which—tattered, frayed— And Grief, which lurked unseen beyond the lens and slavers for Its meat—those young, unwise, Because You Came to Me Because you came to me with sweet compassion Because you came to me in my black torment Because I am undone, you have remade me Beckoning Yesterday the wind whispered my name And yesterday And though she reached I believe I wrote the first version of this poem around age 18, wasn't happy with it, put it aside, then revised it six years later. Besieged Life—the disintegration of the flesh Life—is this all we know, Now the fruit hangs, and the rout begins. ****** or Heroine? (for mothers battling addiction) serve the Addiction; or rise up, resist Loose Knit She blesses the needle, And if her hand jerks and twitches in puppet-like fits, She weaves an unraveling tapestry I Have Labored Sore I have labored sore / and suffered death, NOTE: This poem has a pronounced caesura (pause) in the middle of each line: a hallmark of Old English poetry. While this poem is closer to Middle English, it preserves the older tradition. I have represented the caesura with a slash. A Lyke-Wake Dirge The Lie-Awake Dirge is "the night watch kept over a corpse." This one night, this one night, When from this earthly life you pass If you ever donated socks and shoes, But if you never helped your brother, If ever you shared your food and drink, But if you never helped your brother, This one night, this one night, This World's Joy Winter awakens all my care How Long the Night It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts Adam Lay Ybounden Adam lay bound, bound in a bond; The poem has also been rendered as "Adam lay i-bounden" and "Adam lay i-bowndyn." Excerpt from "Ubi Sunt Qui Ante Nos Fuerunt? " Where are the men who came before us, Once eating and drinking made their hearts glad; Where are their laughter and their songs, Westron Wynde Western wind, when will you blow, NOTE: The original poem has "the smalle rayne down can rayne" which suggests a drizzle or mist, either of which would suggest a dismal day. Pity Mary Now the sun passes under the wood: In the poem above, note how "wood" and "tree" invoke the cross while "sun" and "son" seem to invoke each other. Sun-day is also Son-day, to Christians. The anonymous poet who wrote the poem above may have been been punning the words "sun" and "son." The poem is also known as "Now Goeth Sun Under Wood" and "Now Go'th Sun Under Wood." Fowles in the Frith The fowls in the forest, Sounds like an early animal rights activist! The use of "and" is intriguing... is the poet saying that his walks in the wood drive him mad because he is also a "beast of bone and blood, " facing a similar fate? I am of Ireland I am of Ireland, If I am Syrian, what of it? Love, how can I call on you: Cupid, I swear, Cupid, if you incinerate my soul, touché! Cupid, the cuddly baby I lie defeated. Set your foot on my neck. Checkmate. When I see Theron everything’s revealed. When I see Theron everything’s defined; When I see Theron my eyes bug out; Mother-Earth, to all men dear, Meleager dedicates this lamp to you, dear Cypris, as a plaything, I know you lied, because these ringlets Moon and Stars, Silence! Tears, the last gifts of my love, You ask me why I've sent you no new verses? You ask me to recite my poems to you? NOTE: The irascible Martial is suggesting that if he shares his poems, they will be plagiarized. You ask me why I choose to live elsewhere? You ask me why I love the fresh country air? You never wrote a poem, He starts everything but finishes nothing; NOTE: Martial concluded his epigram with a variation of the f-word; please substitute it if you prefer it. You alone own prime land, dandy! You dine in great magnificence To you, my departed parents, dear mother and father, Alien Nation for a Christian poet who believes in “hell” On a lonely outpost on Mars And his words fall as bright and as chill And I understand how gentle Emily Oh, how can I grok his arctic thought? Burn, Ovid “Burn Ovid”—Austin Clarke Sunday School, I found her unaccountably beautiful, What did those lustrous folds foretell “Come unto me, cheek to breast, my hands all night long, This poem is set at Faith Christian Academy, which I attended for a year during the ninth grade, in 1972-1973. While the poem definitely had its genesis there, I believe I revised it more than once and didn't finish it till 2001, nearly 28 years later, according to my notes on the poem. Another poem, "*** 101," was also written about my experiences at FCA that year. *** 101 That day the late spring heat Where we sat exhausted Giggly first graders sat two abreast The most unlikely coupling— Lambert, 18, the only college prospect Beside him, Wanda, 13, And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her, that love is a forlorn enterprise, This companion poem to "Burn, Ovid" is also set at Faith Christian Academy, in 1972-1973. honeybee love was a little treble thing— honeydew i sampled honeysuckle Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ Huntress Lynx-eyed cat-like and cruel you creep Ibykos Fragment 286 (III) Come spring, the grand Unfortunately the results are frightening— Originally published by The Chained Muse Ince St. Child When she was a child When she was young, Now she is old This was an unusual poem, and it took me some time to figure out who the old woman was. She was a victim of childhood ******, hence the title I eventually came up with. Lullaby for Jeremy Cherubic laugh; sly, impish grin; It does not matter; sleep awhile Gray moths will hum a lullaby Will wake together, by and by. Life’s not long; those days are best The earth will wait; a sun-filled sky Soon you will sing, and I will sigh, Know nothing but this lullaby. Kin O pale, austere moon, what do we know of love, Kindred Rise, pale disastrous moon! Did you burn once, so coldly, inhumanly lustrous, What is the dawn now, to you or to me? We are as one, We would exhume and yet we will not. for she is nothing now, Reflections I am her mirror. I show her her beauty, She storms and she rages; Excerpts from “Travels with Einstein” for Trump I went to Berlin to learn wisdom So I flew off to ’Nam to learn wisdom I then sat at Christ’s feet to learn wisdom, So I traveled to bright Tel Aviv At last, done with learning, I stumbled Originally published by Café Dissensus Remembrance Remembrance like a river rises; The past is like a distant mist, Resurrecting Passion Last night, while dawn was far away But, oh, that you were mine tonight, Such passions we might resurrect, But time has left us twisted, torn, So that, while dawn is far away, Published in Songs of Innocence and The Chained Muse. Currents How can I write and not be true Originally published by The Lyric Righteous Come to me tonight Gather your hair We are not one, but the swarms Published by Writer’s Gazette, Tucumcari Literary Review and The Chained Muse R.I.P. When I am lain to rest and when at last await to feast then let me go, and do not weep Originally published by Romantics Quarterly The Shape of Mourning The shape of mourning the bolt of cold steel the monthly penance the face in the photograph the useless mower rings and crosses and Tillage What stirs within me I am not an orchard For All That I Remembered For all that I remembered, I forgot The memory of her gathers like a flood Originally published by The Raintown Review Hearthside “When you are old and grey and full of sleep...” ― W. B. Yeats For all that we professed of love, we knew The books that line these close, familiar shelves I do not know the words for easy bliss This sonnet is written from the perspective of the great Irish poet William Butler Yeats in his loose translation or interpretation of the Pierre de Ronsard sonnet “When You Are Old.” The aging Yeats thinks of his Muse and the love of his life, the fiery Irish revolutionary Maude Gonne. As he seeks to warm himself by a fire conjured from ice-encrusted logs, he imagines her doing the same. Although Yeats had insisted that he wasn’t happy without Gonne, she said otherwise: “Oh yes, you are, because you make beautiful poetry out of what you call your unhappiness and are happy in that. Marriage would be such a dull affair. Poets should never marry. The world should thank me for not marrying you!” I Know The Truth I know the truth―abandon lesser truths! There's no need for anyone living to struggle! The wind is calming now; the earth is bathed in dew; I Know The Truth (Alternate Ending) I know the truth―abandon lesser truths! There's no need for anyone living to struggle! The wind caresses the grasses; the earth gleams, damp with dew; Poems about Moscow 5 As the thundering high tide eventually reverses, To you, O Great Peter, and you, O Great Tsar, I kneel! And while they keep ringing out of the pure blue sky, though sixteen hundred churches, nearby and afar, 8 A knife stuck in each boot-top, Because you branded us criminals And there behind that narrow door Now, as "Halleluiah" floods Insomnia 2 July's wind sweeps a way for me to stray Black poplars brushing windows filled with light ... The lights are like golden beads on invisible threads ... Poems for Akhmatova 4 to hesitantly stammer, suddenly shy, This gypsy passion of parting! This gypsy passion of parting! that no one, perusing our letters, in ourselves. The Appointment I will be late for the appointed meeting. I shall feel the effects of the bitter mercury for years. living on, as the earth continues She took a swig of passion, only to fill her mouth Rails The railway bed's steel-blue parallel tracks Over them, people are transported And yet they still linger, Despair has arranged my fate with the mute lament of a marsh heron! In my eye the colors blur Every Poem is a Child of Love Every poem is a child of love, Villanelle: Hangovers We forget that, before we were born, Yes, our parents had lives of their own and finding gray hairs of their own would certainly get them). Half-******, for their curious habits to bloom when, punch-drunk in the streets or half-******, Happily Never After (the Second Curse of the ***** Toad) He did not think of love of Her at all Haunted Now I am here Go, if you will, Take what you can; Or stay here awhile. Published by Romantics Quarterly Have I been too long at the fair? Have I been too long at the fair? This is one of my earliest poems, written around age 15 when we were living with my grandfather in his house on Chilton Street, within walking distance of the Nashville fairgrounds. I remember walking to the fairgrounds, stopping at a Dairy Queen along the way, and swimming at a public pool. But I believe the Ferris wheel only operated during the state fair. So my “educated guess” is that this poem was written during the 1973 state fair, or shortly thereafter. I remember watching people hanging suspended in mid-air, waiting for carnies to deposit them safely on terra firma again. Her Preference Not for her the pale incandescence of dreams, No, she prefers the anguish and screams hey pete for Pete Rose hey pete, 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." Nevermore! Nevermore! O, nevermore And the salivating sea The waves will never **** her, She sleeps forevermore, And, yes, they sleep together, He does not stroke her honey hair, their skeletal love―impossibility! This is one of my Poe-like creations, written around age 19. I think the poem has an interesting ending, since the male skeleton is missing an important "member." Mehmet Akif Ersoy: Modern English Translations of Turkish Poems Mehmet Âkif Ersoy (1873-1936) was a Turkish poet, author, writer, academic, member of parliament, and the composer of the Turkish National Anthem. Snapshot Earth’s least trace of life cannot be erased; Zulmü Alkislayamam I can't condone cruelty; I will never applaud the oppressor; Çanakkale Sehitlerine Was there ever anything like the Bosphorus war?― W. S. Rendra translations Willibrordus Surendra Broto Rendra (1935-2009), better known as W. S. Rendra or simply Rendra, was an Indonesian dramatist and poet. He said, “I learned meditation and the disciplines of the traditional Javanese poet from my mother, who was a palace dancer. The idea of the Javanese poet is to be a guardian of the spirit of the nation.” The press gave him the nickname Burung Merak (“The Peacock”) for his flamboyant poetry readings and stage performances. SONNET Best wishes for an impending deflowering. Yes, I understand: you will never be mine. And yet I wish love might ... ameliorate ... How can this be, when all it makes no sense? THE WORLD'S FIRST FACE Illuminated by the pale moonlight As in all beginnings Then comes light, As in all beginnings They're both young, They have experienced the sun's warmth, Here, standing by barren reefs, They lift their heads to view Illuminated by the pale moonlight Keywords/Tags: Rendra, Indonesian, Javanese, translation, love, fate, god, gods, goddess, groom, bride, world, time, life, sun, hill, hills, moon, moonlight, stars, life, animals?, international, travel, voyage, wedding, relationship, mrbtran Shadows Alone again as evening falls, Up and down and up and down, We drown in shadows starker still, tumbling, to the ground below. for days dreamed once an age ago Recursion In a dream I saw boys lying For I saw their sons essaying From their playfields, boys returning In a dream I saw boys dying THE RUIN well-hewn was this wall-stone, till Wyrdes wrecked it broad battlements broken; the high ramparts toppled; the great roof-beams shattered; mortar mottled and marred by scarring ****-frosts ... shattered, the shieldwalls, where now are those mighty Masons, those Wielders and Wrights, the grasp of the earth, the firm grip of the ground for always this edifice, grey-lichened, blood-stained, it outlasted mighty kings and their claims! how high rose those regal rooftops! then the wide walls fell; as death swept the battlements of brave Brawlers; therefore these once-decorous courts court decay; when in times past light-hearted Titans flushed with wine here the cobblestoned courts clattered; ... that was spacious ... Victor Hugo "Love Stronger Than Time" Since I first set my lips to your full cup, Since I was once allowed those pleasures deep— Since I have sensed above my thoughts the gleam I now can say to time's swift-changing hours: Your flapping wings may jar but cannot spill We Came Together We came together – people of two lands We came together, and our friendships grew. We came together and we gave hope room We come together – people of many lands Lines for My Ascension I. But if my body II. or a timid sparrow and know that my Spirit, And if my body III. Think of Me as One And if my body IV. If you look above, So divine, if you can, And if my body The Quickening for Beth I never meant to love you And I never meant to need you ITALIAN POETRY TRANSLATIONS These are my modern English translations of the Roman, Latin and Italian poets Anonymous, Marcus Aurelius, Catullus, ***** Cavalcanti, Cicero, Dante Alighieri, Veronica Franco, ***** Guinizelli, Hadrian, Primo Levi, Martial, Michelangelo, Seneca, Seneca the Younger and Leonardo da Vinci. I also have translations of Latin poems by the English poets Aldhelm, Thomas Campion and Saint Godric of Finchale. Wall, I'm astonished that you haven't collapsed, My objective is not to side with the majority, but to avoid the ranks of the insane.—Marcus Aurelius, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Little sparks ignite great Infernos.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation Michael R. Burch MARTIAL I must admit I'm partial You ask me why I've sent you no new verses? You ask me to recite my poems to you? You ask me why I choose to live elsewhere? You ask me why I love fresh country air? You never wrote a poem, He starts everything but finishes nothing; You dine in great magnificence You alone own prime land, dandy! To you, my departed parents, dear mother and father, To you, my departed parents, with much emotion, CATULLUS Catullus LXXXV: 'Odi et Amo' 1. 2. 3. Catullus CVI: 'That Boy' See that young boy, by the auctioneer? Catullus LI: 'That Man' I'd call that man the equal of the gods, Meanwhile, in my misery, Lesbia, there's nothing left of me My limbs tingle, my ears ring, my eyes water Call it leisure, Catullus, or call it idleness, Catullus 1 ('cui dono lepidum novum libellum') To whom do I dedicate this novel book Catullus XLIX: 'A Toast to Cicero' Cicero, please confess: Catullus CI: 'His Brother's Burial' 1. 2. [Here 'offered in the time-honored manner of our fathers' is from another translation by an unknown translator.] [What do the gods know, with their superior airs, Catullus LXV aka Carmina 65 Hortalus, I’m exhausted by relentless grief, Never again will I hear you speak, Yet even amidst such unfathomable sorrows, O Hortalus, Catullus IIA: 'Lesbia's Sparrow' Sparrow, my sweetheart's pet, Catullus V: 'Let us live, Lesbia, let us love' Let us live, Lesbia, let us love, Suns may set then rise again, Give me a thousand kisses, a hundred more, Then, once we've tallied the many thousands, Catullus VII: 'How Many Kisses' You ask, Lesbia, how many kisses As many as the Libyan sands Or as many as the stars observing amorous men As many of your kisses are enough, Catullus VIII: 'Advice to Himself' Snap out of it Catullus, stop this foolishness! Catullus LX: 'Lioness' Did an African mountain lioness Catullus LXX: 'Marriage Vows' My sweetheart says she'd marry no one else but me, CICERO The famous Roman orator Cicero employed 'tail rhyme' in this pun: O Fortunatam natam me consule Romam. MICHELANGELO Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564) is considered by many experts to be the greatest artist and sculptor of all time. He was also a great poet. Michelangelo Epigram Translations I saw the angel in the marble and freed him. SONNET: RAVISHED Ravished, by all our eyes find fine and fair, SONNET: TO LUIGI DEL RICCIO, AFTER THE DEATH OF CECCHINO BRACCI A pena prima. I had barely seen the beauty of his eyes In my tardiness, I wept, too late made wise, Therefore, Luigi, since the task is mine And since the artist cannot work alone, BEAUTY AND THE ARTIST Al cor di zolfo. A heart aflame; alas, the flesh not so; A witless mind that - halt, lame, weak - must go Add beauteous Art, which, Heaven-Promethean, SONNET XVI: LOVE AND ART Sì come nella penna. Just as with pen and ink, SONNET XXXI: LOVE'S LORDSHIP, TO TOMMASO DE' CAVALIERI A che più debb' io. Am I to confess my heart's desire Why should my aching heart aspire Therefore, because I cannot dodge the blow, LEONARDO DA VINCI Once we have flown, we will forever walk the earth with our eyes turned heavenward, for there we were and will always long to return.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The great achievers rarely relaxed and let things happen to them. They set out and kick-started whatever happened.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Nothing enables authority like silence.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch The greatest deceptions spring from men's own opinions.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch There are three classes of people: Those who see by themselves. Those who see only when they are shown. Those who refuse to see.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Blinding ignorance misleads us. Myopic mortals, open your eyes! —Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch It is easier to oppose evil from the beginning than at the end.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch Small minds continue to shrink, but those whose hearts are firm and whose consciences endorse their conduct, will persevere until death.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I am impressed with the urgency of doing. Knowledge is not enough; we must apply ourselves. Wanting and being willing are insufficient; we must act.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Time is sufficient for anyone who uses it wisely.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Where the spirit does not aid and abet the hand there is no art.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Necessity is the mistress of mother nature's inventions.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Nature has no effect without cause, no invention without necessity.—Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Did Leonardo da Vinci anticipate Darwin with his comments about Nature and necessity being the mistress of her inventions? Yes, and his studies of comparative anatomy, including the intestines, led da Vinci to say explicitly that 'apes, monkeys and the like' are not merely related to humans but are 'almost of the same species.' He was, indeed, a man ahead of his time, by at least 350 years. Excerpts from 'Paragone of Poetry and Painting' and Other Writings Sculpture requires light, received from above, Painting is the more beautiful, the more imaginative, the more copious, Painting encompasses infinite possibilities While as soon as the Poet abandons nature, he ceases to resemble the Painter; Painting is poetry seen but not heard, And if the Poet calls painting dumb poetry, Yet poor is the pupil who fails to surpass his master! Because I find no subject especially useful or pleasing Thus, I will load my humble cart full of despised and rejected merchandise, And what can I do when a woman plucks my heart? The Point Here forms, colors, the character of the entire universe, contract to a point, VERONICA FRANCO Veronica Franco (1546-1591) was a Venetian courtesan who wrote literary-quality poetry and prose. A Courtesan's Love Lyric (I) My rewards will be commensurate with your gifts Here is a second version of the same poem... I Resolved to Make a Virtue of My Desire (II) My rewards will match your gifts Capitolo 24 (written by Franco to a man who had insulted a woman) Please try to see with sensible eyes When I bed a man We danced a youthful jig through that fair city— I wish it were not a sin to have liked it so. ANONYMOUS The poem below is based on my teenage misinterpretation of a Latin prayer... Elegy for a little girl, lost for my mother, Christine Ena Burch, who was always a little girl at heart ... qui laetificat juventutem meam... Amen I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem, which I started in high school and revised as an adult. From what I now understand, 'ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam' means 'to the God who gives joy to my youth, ' but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Latin Vulgate Bible (circa 385 AD) . I can't remember exactly when I read the novel or wrote the poem, but I believe it was around my junior year of high school, age 17 or thereabouts. This was my first translation. I revised the poem slightly in 2001 after realizing I had 'misremembered' one of the words in the Latin prayer. The Latin hymn 'Dies Irae' employs end rhyme: Dies irae, dies illa The day of wrath, that day HADRIAN Hadrian's Elegy 1. 2. THOMAS CAMPION NOVELTIES Booksellers laud authors for novel editions PRIMO LEVI These are my translations of poems by the Italian Jewish Holocaust survivor Primo Levi. Shema You who live secure Buna Wasted feet, cursed earth, Note: Buna was the largest Auschwitz sub-camp. ALDHELM 'The Leiden Riddle' is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle 'Lorica' or 'Corselet.' The Leiden Riddle The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb. Solution: a coat of mail. SAINT GODRIC OF FINCHALE The song below is said in the 'Life of Saint Godric' to have come to Godric when he had a vision of his sister Burhcwen, like him a solitary at Finchale, being received into heaven. She was singing a song of thanksgiving, in Latin, and Godric renders her song in English bracketed by a Kyrie eleison. Led By Christ and Mary By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led DANTE Translations of Dante Epigrams and Quotes by Michael R. Burch Little sparks may ignite great Infernos.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch In Beatrice I beheld the outer boundaries of blessedness.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch She made my veins and even the pulses within them tremble.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Her sweetness left me intoxicated.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Love commands me by determining my desires.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Follow your own path and let the bystanders gossip.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The devil is not as dark as depicted.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch There is no greater sorrow than to recall how we delighted in our own wretchedness.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch As he, who with heaving lungs escaped the suffocating sea, turns to regard its perilous waters.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you nosedive in the mildest breeze? —Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you quail at the least breath of wind? —Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Midway through my life's journey INSCRIPTION ON THE GATE OF HELL Before me nothing existed, to fear. Excerpts from LA VITA NUOVA Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi. Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra. Heu miser! quia frequenter impeditus ero deinceps. Fili mi, tempus est ut prætermittantur simulata nostra. Ego tanquam centrum circuli, cui simili modo se habent circumferentiæ partes: tu autem non sic. Translations of Dante Cantos by Michael R. Burch Paradiso, Canto III: 1-33, The Revelation of Love and Truth That sun, which had inflamed my breast with love, Excerpt from 'Paradiso' O ****** Mother, daughter of your Son, Translations of Dante Sonnets by Michael R. Burch Sonnet: 'A Vision of Love' or 'Love's Faithful Ones' from LA VITA NUOVA To every gentle heart true Love may move, Sonnet: 'Love's Thoroughfare' from LA VITA NUOVA 'O voi che par la via' All those who travel Love's worn tracks, Sonnet: 'Cry for Pity' from LA VITA NUOVA These thoughts lie shattered in my memory: Sonnet: 'Ladies of Modest Countenance' from LA VITA NUOVA You who wear a modest countenance Translations of Poems by Other Italian Poets Sonnet IV: ‘S'io prego questa donna che Pietate' If I should ask this lady, in her grace, ***** Guinizelli, also known as ***** di Guinizzello di Magnano, was born in Bologna. He became an esteemed Italian love poet and is considered to be the father of the 'dolce stil nuovo' or 'sweet new style.' Dante called him 'il saggio' or 'the sage.' Sonetto In truth I sing her honor and her praise: This is a poem of mine that has been translated into Italian by Comasia Aquaro. Her Grace Flows Freely July 7,2007 Her love is always chaste, and pure. Her Grace Flows Freely La sua grazia vola libera 7 luglio 2007 Il suo amore è sempre casto, e puro.
somewhere beyond thought―
I’ll Dream of the Naught.
to tarry’s a waste,
make a nice baste.
we have Somewhere to Go,
ourselves wildaglow.
by Michael R. Burch
HELL,
NO ONE REEDS WHAT I SAY
ANYWAY!!! :(
whispers of constellations.
Sing for the supple grass,
the tall grass, gently whispering.
Sing of infinities, multitudes,
of all that lies beyond us now,
whispers begetting whispers.
And i am glad to also whisper . . .
FER TH’ TEARS I BEEN A-CRYIN’!!!
and realms of grace,
above love’s misdirected earth,
i lift my face.
i am beyond finding now . . .
THE ****!!! TOTALLY!!!
was mortal too, and sometimes i
would listen and distinctly hear
her laughter from the juniper,
but did not go . . .
IT’S OKAY, I GUESS.
I REALLY DON’T READ THAT MUCH AT ALL,
I MUST CONFESS!!! ;-)
i do not know, nor how to feel.
Although i sing them nighttimes still:
the bitter woes, that do not heal . . .
SEE, IT *****!!!, I’M SNORING!!! ZZZZZZZ!!!
among the fragrant juniper,
and conifers amid the snow,
old loves imagined long ago . . .
YOU USELESS UN-AMERIC’N TURDS?!!!
O Words, my awe, to fly so smooth
above the anguished hearts of men
to heights unknown, Thy bare remove . . .
by Michael R. Burch
upon my cheek,
is a tear.
but her intention
was clear,
far too meek, and, I fear,
too sincere.
from my heart
is its ache;
are like leaves
without weight,
by love, or by hate,
each color a scar.
by Michael R. Burch
his body like the leaves that fray as they dry,
shedding their vital fluids (who knows why?)
till they’ve become even lighter than the covering sky,
ready to fly ...
by Michael R. Burch
in his still-keen eye,
and I understand his desire
to test this last wind, like those late autumn leaves
with nothing left to cling to ...
by Michael R. Burch
just to stand outside your door.
The rain has dogged my footsteps
for thirteen miles, for thirty years,
through the monsoon seasons . . .
and now my tears
have all been washed away.
I stumbled and I climbed
rainslickened slopes
that led me home
to the hope that I might find
a life I lived before.
but not with rain or tears . . .
as I knock I sweat
and the raining seems
the rhythm of the years.
―a man as large as I left―
and with bated breath
I take a step
into the accusing light.
than I remembered;
your hair is grayer, too.
As the red rust runs
down the dripping drains,
our voices exclaim―
"My son!"
by Michael R. Burch
now in your gray presence
you are
once, upon a star,
you taught me
that hopeful phrase!
when you clasped my small glad hand
in your wise paw
by Michael R. Burch
attend upon them still;
thou art the grass.
thy subtle undulations, nor depress
for long the comforts of thy lovingness,
of time wink out amid the violets.
They have their use―
to shine sweet, transient glories at their feet.
Thou art the grass;
by Michael R. Burch
hums softly its accompaniment.
Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn
leads onward, and we smile, content.
the vowels of love, the consonants’
strange golden weight, each plosive’s shape—
curved like the heart. Here, resonant,
like singing voles curled in a maze
of blank white space. We touch a face—
long-frozen words trapped in a glaze
can love be found. Just shrieking air.
by Michael R. Burch
each day—an adventure never-ending.
She has no concept of time,
but already has begun the climb—
from childhood to womanhood recklessly ascending.
There will be time enough another day ...
time to learn the Truth
and to slowly shed your youth,
but for now, sweet child, go carefully on your way! ..."
nor a time for measured, careful understanding.
She is just certain
that, by grabbing the curtain,
in a moment she will finally be standing!
will hurtle her on her way
through childhood to adolescence,
and then, finally, pubescence . . .
while, just as swiftly, I’ll be going gray!
by Michael R. Burch
to simply not exist—
for a painless exit?
he asked himself, uncertain.
the hospital room curtain
a patient screamed—
"my life!"
by Michael R. Burch
forever landlocked in snow,
time’s senseless winds blow ...
if still mostly concealed ...
such are the things we are unable to know
of whatever truths we’d once determined to learn:
for whatever is left, we are unable to discern.
by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465)
loose translation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
greeting the spring
fling themselves downhill,
making cobblestones ring
with their wild leaps and arcs,
like ecstatic sparks
struck from coal.
so we can only hazard guesses.
But they rear like prancing steeds
raked by brilliant spurs of need,
Young lovers.
by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465)
loose translation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Around the advent of the fledgling year,
For something pretty that I really ought
To give my lady dear;
But that sweet thought's been wrested from me, clear,
Since death, alas, has sealed her under clay
And robbed the world of all that's precious here―
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
Acceptable, as suits my age's hour?
While proving that I never once forgot
Her worth? It tests my power!
I serve her now with masses and with prayer;
For it would be a shame for me to stray
Far from my faith, when my time's drawing near—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
And the cost of everything became so dear;
Therefore, O Lord, who rules the higher host,
Take my good deeds, as many as there are,
And crown her, Lord, above in your bright sphere,
As heaven's truest maid! And may I say:
Most good, most fair, most likely to bring cheer—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
I recall how recently she brought me pleasure;
Then my heart floods like an overflowing bay
And makes me wish to dress for my own bier—
God keep her soul, I can no better say.
by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
First to God and then to you,
That at a window (you know how)
I stole a kiss of great sweetness,
Which was done out of avidness—
But it is done, not undone, now.
First to God and then to you.
Again, if it may be that I know how;
And thus to God I make a vow,
And always I ask forgiveness.
First to God and then to you.
by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your ample ******* and slender arms' twin chains,
Your hands so smooth, each finger straight and plain,
Your little feet—please, what more can I say?
To muse on these and thus to soothe my pain—
Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms' twin chains.
To see such sights as I before have seen,
Because my fetish pleases me. Obscene?
By your sweet smiling mouth and eyes, bright gray,
Your ample ******* and slender arms' twin chains!
by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
of wind and cold and rain,
to dress in embroidered light again:
bright sunlight, fit for a bride!
that fails to sing this sweet refrain:
"The season has cast its coat aside! "
dressed in their summer best
with silver beads impressed
in a fine display now glide:
the season has cast its coat aside!
by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
of wind, chill rain and bitter air,
and now goes clad in clothes of gold
of smiling suns and seasons fair,
while birds and beasts of wood and fold
now with each cry and song declare:
"The year lays down his mantle cold! "
All brooks, springs, rivers, seaward rolled,
now pleasant summer livery wear
with silver beads embroidered where
the world puts off its raiment old.
The year lays down his mantle cold.
by Charles d'Orleans (c.1394-1465)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
of wind and cold and chilling rain
to dress in embroidered light again:
the light of day—bright, festive, gay!
Each bird and beast, without delay,
in its own tongue, sings this refrain:
"Winter has cast his cloak away! "
Brooks, fountains, rivers, streams at play,
wear, with their summer livery,
bright beads of silver jewelry.
All the Earth has a new and fresh display:
Winter has cast his cloak away!
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
the Measurer's might and his mind-plans,
the goals of the Glory-Father. First he, the Everlasting Lord,
established earth's fearful foundations.
Then he, the First Scop, hoisted heaven as a roof
for the sons of men: Holy Creator,
mankind's great Maker! Then he, the Ever-Living Lord,
afterwards made men middle-earth: Master Almighty!
by Charles Baudelaire
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Wore nothing more than a few bright-flashing gems;
Her art was saving men despite their sins—
She ruled like harem girls crowned with diadems!
My world of stone and metal sparking bright;
I discovered in her the rapture of everything fair—
Nay, an excess of joy where the spirit and flesh unite!
Parting her legs and smiling receptively,
As gentle and yet profound as the rising sea—
Till her surging tide encountered my cliff, abruptly.
Intent on lust, content to purr and please!
Her breath, both languid and lascivious, lent
An odd charm to her metamorphoses.
Oiled alabaster, sinuous as a swan,
Writhed pale before my calm clairvoyant eyes;
Like clustered grapes her ******* and belly shone.
To break the peace which had possessed my heart,
She flashed her crystal rocks’ hypnotic luster
Till my quietude was shattered, blown apart.
Out-******, and yet ... and yet, somehow, still coy ...
As if stout haunches of Antiope
Had been grafted to a boy ...
Mute firelight, alone, lit each glowing stud;
Each time the fire sighed, as if in doubt,
It steeped her pale, rouged flesh in pools of blood.
by Charles Baudelaire
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
brightened the air with fiery sparks and blood.
Their clashing blades clinked odd serenades,
reminding us: youth's inspired by overloud love.
Still, our savage teeth and talon-like fingernails
can do more damage than the deadliest sword
when lovers lash about with such natural flails.
our heroes roll around in a cozy embrace,
leaving their blood to redden the colorless branches.
This abyss is pure hell; our friends occupy the place.
let our hatred’s ardor never be over and done!
by Charles Baudelaire
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
source of all pleasure, my only desire;
how can I forget your ecstatic caresses,
the warmth of your ******* by the roaring fire,
paramour of memory, ultimate mistress?
we lay together where the rose-fragrance clings―
how soft your *******, how tender your soul!
Ah, and we said imperishable things,
each night illumined by the burning coals.
deep space so profound, beyond life’s brief floods ...
then, when I kissed you, my queen, in a daze,
I thought I breathed the bouquet of your blood
as beautiful as sunsets these sultry days.
in the deepening darkness our irises meet.
I drink your breath, ah! poisonous yet sweet!,
as with fraternal hands I massage your feet
while night thickens around us like a wall.
of happiness here, with my head in your lap,
finding pure joy in your body, your heart;
because you’re the queen of my present and past
I have mastered love’s sweet but difficult art.
Can these be reborn from a gulf we can’t sound
as suns reappear, as if heaven misses
their light when they sink into seas dark, profound?
O vows! O perfumes! O infinite kisses!
by Paul Verlaine
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
As it rains on the town;
Heavy languor and dark
Drenches my heart.
Cleansing pavements and roofs!
For my listless heart's pain
The pure song of the rain!
In my overcast heart.
Can it be there's no treason?
That this grief's without reason?
Lacking hatred, or love,
I've no way to explain
Such bewildering pain!
by Paul Verlaine
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The ivy, impossibly black.
Dear, with a mere a turn of your head,
My despair’s flooded back!
The sea, far too windswept and green.
Yet I always imagined―or knew―
I’d again feel your spleen.
Of the shimmering boxwood too,
Of the meadowland’s endless folly,
When all things, alas, lead to you!
by Michael R. Burch
till the hills ignite to a shining flame,
when a shower of meteors streaks the sky
while the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame,
we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen,
and gather our vigor, and all our intent.
We must heave our bodies to some famished ocean
and laugh as they vanish, and never repent.
We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us,
soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze ...
blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning
to the heights of awareness from which we were seized.
by Hafiz aka Hafez
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
constructs cages
for everyone he knows,
while the sage
(who has to duck his head
whenever the moon glows)
keeps dispensing keys
all night long
to the beautiful, rowdy,
prison gang.
by Hafiz aka Hafez
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
as I wandered idly, singing in the starlight.
Now I'm wonderfully contagious ...
so kiss me!
by Hafiz aka Hafez
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
don't reveal
all
their Secrets;
under the covers
they
may
count each other's Moles
(that reside
and hide
in the shy regions
by forbidden holes),
then keep the final tally
strictly
from Aunt Sally!
by Kajal Ahmad, a Kurdish poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
shattered
because it magnified the small
and made the great seem insignificant.
Dictators and monsters filled its contours.
Now when I breathe
its jagged shards pierce my heart
and instead of sweat
I exude glass.
by Kajal Ahmad
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
never bid her “Good morning!”
nor do the creative stars
kiss her.
Earth, where so many tender persuasions and roses lie interred,
might expire for the lack of a glance, or an odor.
She’s a lonely dusty orb,
so very lonely!, as she observes the moon's patchwork attire
knowing the sun's an imposter
who sears with rays he has stolen for himself
and who looks down on the moon and earth like lodgers.
by Kajal Ahmad
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
now belong to a species of bird!
This is why,
traveling across the torn, fraying pages of history,
they are nomads recognized by their caravans.
Yes, Kurds are birds! And,
even worse, when
there’s nowhere left to nest, no refuge from their pain,
they turn to the illusion of traveling again
between the warm and arctic sectors of their homeland.
So I don’t think it strange Kurds can fly but not land.
They wander from region to region
never realizing their dreams
of settling,
of forming a colony, of nesting.
No, they never settle down long enough
to visit Rumi and inquire about his health,
or to bow down deeply in the gust-
stirred dust,
like Nali.
by Rumi
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
my deepest griefs:
now I'm just as ecstatic as they,
but with nothing to say!
Please universe,
rehearse
your poetry
through me!
by Michael R. Burch
to an up-reaching flower
and sweeter than rain
to the bees in their bower
where anemones blush
at the affections they shower,
and love’s shocking power.
but soon left me to wither.
I was listless without her,
nor could I be with her.
I fell under the spell
of her absence’s power.
in that calamitous hour.
repealing spring’s sweetness;
like suns’ warming rays sped
away, with such fleetness ...
she has taken my heart—
alas, our completeness!
I now wilt in pale beams
of her occult remembrance.
by michael r. burch
in Tombstone;
over Boot Hill
that u burn with the same antique fire;
of living until u expire;
on Tombstone.
by Michael R. Burch
stark, naked and defenseless
there stand long rows of sentinels:
these pert white picket fences.
the good Lord only knows;
but savages would have to laugh
observing the tidy rows.
by Michael R. Burch
making all the ladies drool ...
Take the “nuts”? I'd be a fool!
Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool.
owner of (ahem) a similar pelvis ...
Compared to you, the books will shelve us.
Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis.
ladies' man and constant rambler,
but such a sweet, loquacious ambler!
Louie, Louie, fearless gambler.
pool's charming hero, but tragic, Byronic,
winning the Open drinking gin and tonic?
Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic.
by Michael R. Burch
made of such gossamer stuff—
the down of a thistle, butterflies’ wings,
the faintest high note the hummingbird sings,
moonbeams on garlands, strands of bright hair ...
I think she’s just you when you’re floating on air!
by Michael R. Burch
because ur God’s no good,
but of course u cant:
ur just a lowly ant
(or so u were told by a Hierophant).
by Michael R. Burch
but not a thing entire,
glued to a perch
in a gilded church,
strung through with a silver wire ...
warbling higher and higher:
a thing wholly dead
till I lifted my head
and spat at the Lord and his choir.
by Michael R. Burch
and I see how young they were, and how unwise;
and I remember their first flight—an old prop plane,
their blissful arc through alien blue skies ...
are also wings, but wings that never flew:
like insects’ wings—pinned, held. Here, time delayed,
their features never changed, remaining two ...
or in shadows where It crept on feral claws
as It scratched Its way into their hearts, depends
on sorrows such as theirs, and works Its jaws ...
who naively dare to dream, yet fail to see
how, lumbering sunward, Hope, ungainly, flies,
clutching to Her ruffled breast what must not be.
by Michael R. Burch
and kissed my furrowed brow and smoothed my hair,
I do not love you after any fashion,
but wildly, in despair.
and kissed me fiercely, blazing like the sun
upon parched desert dunes, till in dawn’s foment
they melt, I am undone.
as suns bring life, as brilliant rains endow
the earth below with leaves, where you now shade me
and bower me, somehow.
by Michael R. Burch
while the blazing locks
of her rampant mane
lay heavy on mine.
I saw the way
the wind caressed tall pines
in forests laced by glinting streams
and thick with tangled vines.
for me in her sleep,
the touch I felt was Time's.
by Michael R. Burch
before the fitful elevation of the soul
upon improbable wings?
the travail one bright season brings? ...
impendent, pregnant with death,
as the hurricane builds and flings
its white columns and banners of snow
by Michael R. Burch
worship the Beast;
feed the foul Pythons
your flesh, their fair feast ...
the huge many-headed hydra;
for the sake of your Loved Ones
decapitate medusa.
by Michael R. Burch
fetches fine red stitches,
criss-crossing, embroidering dreams
in the delicate fabric.
she tells herself
reality is not as threadbare as it seems ...
that a little more darning may gather loose seams.
of fatigue and remorse and pain; ...
only the nervously pecking needle
****** her to motion, again and again.
anonymous medieval lyric (circa the fifteenth century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
so now I rest / and catch my breath.
But I shall come / and call right soon
heaven and earth / and hell to doom.
Then all shall know / both devil and man
just who I was / and what I am.
anonymous medieval lyric (circa the sixteenth century)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.
every night and all,
to confront your past you must come at last,
and Christ receive thy soul.
every night and all,
sit right down and put pull yours on,
and Christ receive thy soul.
every night and all,
walk barefoot through the flames of hell,
and Christ receive thy soul.
every night and all,
the fire will never make you shrink,
and Christ receive thy soul.
every night and all,
walk starving through the black abyss,
and Christ receive thy soul.
every night and all;
fire and sleet and candlelight,
and Christ receive thy soul.
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
as leafless trees grow bare.
For now my sighs are fraught
whenever it enters my thought:
regarding this world's joy,
how everything comes to naught.
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
with the mild pheasants' song...
but now I feel the northern wind's blast:
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong
now grieve, mourn and fast.
(anonymous Medieval English lyric, circa early 15th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Four thousand winters, he thought, were not too long.
And all was for an apple, an apple that he took,
As clerics now find written in their book.
But had the apple not been taken, or had it never been,
We'd never have had our Lady, heaven's queen and matron.
So blesséd be the time the apple was taken thus;
Therefore we sing, "God is gracious! "
anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1275
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
who led hounds and hawks to the hunt,
who commanded fields and woods?
Where are the elegant ladies in their boudoirs
who braided gold through their hair
and had such fair complexions?
they enjoyed their games;
men bowed before them;
they bore themselves loftily...
But then, in an eye's twinkling,
their hearts were forlorn.
the trains of their dresses,
the arrogance of their entrances and exits,
their hawks and their hounds?
All their joy is departed;
their "well" has come to "oh, well"
and to many dark days...
(anonymous Middle English lyric, found in a partbook circa 1530 AD, but perhaps written much earlier)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
bringing the drizzling rain?
Christ, that my love were in my arms,
and I in my bed again!
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I rue, Mary, thy face: fair, good.
Now the sun passes under the tree:
I rue, Mary, thy son and thee.
(anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
the fishes in the flood
and I must go mad:
such sorrow I've had
for beasts of bone and blood!
(anonymous Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
and of the holy realm of Ireland.
Gentlefolk, I pray thee:
for the sake of saintly charity,
come dance with me
in Ireland!
Stranger, we all dwell in one world, not its portals.
The same original Chaos gave birth to all mortals.
—Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
does Desire dwell with the dead?
Cupid, that bold boy, never bowed his head
to wail.
—Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
your quiver holds only empty air:
for all your winged arrows, set free,
are now lodged in me.
—Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
For she too has wings and can fly away!
—Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
safe in his mother's lap,
chucking the dice one day,
gambled my heart away.
—Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I recognize you by your weight;
yes, and by the gods, you’re a load to bear.
I am also well aware
of your fiery darts.
But if you seek to ignite human hearts,
******* with your tinders;
mine’s already in cinders.
—Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When he’s gone all’s concealed.
—Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When he’s gone I’m blind.
—Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When he’s gone even sight is in doubt.
—Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Aesigenes was never a burden to you,
so please rest lightly on him here.
—Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
since it has been initiated into the mysteries of your nocturnal ceremonies.
—Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
still dripping scented essences
betray your wantonness.
These also betray you—
your eyes sagging with the lack of sleep,
stray tendrils of your unchaste hair escaping its garlands,
your limbs uncoordinated by the wine.
Away, trollop, they summon you—
the reveling lyre and the clattering castanets rattled by lewd fingers!
—Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
lighting the way for lovers,
and Night,
and you, my mournful Mandolin, my ***** companion ...
when will we see her, the little wanton one, lying awake and moaning to her lamp?
Or does she embrace some other companion?
Then let me hang conciliatory garlands on her door,
wilted by my tears,
and let me inscribe thereupon these words:
"For you, Cypris,
the one to whom you revealed the mysteries of your revels,
Meleager,
offers these spoiled tokens of his love."
—Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
They must have carried her off!
Who could be so barbaric,
to act with such violence,
to wage war against Love himself?
Quick, prepare the torches!
But wait!
A footfall, Heliodora's!
Get back in my *****, heart!
—Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I send drenching down to you, Heliodora.
Here on your puddling tomb I pour them out—
soul-wrenching tears
in memory of affliction and affection.
Piteously, so piteously Meleager mourns you,
you still so precious, so dear to him in death,
paying vain tributes to Acheron.
Alas! Alas! Where is my beautiful one,
my heart's desire?
Death has taken her from me, has robbed me of her,
and the lustrous blossom lies trampled in dust.
But Earth-Mother, nurturer of us all ...
Mother, I beseech you, hold her gently to your *****,
the one we all bewail.
—Meleager, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There might be reverses.
―Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I know how you'll "recite" them, if I do.
―Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You're not there.
―Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You're not befouling it there.
―Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
yet criticize mine?
Stop abusing me or write something fine
of your own!
―Martial, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
thus I suspect there's no end to his stuffing.
―Martial, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Gold, money, the finest porcelain―you alone!
The best wines of the most famous vintages―you alone!
Discrimination and wit―you alone!
You have it all―who can deny that you alone are set for life?
But everyone has had your wife―she is never alone!
―Martial, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
while offering guests a pittance.
Sextus, did you invite
friends to dinner tonight
to impress us with your enormous appetite?
―Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I commend my little lost angel, Erotion, love’s daughter.
She fell a mere six days short of outliving her sixth frigid winter.
Protect her now, I pray, should the chilling dark shades appear;
muzzle hell’s three-headed hound, less her heart be dismayed!
Lead her to romp in some sunny Elysian glade,
her devoted patrons. Watch her play childish games
as she excitedly babbles and lisps my name.
Let no hard turf smother her softening bones; and do
rest lightly upon her, earth, she was surely no burden to you!
―Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
by Michael R. Burch
the astronaut practices “speech”
as alien to primates below
as mute stars winking high, out of reach.
as ice crystals on Kilimanjaro —
far colder than Jesus’s words
over the “fortunate” sparrow.
must have felt, when all comfort had flown,
gazing into those inhuman eyes,
feeling zero at the bone.
For if he is human, I am not.
by Michael R. Burch
Faith Free Will Baptist, 1973:
I sat imaging watery folds
of pale silk encircling her waist.
Explicit *** was the day’s “hot” topic
(how breathlessly I imagined hers)
as she taught us the perils of lust
fraught with inhibition.
rolling implausible nouns off the edge of her tongue:
adultery, fornication, *******, ******.
Acts made suddenly plausible by the faint blush
of her unrouged cheeks,
by her pale lips
accented only by a slight quiver,
a trepidation.
of our uncommon desire?
Why did she cross and uncross her legs
lovely and long in their taupe sheaths?
Why did her ******* rise pointedly,
as if indicating a direction?
(unto me),”
together, we sang,
lips on lips,
devout, afire,
up her skirt,
her pants at her knees:
all night long,
in the heavenly choir.
by Michael R. Burch
steamed through the windows of a Crayola-yellow schoolbus
crawling its way up the backwards slopes
of Nowheresville, North Carolina ...
from the day’s skulldrudgery
and the unexpected waves of muggy,
summer-like humidity ...
behind senior high students
sprouting their first sparse beards,
their implausible bosoms, their stranger affections ...
on the varsity basketball team,
the proverbial talldarkhandsome
swashbuckling cocksman, grinning ...
bespectacled, in her primproper attire
and pigtails, staring up at him,
fawneyed, disbelieving ...
as she twitched impaled on his finger
like a dead frog jarred to life by electrodes,
I knew ...
that I would never understand it.
by michael r. burch
prone to sing
and (sometimes) to sting
by michael r. burch
and it made my taste buds buckle!
by Michael R. Burch
the bees rise
in a dizzy circle of two.
Oh, when I’m with you,
I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too.
Michael R. Burch
across a crevice dropping deep
into a dark and doomed domain
Your claws are sheathed. You smile, insane
Rain falls upon your path and pain
pours down. Your paws are pierced. You pause
and heed the oft-lamented laws
which bid you not begin again
till night returns. You wail like wind,
the sighing of a soul for sin,
and give up hunting for a heart.
Till sunset falls again, depart,
though hate and hunger urge you—"On!"
Heed, hearts, your hope—the break of dawn.
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
apple trees stand
watered by a gushing river
where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver
and the blossoming grape vine swells
in the gathering shadows.
for me
Eros never rests
but like a Thracian tempest
ablaze with lightning
emanates from Aphrodite;
black,
bleak,
astonishing,
violently jolting me from my soles
to my soul.
by Michael R. Burch
in a dark forest of fear,
imagination cast its strange light
into secret places,
scattering traces
of illumination so bright,
years later, she could still find them there,
their light undefiled.
the shafted light of her dreams
shone on her uplifted face
as she prayed ...
though she strayed
into a night fallen like woven lace
shrouding the forest of screams,
her faith led her home.
and the light that was flame
is a slow-dying ember ...
what she felt then
she would explain;
she would if she could only remember
that forest of shame,
faith beaten like gold.
by Michael R. Burch
Angelic face; wild chimp within.
As soft mirth tickles forth a smile.
Of feathery wings, then you and I
Spent snuggled to a loving breast.
Will bronze lean muscle, by and by.
But sleep here, now, for you and I
by Michael R. Burch
haughty beauty ...
or duty?
by Michael R. Burch
What is love, but a heightened effect
of time, light and distance?
before you became
so remote, so detached,
before you were able to assume
the very pallor of love itself?
out of favor with the sun.
the white corpse of love
for a last dance,
We will let her be,
let her abide,
to you
or to me.
by Michael R. Burch
I say she is kind,
lovely, breathtaking.
She screams that I’m blind.
her brilliance and compassion.
She refuses to believe me,
for that’s the latest fashion.
she dissolves into tears
while envious Angels
are, by God, her only Peers.
by Michael R. Burch
from Adolph. The wild spittle flew
as he screamed at me, with great conviction:
“Please despise me! I look like a Jew!”
from tall Yankees who cursed “yellow” foes.
“If we lose this small square,” they informed me,
earth’s nations will fall, dominoes!”
but his Book, from its genesis to close,
said: “Men can enslave their own brothers!”
(I soon noticed he lacked any clothes.)
where great scholars with lofty IQs
informed me that (since I’m an Arab)
I’m unfit to lick dirt from their shoes.
to a well where the waters seemed sweet:
the mirage of American “justice.”
There I wept a real sea, in defeat.
by Michael R. Burch
the rain of recollection falls;
frail memories, like vines, entangled,
cling to Time's collapsing walls.
the future like a far-off haze,
the present half-distinct an hour
before it blurs with unseen days.
by Michael R. Burch
and rain streaked gray, tumescent skies,
as thunder boomed and lightning railed,
I conjured words, where passion failed ...
sprawled in this bed, held in these arms,
your ******* pale baubles in my hands,
our bodies bent to old demands ...
if only time and distance waned
and brought us back together; now
I pray that this might be, somehow.
and we are more apart than miles.
How have you come to be so far—
as distant as an unseen star?
my thoughts might not return to you,
I feed your portrait to the flames,
but as they feast, I burn for you.
by Michael R. Burch
to the rhythm that wells within?
How can the ocean not be blue,
not buck with the clapboard slap of tide,
the clockwork shock of wave on rock,
the motion creation stirs within?
by Michael R. Burch
in the twilight, O, and the full moon rising,
spectral and ancient, will mutter a prayer.
and pin it up, knowing
that I will release it a moment anon.
nor is there a scripture
to sanctify nights you might spend in my arms,
of bright stars revolving above us
revel tonight, the most ardent of lovers.
by Michael R. Burch
and my soul is no longer intact,
but dissolving, like a sunset
diminishing to the west ...
before His throne my past
is put to test
and the demons and the Beast
on any morsel downward cast,
while the vapors of impermanence
cling, smelling of damask ...
if I am left to sleep,
to sleep and never dream, or dream, perhaps,
only a little longer and more deep.
by Michael R. Burch
is an oiled creel
shining with unuse,
on a locker
shielding memory,
of flowers,
the annual wake,
no longer dissolving under scrutiny,
becoming a keepsake,
lying forgotten
in weeds,
all the paraphernalia
the soul no longer needs.
by Michael R. Burch
is no great welling
straining to flood forth,
but an emptiness
waiting to be filled.
ready to be harvested,
but a field
rough and barren
waiting to be tilled.
by Michael R. Burch
her name, her face, the reason that we loved ...
and yet I hold her close within my thought.
I feel the burnished weight of auburn hair
that fell across her face, the apricot
clean scent of her shampoo, the way she glowed
so palely in the moonlight, angel-wan.
and bears me to that night, that only night,
when she and I were one, and if I could ...
I'd reach to her this time and, smiling, brush
the hair out of her eyes, and hold intact
each feature, each impression. Love is such
a threadbare sort of magic, it is gone
before we recognize it. I would crush
my lips to hers to hold their memory,
if not more tightly, less elusively.
by Michael R. Burch
this night would come, that we would bend alone
to tend wan fires’ dimming bars―the moan
of wind cruel as the Trumpet, gelid dew
an eerie presence on encrusted logs
we hoard like jewels, embrittled so ourselves.
loom down like dreary chaperones. Wild dogs,
too old for mates, cringe furtive in the park,
as, toothless now, I frame this parchment kiss.
and so my shriveled fingers clutch this stark,
long-unenamored pen and will it: Move.
I loved you more than words, so let words prove.
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
See? Evening falls, night quickly descends!
So why the useless disputes―generals, poets, lovers?
the stars' infernos will soon freeze in the heavens.
And soon we'll sleep together, under the earth,
we who never gave each other a moment's rest above it.
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
See? Evening falls, night quickly descends!
So why the useless disputes―generals, poets, lovers?
the stars' infernos will soon freeze in the heavens.
And soon we'll lie together under the earth,
we who were never united above it.
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Above the city Saint Peter once remanded to hell
now rolls the delirious thunder of the bells.
so, too, the woman who once bore your curses.
And yet the bells above me continually peal.
Moscow's eminence is something I can't deny ...
all gaily laugh at the hubris of the Tsars.
Moscow, what a vast
uncouth hostel of a home!
In Russia all are homeless
so all to you must come.
each back with its shameful brand,
we heard you from far away.
You called us: here we stand.
for every known kind of ill,
we seek the all-compassionate Saint,
the haloed one who heals.
where the uncouth rabble pour,
we seek the red-gold radiant heart
of Iver, who loved the poor.
bright fields that blaze to the west,
O sacred Russian soil,
I kneel here to kiss your breast!
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In my enormous city it is night
as from my house I step beyond the light;
some people think I'm daughter, mistress, wife ...
but I am like the blackest thought of night.
toward soft music faintly blowing, somewhere.
The wind may blow until bright dawn, new day,
but will my heart in its rib-cage really care?
strange leaves in hand ... faint music from distant towers ...
retracing my steps, there's nobody lagging behind ...
This shadow called me? There's nobody here to find.
the taste of dark night in my mouth is a bitter leaf ...
O, free me from shackles of being myself by day!
Friends, please understand: I'm only a dreamlike belief.
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You outshine everything, even the sun
at its zenith. The stars are yours!
If only I could sweep like the wind
through some unbarred door,
gratefully, to where you are ...
lowering my eyes before you, my lovely mistress,
petulant, chastened, overcome by tears,
as a child sobs to receive forgiveness ...
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
We meet, and are ready for flight!
I rest my dazed head in my hands,
and think, staring into the night ...
will ever understand the real depth
of just how sacrilegious we were,
which is to say we had faith,
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When I arrive, my hair will be gray,
because I abused spring.
And your expectations were much too high!
(Ophelia tasted, but didn't spit out, the rue.)
I will trudge across mountains and deserts,
trampling souls and hands without flinching,
with blood in every thicket and creek.
But always Ophelia's pallid face will peer out
from between the grasses bordering each stream.
with silt. Like a shaft of light on metal,
I set my sights on you, highly. Much too high
in the sky, where I have appointed my dust its burial.
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
are ruled out, neatly as musical staves.
like possessed Pushkin creatures
whose song has been silenced.
See them: arriving, departing?
the note of their pain remaining ...
always rising higher than love, as the poles freeze
to the embankment, like Lot's wife transformed to salt, forever.
as someone arranges a wedding;
then, like a voiceless Sappho
I must weep like a pain-wracked seamstress
Then the departing train
will hoot above the sleepers
as its wheels slice them to ribbons.
to a glowing but meaningless red.
All young women, at times,
are tempted by such a bed!
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A destitute ******* chick
A fledgling blown down from the heights above―
Left of its nest? Not a stick.
Each heart has its gulf and its bridge.
Each heart has its blessings and griefs.
Who is the father? A liege?
Maybe a liege, or a thief.
by Michael R. Burch
our parents had “lives” of their own,
ran drunk in the streets, or half-******.
until we were born; then, undone,
they were buying their parents gravestones
(because we were born lacking some
of their curious habits, but soon
we watched them dig graves of their own.
Their lives would be over too soon
in us (though our children were born
nine months from that night on the town
we first proved we had lives of our own).
by Michael R. Burch
frog-plangent nights, as moons engoldened roads
through crumbling stonewalled provinces, where toads
(nee princes) ruled in chinks and grew so small
at last to be invisible. He smiled
(the fables erred so curiously), and thought
bemusedly of being reconciled
to human flesh, because his heart was not
incapable of love, but, being cursed
a second time, could only love a toad’s . . .
and listened as inflated frogs rehearsed
cheekbulging tales of anguish from green moats . . .
and thought of her soft croak, her skin fine-warted,
his anemic flesh, and how true love was thwarted.
by Michael R. Burch
and thoughts of my past mistakes are my brethren.
I am withering
and the sweetness of your memory is like a tear.
for the ache in my heart is its hollowness
and the flaw in my soul is its shallowness;
there is nothing to fill.
I have nothing left.
And when you are gone, I will be bereft,
the husk of a man.
My heart cannot bear the night, or these dreams.
Your face is a ghost, though paler, it seems
when you smile.
by Michael R. Burch
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?
by Michael R. Burch
the warm glow of imagination,
the hushed whispers of possibility,
or frail, blossoming hope.
of bitter condemnation,
the hissing of hostility,
damnation's rope.
by Michael R. Burch
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.
by Michael R. Burch
shall the haunts of the sea―
the swollen tide pools
and the dark, deserted shore―
mark her passing again.
shall never kiss her lips
nor caress her ******* and hips
as she dreamt it did before,
once, lost within the uproar.
nor take her at their leisure;
the sea gulls shall not have her,
nor could she give them pleasure ...
She sleeps forevermore.
a ****** save to me
and her other lover,
who lurks now, safely covered
by the restless, surging sea.
but never in that way!
For the sea has stripped and shorn
the one I once adored,
and washed her flesh away.
for she is bald, bald to the bone!
And how it fills my heart with glee
to hear them sometimes cursing me
out of the depths of the demon sea ...
by Mehmet Akif Ersoy
loose English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
even when you lie underground, it encompasses you.
So, those of you who anticipate the shadows,
how long will the darkness remember you?
"I Can’t Applaud Tyranny"
by Mehmet Akif Ersoy
loose English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Yet I can't renounce the past for the sake of deluded newcomers.
When someone curses my ancestors, I want to strangle them,
Even if you don’t.
But while I harbor my elders,
I refuse to praise their injustices.
Above all, I will never glorify evil, by calling injustice “justice.”
From the day of my birth, I've loved freedom;
The golden tulip never deceived me.
If I am nonviolent, does that make me a docile sheep?
The blade may slice, but my neck resists!
When I see someone else's wound, I suffer a great hardship;
To end it, I'll be whipped, I'll be beaten.
I can't say, “Never mind, just forget it!” I'll mind,
I'll crush, I'll be crushed, I'll uphold justice.
I'm the foe of the oppressor, the friend of the oppressed.
What the hell do you mean, with your backwardness?
"For the Çanakkale Martyrs"
by Mehmet Akif Ersoy
loose English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The earth’s mightiest armies pressing Marmara,
Forcing entry between her mountain passes
To a triangle of land besieged by countless vessels.
Oh, what dishonorable assemblages!
Who are these Europeans, come as rapists?
Who, these braying hyenas, released from their reeking cages?
Why do the Old World, the New World, and all the nations of men
now storm her beaches? Is it Armageddon? Truly, the whole world rages!
Seven nations marching in unison!
Australia goose-stepping with Canada!
Different faces, languages, skin tones!
Everything so different, but the mindless bludgeons!
Some warriors Hindu, some African, some nameless, unknown!
This disgraceful invasion, baser than the Black Death!
Ah, the 20th century, so noble in its own estimation,
But all its favored ones nothing but a parade of worthless wretches!
For months now Turkish soldiers have been vomited up
Like stomachs’ retched contents regarded with shame.
If the masks had not been torn away, the faces would still be admired,
But the ***** called civilization is far from blameless.
Now the ****** demand the destruction of the doomed
And thus bring destruction down on their own heads.
Lightning severs horizons!
Earthquakes regurgitate the bodies of the dead!
Bombs’ thunderbolts explode brains,
rupture the ******* of brave soldiers.
Underground tunnels writhe like hell
Full of the bodies of burn victims.
The sky rains down death, the earth swallows the living.
A terrible blizzard heaves men violently into the air.
Heads, eyes, torsos, legs, arms, chins, fingers, hands, feet...
Body parts rain down everywhere.
Coward hands encased in armor callously scatter
Floods of thunderbolts, torrents of fire.
Men’s chests gape open,
Beneath the high, circling vulture-like packs of the air.
Cannonballs fly as frequently as bullets
Yet the heroic army laughs at the hail.
Who needs steel fortresses? Who fears the enemy?
How can the shield of faith not prevail?
What power can make religious men bow down to their oppressors
When their stronghold is established by God?
The mountains and the rocks are the bodies of martyrs!...
For the sake of a crescent, oh God, many suns set, undone!
Dear soldier, who fell for the sake of this land,
How great you are, your blood saves the Muslims!
Only the lions of Bedr rival your glory!
Who then can dig the grave wide enough to hold you. and your story?
If we try to consign you to history, you will not fit!
No book can contain the eras you shook!
Only eternities can encompass you!...
Oh martyr, son of the martyr, do not ask me about the grave:
The prophet awaits you now, his arms flung wide open, to save!
by W. S. Rendra
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I am resigned to my undeserved fate.
I contemplate
irrational numbers―complex & undefined.
such negative numbers, dark and unsigned.
But at least I can’t be held responsible
for disappointing you. No cause to elate.
Still, I am resigned to my undeserved fate.
The gods have spoken. I can relate.
I was born too soon―such was my fate.
You must choose another, not half of who I AM.
Be happy with him when you consummate.
by W. S. Rendra
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
the groom carries his bride
up the hill―
both of them naked,
both consisting of nothing but themselves.
the world is naked,
empty, free of deception,
dark with unspoken explanations―
a silence that extends
to the limits of time.
life, the animals and man.
everything is naked,
empty, open.
yet both have already come a long way,
passing through the illusions of brilliant dawns,
of skies illuminated by hope,
of rivers intimating contentment.
drenched in each other's sweat.
they watch evening fall
bringing strange dreams
to a bed arrayed with resplendent coral necklaces.
trillions of stars arrayed in the sky.
The universe is their inheritance:
stars upon stars upon stars,
more than could ever be extinguished.
the groom carries his bride
up the hill―
both of them naked,
to recreate the world's first face.
by Michael R. Burch
I join gaunt shadows and we crawl
up and down my room's dark walls.
against starlight―strange, mirthless clowns―
we merge, emerge, submerge . . . then drown.
shadows of the somber hills,
shadows of sad selves we spill,
There, caked in grimy, clinging snow,
we flutter feebly, moaning low
when we weren't shadows, but were men . . .
when we were men, or almost so.
by Michael R. Burch
under banners gaily flying
and I heard their mothers sighing
from some dark distant shore.
into fields—gleeful, braying—
their bright armaments displaying;
such manly oaths they swore!
full of honor’s white-hot burning
and desire’s restless yearning
sired new kids for the corps.
under banners gaily lying
and I heard their mothers crying
from some dark distant shore.
an Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
and the Colossus sagged inward ...
the Builders' work battered;
tall towers collapsed;
gates groaning, agape ...
the Giants’ dauntless strongholds decaying with age ...
the turrets in tatters ...
those Samson-like Stonesmiths?
holds fast those fearless Fathers
men might have forgotten
except that this slow-rotting siege-wall still stands
after countless generations!
stands facing fierce storms with their wild-whipping winds
because those master Builders bound its wall-base together
so cunningly with iron!
how kingly their castle-keeps!
how homely their homesteads!
how boisterous their bath-houses and their merry mead-halls!
how heavenward flew their high-flung pinnacles!
how tremendous the tumult of those famous War-Wagers ...
till mighty Fate overturned it all, and with it, them.
then the bulwarks were broken;
then the dark days of disease descended ...
as their palaces became waste places;
as ruin rained down on their grand Acropolis;
as their great cities and castles collapsed
while those who might have rebuilt them lay gelded in the ground:
those marvelous Men, those mighty master Builders!
therefore these once-lofty gates gape open;
therefore these roofs' curved arches lie stripped of their shingles;
therefore these streets have sunk into ruin and corroded rubble ...
strode strutting in gleaming armor, adorned with splendid ladies’ favors,
through this brilliant city of the audacious famous Builders
to compete for bright treasure: gold, silver, amber, gemstones.
here the streams gushed forth their abundant waters;
here the baths steamed, hot at their fiery hearts;
here this wondrous wall embraced it all, with its broad *****.
loose translation/interpretation by Michael Burch
Since my pallid face first nested in your hands,
Since I sensed your soul and every bloom lit up—
Till those rare perfumes were lost to deepening sands;
To hear your heart speak mysteries, divine;
Since I have seen you smile, have watched you weep,
Your lips pressed to my lips, your eyes on mine;
Of a ray, a single ray, of your bright star
(If sometimes veiled), and felt light falling stream,
Like one rose petal plucked from high, afar;
Pass, pass upon your way, for you grow old;
Flee to the dark abyss with your drear flowers,
but one unmarred within my heart I hold.
The cup fulfilled of love, from which I drink;
My heart has fires your frosts can never chill,
My soul more love to fly than you can sink.
by Michael R. Burch
so unalike, at first, we hardly knew
how to be friends. We went to war, and drew
lines in the sand. And yet the sky was blue
for everyone, and big enough to share.
We had to learn to share the selfsame air,
to find the path to harmony,
to find some common ground and let peace bloom.
to blossom in our hearts. We learned to be
together in our common destiny.
so unalike, at first, and now we know
how to be friends.
by Michael R. Burch
If I should die,
there will come a Doom,
and the sky will darken
to the deepest Gloom.
should not be found,
never think of me
in the cold ground.
If I should die,
let no mortal say,
“Here was a man,
with feet of clay,
God’s hand let fall.”
But watch the sky darken
to an eerie pall
unvanquished, broods,
and cares naught for graves,
prayers, coffins, or roods.
should not be found,
never think of me
in the cold ground.
If I should die,
let no man adore
his incompetent Maker:
Zeus, Jehovah, or Thor.
who never died―
the unvanquished Immortal
with the unriven side.
should not be found,
never think of me
in the cold ground.
And if I should “die,”
though the clouds grow dark
as fierce lightnings rend
this bleak asteroid, stark ...
you will see a bright Sign―
the sun with the moon
in its arms, Divine.
my bright meaning, and know―
my Spirit is mine.
I will go where I go.
should not be found,
never think of me
in the cold ground.
by Michael R. Burch
when I held you in my arms
promising you sagely
wise, noncommittal charms.
when I touched your tender lips
with kisses that intrigued my own—
such kisses I had never known,
nor a heartbeat in my fingertips!
since you're holding up verses so prolapsed!
—Ancient Roman graffiti, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
to Martial.
—Michael R. Burch
There might be reverses.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I know how you'll 'recite' them, if I do.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You're not there.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You're not befouling it there.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
yet criticize mine?
Stop abusing me or write something fine
of your own!
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
thus I suspect there's no end to his *******.
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
while offering guests a pittance.
Sextus, did you invite
friends to dinner tonight
to impress us with your enormous appetite?
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Gold, money, the finest porcelain—you alone!
The best wines of the most famous vintages—you alone!
Discrimination, taste and wit—you alone!
You have it all—who can deny that you alone are set for life?
But everyone has had your wife—
she is never alone!
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I commend my little lost angel, Erotion, love's daughter,
who died six days short of completing her sixth frigid winter.
Protect her now, I pray, should the chilling dark shades appear;
muzzle hell's three-headed hound, less her heart be dismayed!
Lead her to romp in some sunny Elysian glade,
her devoted patrons. Watch her play childish games
as she excitedly babbles and lisps my name.
Let no hard turf smother her softening bones; and do
rest lightly upon her, earth, she was surely no burden to you!
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I commend my little lost darling, my much-kissed Erotion,
who died six days short of completing her sixth bitter winter.
Protect her, I pray, from hell's hound and its dark shades a-flitter;
and please don't let fiends leave her maiden heart dismayed!
But lead her to romp in some sunny Elysian glade
with her cherished friends, excitedly lisping my name.
Let no hard turf smother her softening bones; and do
rest lightly upon her, earth, she was such a slight burden to you!
—Martial, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I hate. I love.
You ask, 'Why not refrain?'
I wish I could explain.
I can't, but feel the pain.
I hate. I love.
Why? Heavens above!
I wish I could explain.
I can't, but feel the pain.
I hate. I love.
How can that be, turtledove?
I wish I could explain.
I can't, but feel the pain.
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
He's so pretty he sells himself, I fear!
This is Catullus's translation of a poem by Sappho of ******
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
or,
could it be forgiven
in heaven,
their superior,
because to him space is given
to bask in your divine presence,
to gaze upon you, smile, and listen
to your ambrosial laughter
which leaves men senseless
here and hereafter.
I'm left speechless.
but a voiceless tongue grown thick in my mouth
and a thin flame running south...
till they swim in darkness.
whatever it is that incapacitates you.
By any other name it's the nemesis
fallen kings, empires and cities rue.
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
polished drily with a pumice stone?
To you, Cornelius, for you would look
content, as if my scribblings took
the cake, when in truth you alone
unfolded Italian history in three scrolls,
as learned as Jupiter in your labors.
Therefore, this little book is yours,
whatever it is, which, O patron Maiden,
I pray will last more than my lifetime!
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You're drunk on your success!
All men of good taste attest
That you're the very best—
At making speeches, first class!
While I'm the dregs of the glass.
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Through many lands and over many seas
I have journeyed, brother, to these wretched rites,
to this final acclamation of the dead...
and to speak — however ineffectually — to your voiceless ashes
now that Fate has wrested you away from me.
Alas, my dear brother, wrenched from my arms so cruelly,
accept these last offerings, these small tributes
blessed by our fathers' traditions, these small gifts for the dead.
Please accept, by custom, these tokens drenched with a brother's tears,
and, for all eternity, brother, 'Hail and Farewell.'
Through many lands and over many seas
I have journeyed, brother, to these wretched rites,
to this final acclamation of the dead...
and to speak — however ineffectually — to your voiceless ashes
now that Fate has wrested you away from me.
Alas, my dear brother, wrenched from my arms so cruelly,
accept these small tributes, these last gifts,
offered in the time-honored manner of our fathers,
these final votives. Please accept, by custom,
these tokens drenched with a brother's tears,
and, for all eternity, brother, 'Hail and Farewell.'
wiser than a mother's tears
for her lost child?
If they had hearts, surely they would be beguiled,
repeal the sentence of death!
Since they have none,
or only hearts of stone,
believers, save your breath.
—Michael R. Burch, after Catullus]
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
and have thus abandoned the learned virgins;
nor can my mind, so consumed by malaise,
partake of the Muses' mete fruit;
for lately the Lethaean flood laves my brother's
death-pale foot with its dark waves,
where, beyond mortal sight, ghostly Ilium
disgorges souls beneath the Rhoetean shore.
O my brother, more loved than life,
never see you again, unless I behold you hereafter.
But surely I'll always love you,
always sing griefstricken dirges for your demise,
such as Procne sings under the dense branches’ shadows,
lamenting the lot of slain Itys.
I nevertheless send you these, my recastings of Callimachus,
lest you conclude your entrusted words slipped my mind,
winging off on wayward winds, as a suitor’s forgotten apple
hidden in the folds of her dress escapes a ******'s chaste lap;
for when she starts at her mother's arrival, it pops out,
then downward it rolls, headlong to the ground,
as a guilty blush flushes her downcast face.
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
with whom she plays cradled to her breast,
or in her lap,
giving you her fingertip to peck,
provoking you to nip its nib...
Whenever she's flushed with pleasure
my gorgeous darling plays such dear little games:
to relieve her longings, I suspect,
until her ardour abates.
Oh, if only I could play with you as gaily,
and alleviate my own longings!
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
and let the judgments of ancient moralists
count less than a farthing to us!
but when our brief light sets,
we will sleep through perpetual night.
another thousand, then a second hundred,
yet another thousand, then a third hundred...
let's jumble the ledger, so that even we
(and certainly no malicious, evil-eyed enemy)
will ever know there were so many kisses!
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
are enough, or more than enough, to satisfy me?
swirling in incense-bearing Cyrene
between the torrid oracle of Jove
and the sacred tomb of Battiades.
making love furtively on a moonless night.
and more than enough, for mad Catullus,
as long as there are too many to be counted by inquisitors
and by malicious-tongued bewitchers.
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It's time to cut losses!
What is dead is gone, accept it.
Once brilliant suns shone on you both,
when you trotted about wherever she led,
and loved her as never another before.
That was a time of such happiness,
when your desire intersected her will.
But now she doesn't want you any more.
Be resolute, weak as you are, stop chasing mirages!
What you need is not love, but a clean break.
Goodbye girl, now Catullus stands firm.
Never again Lesbia! Catullus is clear:
He won't miss you. Won't crave you. Catullus is cold.
Now it's you who will grieve, when nobody calls.
It's you who will weep that you're ruined.
Who'll submit to you now? Admire your beauty?
Whom will you love? Whose girl will you be?
Who will you kiss? Whose lips will you bite?
But you, Catullus, you must break with the past, hold fast.
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
or a howling Scylla beget you from the nether region of her *****,
my harsh goddess? Are you so pitiless you would hold in contempt
this supplicant voicing his inconsolable despair?
Are you really that cruel-hearted?
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
not even Jupiter, if he were to ask her!
But what a girl says to her eager lover
ought to be written on the wind or in running water.
O fortunate natal Rome, to be hatched by me!
—Cicero, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
loose translations/interpretations by Michael R. Burch
I hewed away the coarse walls imprisoning the lovely apparition.
Each stone contains a statue; it is the sculptor's task to release it.
The danger is not aiming too high and missing, but aiming too low and hitting the mark.
Our greatness is only bounded by our horizons.
Be at peace, for God did not create us to abandon us.
God grant that I always desire more than my capabilities.
My soul's staircase to heaven is earth's loveliness.
I live and love by God's peculiar light.
Trifles create perfection, yet perfection is no trifle.
Genius is infinitely patient, and infinitely painstaking.
I have never found salvation in nature; rather I love cities.
He who follows will never surpass.
Beauty is what lies beneath superfluities.
I criticize via creation, not by fault-finding.
If you knew how hard I worked, you wouldn't call it 'genius.'
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
yet starved for virtues pure hearts might confess,
my soul can find no Jacobean stair
that leads to heaven, save earth's loveliness.
The stars above emit such rapturous light
our longing hearts ascend on beams of Love
and seek, indeed, Love at its utmost height.
But where on earth does Love suffice to move
a gentle heart, or ever leave it wise,
save for beauty itself and the starlight in her eyes?
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Which unto yours were life itself, and light,
When he closed them fast in death's eternal night
To reopen them on God, in Paradise.
Yet the fault not mine: for death's disgusting ploy
Had robbed me of that deep, unfathomable joy
Which in your loving memory never dies.
To make our unique friend smile on, in stone,
Forever brightening what dark earth would dim,
And because the Beloved causes love to shine,
I must carve you, to tell the world of him!
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Bones brittle wood; the soul without a guide
To curb the will's inferno; the crude pride
Of restless passions' pulsing surge and flow;
Blind through entrapments scattered far and wide; ...
Why wonder then, when one small spark applied
To such an assemblage, renders it aglow?
Must exceed nature - so divine a power
Belongs to those who strive with every nerve.
Created for such Art, from childhood given
As prey for her Infernos to devour,
I blame the Mistress I was born to serve.
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
there is a high, a low, and an in-between style;
and, as marble yields its images pure and vile
to excite the fancies artificers might think;
even so, my lord, lodged deep within your heart
are mingled pride and mild humility;
but I draw only what I truly see
when I trust my eyes and otherwise stand apart.
Whoever sows the seeds of tears and sighs
(bright dews that fall from heaven, crystal-clear)
in various pools collects antiquities
and so must reap old griefs through misty eyes;
while the one who dwells on beauty, so painful here,
finds ephemeral hopes and certain miseries.
by Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
with copious tears and windy words of grief,
when a merciless heaven offers no relief
to souls consumed by fire?
to life, when all must die? Beyond belief
would be a death delectable and brief,
since in my compound woes all joys expire!
I rather seek whoever rules my breast,
to glide between her gladness and my woe.
If only chains and bonds can make me blessed,
no marvel if alone and bare I go
to face the foe: her captive slave oppressed.
by Leonardo da Vinci, circa 1500
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
while a painting contains its own light and shade.
while sculpture is merely the more durable.
which sculpture cannot command.
But you, O Painter, unless you can make your figures move,
are like an orator who can't bring his words to life!
for if the Poet abandons the natural figure for flowery and flattering speech,
he becomes an orator and is thus neither Poet nor Painter.
while poetry is painting heard but not seen.
the Painter may call poetry blind painting.
Shun those studies in which the work dies with the worker.
and because those who preceded me appropriated every useful theme,
I will be like the beggar who comes late to the fair,
who must content himself with other buyers' rejects.
the refuse of so many other buyers,
and I will go about distributing it, not in the great cities,
but in the poorer towns,
selling at discounts whatever the wares I offer may be worth.
Alas, how she plays me, and yet I must persist!
by Leonardo da Vinci
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
and that point is miraculous, marvelous …
O marvelous, O miraculous, O stupendous Necessity!
By your elegant laws you compel every effect to be the direct result of its cause,
by the shortest path possible.
Such are your miracles!
by Veronica Franco
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
if only you give me the one that lifts
me laughing...
And though it costs you nothing,
still it is of immense value to me.
Your reward will be
not just to fly
but to soar, so high
that your joys vastly exceed your desires.
And my beauty, to which your heart aspires
and which you never tire of praising,
I will employ for the raising
of your spirits. Then, lying sweetly at your side,
I will shower you with all the delights of a bride,
which I have more expertly learned.
Then you who so fervently burned
will at last rest, fully content,
fallen even more deeply in love, spent
at my comfortable *****.
When I am in bed with a man I blossom,
becoming completely free
with the man who loves and enjoys me.
by Veronica Franco
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
If you give me the one that lifts
Me, laughing. If it comes free,
Still, it is of immense value to me.
Your reward will be—not just to fly,
But to soar—so incredibly high
That your joys eclipse your desires
(As my beauty, to which your heart aspires
And which you never tire of praising,
I employ for your spirit's raising) .
Afterwards, lying docile at your side,
I will grant you all the delights of a bride,
Which I have more expertly learned.
Then you, who so fervently burned,
Will at last rest, fully content,
Fallen even more deeply in love, spent
At my comfortable *****.
When I am in bed with a man I blossom,
Becoming completely free
With the man who freely enjoys me.
by Veronica Franco
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
how grotesque it is for you
to insult and abuse women!
Our unfortunate *** is always subject
to such unjust treatment, because we
are dominated, denied true freedom!
And certainly we are not at fault
because, while not as robust as men,
we have equal hearts, minds and intellects.
Nor does virtue originate in power,
but in the vigor of the heart, mind and soul:
the sources of understanding;
and I am certain that in these regards
women lack nothing,
but, rather, have demonstrated
superiority to men.
If you think us 'inferior' to yourself,
perhaps it's because, being wise,
we outdo you in modesty.
And if you want to know the truth,
the wisest person is the most patient;
she squares herself with reason and with virtue;
while the madman thunders insolence.
The stone the wise man withdraws from the well
was flung there by a fool...
who—I sense—truly loves and enjoys me,
I become so sweet and so delicious
that the pleasure I bring him surpasses all delight,
till the tight
knot of love,
however slight
it may have seemed before,
is raveled to the core.
—Veronica Franco, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Venice, our paradise, so pompous and pretty.
We lived for love, for primal lust and beauty;
to please ourselves became our only duty.
Floating there in a fog between heaven and earth,
We grew drunk on excesses and wild mirth.
We thought ourselves immortal poets then,
Our glory endorsed by God's illustrious pen.
But paradise, we learned, is fraught with error,
and sooner or later love succumbs to terror.
—Veronica Franco, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Women have not yet realized the cowardice that resides,
for if they should decide to do so,
they would be able to fight you until death;
and to prove that I speak the truth,
amongst so many women,
I will be the first to act,
setting an example for them to follow.
—Veronica Franco, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
by Michael R. Burch
She was the joy of my youth,
and now she is gone.
... requiescat in pace...
May she rest in peace.
... amen...
Solvet saeclum in favilla
***** David *** Sybilla
which will leave the world ash-gray,
was foretold by David and the Sybil fey.
—attributed to Thomas of Celano, St. Gregory the Great, St. Bernard of Clairvaux, and St. Bonaventure; loose translation by Michael R. Burch
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Little soul,
little *****,
little vagabond ...
where are we fluttering off to,
so bedraggled, pale and woebegone,
who used to be so full of mirth?
Where are we going—from bad to worse?
Who’ll laugh last? Was the joke on us?
My delicate soul,
now aimlessly fluttering... drifting... unwhole,
former consort of my failing corpse...
Where are we going—from bad to worse?
From jail to hearse?
Where do we wander now—fraught, pale and frail?
To hell?
To some place devoid of jests, mirth, happiness?
Is the joke on us?
by Thomas Campion
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
as p-mps praise their wh-res for exotic positions.
by Primo Levi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
in your comfortable houses,
who return each evening to find
warm food,
welcoming faces...
consider whether this is a man:
who toils in the mud,
who knows no peace,
who fights for crusts of bread,
who dies at another man's whim,
at his 'yes' or his 'no.'
Consider whether this is a woman:
bereft of hair,
of a recognizable name
because she lacks the strength to remember,
her eyes as void
and her womb as frigid
as a frog's in winter.
Consider that such horrors have been:
I commend these words to you.
Engrave them in your hearts
when you lounge in your house,
when you walk outside,
when you go to bed,
when you rise.
Repeat them to your children,
or may your house crumble
and disease render you helpless
so that even your offspring avert their faces from you.
by Primo Levi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
the interminable gray morning
as Buna smokes corpses through industrious chimneys.
A day like every other day awaits us.
The terrible whistle shrilly announces dawn:
'You, O pale multitudes with your sad, lifeless faces,
welcome the monotonous horror of the mud...
another day of suffering has begun.'
Weary companion, I see you by heart.
I empathize with your dead eyes, my disconsolate friend.
In your breast you carry cold, hunger, nothingness.
Life has broken what's left of the courage within you.
Colorless one, you once were a strong man,
A courageous woman once walked at your side.
But now you, my empty companion, are bereft of a name,
my forsaken friend who can no longer weep,
so poor you can no longer grieve,
so tired you no longer can shiver with fear.
O, spent once-strong man,
if we were to meet again
in some other world, sweet beneath the sun,
with what kind faces would we recognize each other?
anonymous Old English riddle poem, circa 700
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I know I was not fashioned from woolen fleeces;
nor was I skillfully spun from skeins;
I have neither warp nor weft;
no thread thrums through me in the thrashing loom;
nor do whirring shuttles rattle me;
nor does the weaver's rod assail me;
nor did silkworms spin me like skillfull fates
into curious golden embroidery.
And yet heroes still call me an excellent coat.
Nor do I fear the dread arrows' flights,
however eagerly they leap from their quivers.
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
that the earth never felt my bare foot's tread!
I awoke to find myself lost in a trackless wood,
for I had strayed far from the straight path.
—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Eternal I am, and eternal I endure.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
by Dante Alighieri
Here is a Deity, stronger than myself, who comes to dominate me.
—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your blessedness has now been manifested unto you.
—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Alas, how often I will be restricted now!
—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My son, it is time to cease counterfeiting.
—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Love said: 'I am as the center of a harmonious circle; everything is equally near me. No so with you.'
—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Had now revealed to me—as visions move—
The gentle and confounding face of Truth.
Thus I, by her sweet grace and love reproved,
Corrected, and to true confession moved,
Raised my bowed head and found myself behooved
To speak, as true admonishment required,
And thus to bless the One I so desired,
When I was awed to silence! This transpired:
As the outlines of men's faces may amass
In mirrors of transparent, polished glass,
Or in shallow waters through which light beams pass
(Even so our eyes may easily be fooled
By pearls, or our own images, thus pooled) :
I saw a host of faces, pale and lewd,
All poised to speak; but when I glanced around
There suddenly was no one to be found.
A pool, with no Narcissus to astound?
But then I turned my eyes to my sweet Guide.
With holy eyes aglow and smiling wide,
She said, 'They are not here because they lied.'
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Humble, and yet held high, above creation,
You are the apex of all Wisdom known!
You are the Pinnacle of human nature,
Your nobility instilled by its Creator
who was not shamed to be born with your features.
Love was engendered in your perfect womb
Where warmth and holy peace were given room
For heaven's Perfect Rose, once sown, to bloom.
Now unto us you are a Torch held high:
Our noonday Sun—the Light of Charity,
Our Wellspring of all Hope, a living Sea.
Madonna, so pure, high and all-availing,
The man who desires Grace of you, though failing,
Despite his grounded state, is given wing!
Your mercy does not fail us, Ever-Blessed!
Indeed, the one who asks may find his wish
Unneeded: you predicted his request!
You are our Mercy; you are our Compassion;
you are Magnificence; in you creation
becomes the sum of Goodness and Salvation.
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
And unto whom my words must now be brought
For wise interpretation's tender thought—
I greet you in our Lord's name, which is Love.
Through night's last watch, as winking stars, above,
Kept their high vigil over men, distraught,
Love came to me, with such dark terrors fraught
As mortals may not casually speak of.
Love seemed a being of pure Joy and held
My heart, pulsating. On his other arm,
My lady, wrapped in thinnest gossamers, slept.
He, having roused her from her sleep, then made
My heart her feast—devoured, with alarm.
Love then departed; as he left, he wept.
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pause here awhile, and ask
Has there ever been a grief like mine?
Pause here, from that mad race,
And with patience hear my case:
Is it not a piteous marvel and a sign?
Love, not because I played a part,
But only due to his great heart,
Afforded me a provenance so sweet
That often others, as I went,
Asked what such unfair gladness meant:
They whispered things behind me in the street.
But now that easy gait is gone
Along with all Love proffered me;
And so in time I've come to be
So poor I dread to think thereon.
And thus I have become as one
Who hides his shame of his poverty,
Pretending richness outwardly,
While deep within I moan.
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
When through the past I see your lovely face.
When you are near me, thus, Love fills all Space,
And often whispers, 'Is death better? Fly! '
My face reflects my heart's contentious tide,
Which, ebbing, seeks some shallow resting place;
Till, in the blushing shame of such disgrace,
The very earth seems to be shrieking, 'Die! '
'Twould be a grievous sin, if one should not
Relay some comfort to my harried mind,
If only with some simple pitying thought
For this great anguish which fierce scorn has wrought
Through the faltering sight of eyes grown nearly blind,
Which search for death now, as a blessed thing.
by Dante Alighieri
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
With eyelids weighted by such heaviness,
How is it, that among you every face
Is haunted by the same pale troubled glance?
Have you seen in my lady's face, perchance,
the grief that Love provokes despite her grace?
Confirm this thing is so, then in her place,
Complete your grave and sorrowful advance.
And if indeed you match her heartfelt sighs
And mourn, as she does, for her heart's relief,
Then tell Love how it fares with her, to him.
Love knows how you have wept, seen in your eyes,
And is so grieved by gazing on your grief,
His courage falters and his sight grows dim.
by ***** Cavalcante
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
not to make her heart my enemy,
she'd call me foolish, venturing: 'No man
was ever possessed of such strange vanity! '
Why such harsh judgements, written on a face
where once I'd thought to find humility,
true gentleness, calm wisdom, courtesy?
My soul despairs, unwilling to embrace
the sighs and griefs that flood my drowning heart,
the rains of tears that well my watering eyes,
the miseries to which my soul's condemned...
For through my mind there flows, as rivers part,
the image of a lady, full of thought,
through heartlessness became a thoughtless friend.
by ***** Guinizelli
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My lady, with whom flowers can't compare!
Like Diana, she unveils her beauty's rays,
Then makes the dawn unfold here, bright and fair!
She's like the wind and like the leaves they swell:
All hues, all colors, flushed and pale, beside...
Argent and gold and rare stones' brilliant spell;
Even Love, itself, in her, seems glorified.
She moves in ways so tender and so sweet,
Pride fails and falls and flounders at her feet.
The impure heart cannot withstand such light!
Ungentle men must wither, at her sight.
And still this greater virtue I aver:
No man thinks ill once he's been touched by her.
by Michael R. Burch
If she shows me her grace, I will honor her.
This I vow. This I aver.
Her grace flows freely, like her hair.
This I vow. This I aver.
For her generousness, I would worship her.
This I vow. This I aver.
I will not **** her for what I bear
This I vow. This I aver.
like a most precious incense-desire for her,
This I vow. This I aver.
nor call her '*****' where I seek to repair.
This I vow. This I aver.
I will not wink, nor smirk, nor stare
This I vow. This I aver.
like a foolish child at the foot of a stair
This I vow. This I aver.
where I long to go, should another be there.
This I vow. This I aver.
I'll rejoice in her freedom, and always dare
This I vow. This I aver.
the chance that she'll flee me-my starling rare.
This I vow. This I aver.
And then, if she stays, without stays, I swear
This I vow. This I aver.
that I will joy in her grace beyond compare.
This I vow. This I aver.
by Michael R. Burch
Italian translation by Comasia Aquaro
Se mi mostra la sua grazia, le farò onore.
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
La sua grazia vola libera, come i suoi capelli.
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
Per la sua generosità, la venererò.
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
Non la maledirò per ciò che soffro
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
come il più prezioso desiderio d'incenso per lei,
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
non chiamarla 'sgualdrina' laddove io cerco di aggiustare.
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
Io non strizzerò l'occhio, non riderò soddisfatto, non fisserò lo sguardo
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
Come un bambino sciocco ai piedi di una scala
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
Laddove io desidero andare, ci sarebbe forse un altro.
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
Mi rallegrerò nella sua libertà, e sempre sfiderò
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
la sorte che lei mi sfuggirà—il mio raro storno
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
E dopo, se lei resta, senza stare, io lo garantisco
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.
Gioirò nella sua grazia al di là del confrontare.
Lo giuro. Lo prometto.*
A risqué Latin epigram:
C-nt, while you weep and seep neediness all night,
-ss has claimed what would bring you delight.
—Musa Lapidaria, #100A, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
References to Dante in other Translations by Michael R. Burch
THE MUSE
by Anna Akhmatova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My being hangs by a thread tonight
as I await a Muse no human pen can command.
The desires of my heart — youth, liberty, glory —
now depend on the Maid with the flute in her hand.
Look! Now she arrives; she flings back her veil;
I meet her grave eyes — calm, implacable, pitiless.
'Temptress, confess!
Are you the one who gave Dante hell? '
She answers, 'Yes.'
I have also translated this tribute poem written by Marina Tsvetaeva for Anna Akhmatova:
Excerpt from 'Poems for Akhmatova'
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You outshine everything, even the sun
at its zenith. The stars are yours!
If only I could sweep like the wind
through some unbarred door,
gratefully, to where you are...
to hesitantly stammer, suddenly shy,
lowering my eyes before you, my lovely mistress,
petulant, chastened, overcome by tears,
as a child sobs to receive forgiveness...
Dante-Related Poems and Dante Criticism by Michael R. Burch
Of Seabound Saints and Promised Lands
by Michael R. Burch
Judas sat on a wretched rock,
his head still sore from Satan's gnawing.
Saint Brendan's curragh caught his eye,
wildly geeing and hawing.
'I'm on parole from Hell today!'
Pale Judas cried from his lonely perch.
'You've fasted forty days, good Saint!
Let this rock by my church,
my baptismal, these icy waves.
O, plead for me now with the One who saves!'
Saint Brendan, full of mercy, stood
at the lurching prow of his flimsy bark,
and mightily prayed for the mangy man
whose flesh flashed pale and stark
in the golden dawn, beneath a sun
that seemed to halo his tonsured dome.
Then Saint Brendan sailed for the Promised Land
and Saint Judas headed Home.
O, behoove yourself, if ever you can,
of the fervent prayer of a righteous man!
In Dante's 'Inferno' Satan gnaws on Judas Iscariot's head. A curragh is a boat fashioned from wood and ox hides. Saint Brendan of Ireland is the patron saint of sailors and whales. According to legend, he sailed in search of the Promised Land and discovered America centuries before Columbus.
Dante's was a defensive reflex
against religion's hex.
—Michael R. Burch
Dante, you Dunce!
by Michael R. Burch
The earth is hell, Dante, you Dunce!
Which you should have perceived—since you lived here once.
God is no Beatrice, gentle and clever.
Judas and Satan were wise to dissever
from false 'messiahs' who cannot save.
Why flit like a bat through Plato's cave
believing such shadowy illusions are real?
There is no 'hell' but to live and feel!
How Dante Forgot Christ
by Michael R. Burch
Dante ****** the brightest and the fairest
for having loved—pale Helen, wild Achilles—
agreed with his Accuser in the spell
of hellish visions and eternal torments.
His only savior, Beatrice, was Love.
His only savior, Beatrice, was Love,
the fulcrum of his body's, heart's and mind's
sole triumph, and their altogether conquest.
She led him to those heights where Love, enshrined,
blazed like a star beyond religion's hells.
Once freed from Yahweh, in the arms of Love,
like Blake and Milton, Dante forgot Christ.
The Christian gospel is strangely lacking in Milton's and Dante's epics. Milton gave the 'atonement' one embarrassed enjambed line. Dante ****** the Earth's star-crossed lovers to his grotesque hell, while doing exactly what they did: pursing at all costs his vision of love, Beatrice. Blake made more sense to me, since he called the biblical god Nobodaddy and denied any need to be 'saved' by third parties.
Dante's Antes
by Michael R. Burch
There's something glorious about man,
who lives because he can,
who dies because he must,
and in between's a bust.
No god can reign him in:
he's quite intent on sin
and likes it rather, really.
He likes *** touchy-feely.
He likes to eat too much.
He has the Midas touch
and paves hell's ways with gold.
The things he's bought and sold!
He's sold his soul to Mammon
and also plays backgammon
and poker, with such antes
as still befuddle Dantes.
I wonder—can hell hold him?
His chances seem quite dim
because he's rather puny
and also loopy-******.
And yet like Evel Knievel
he dances with the Devil
and seems so **** courageous,
good-natured and outrageous
some God might show him mercy
and call religion heresy.
RE: Paradiso, Canto III
by Michael R. Burch
for the most 'Christian' of poets
What did Dante do,
to earn Beatrice's grace
(grace cannot be earned!)
but cast disgrace
on the whole human race,
on his peers and his betters,
as a man who wears cheap rayon suits
might disparage men who wear sweaters?
How conventionally 'Christian' — Poet! — to ****
your fellow man
for being merely human,
then, like a contented clam,
to grandly claim
near-infinite 'grace'
as if your salvation was God's only aim!
What a scam!
And what of the lovely Piccarda,
whom you placed in the lowest sphere of heaven
for neglecting her vows —
She was forced!
Were you chaste?
Intimations V
by Michael R. Burch
We had not meditated upon sound
so much as drowned
in the inhuman ocean
when we imagined it broken
open
like a conch shell
whorled like the spiraling hell
of Dante's 'Inferno.'
Trapped between Nature
and God,
what is man
but an inquisitive,
acquisitive
sod?
And what is Nature
but odd,
or God
but a Clod,
and both of them horribly flawed?
Endgame
by Michael R. Burch
The honey has lost all its sweetness,
the hive—its completeness.
Now ambient dust, the drones lie dead.
The workers weep, their King long fled
(who always had been ****, invisible,
his 'kingdom' atomic, divisible,
and pathetically risible) .
The queen has flown,
long Dis-enthroned,
who would have gladly given all she owned
for a promised white stone.
O, Love has fled, has fled, has fled...
Religion is dead, is dead, is dead.
The drones are those who drone on about the love of God in a world full of suffering and death: dead prophets, dead pontiffs, dead preachers. Spewers of dead words and false promises. The queen is disenthroned, as in Dis-enthroned. In Dante's Inferno, the lower regions of hell are enclosed within the walls of Dis, a city surrounded by the Stygian marshes. The river Styx symbolizes death and the journey from life to the afterlife. But in Norse mythology, Dis was a goddess, the sun, and the consort of Heimdal, himself a god of light. DIS is also the stock ticker designation for Disney, creator of the Magic Kingdom. The 'promised white stone' appears in Revelation, which turns Jesus and the Angels into serial killers.
The Final Revelation of a Departed God's Divine Plan
by Michael R. Burch
Here I am, talking to myself again...
******* at God and bored with humanity.
These insectile mortals keep testing my sanity!
Still, I remember when...
planting odd notions, dark inklings of vanity,
in their peapod heads might elicit an inanity
worth a chuckle or two.
Philosophers, poets... how they all made me laugh!
The things they dreamed up! Sly Odysseus's raft;
Plato's 'Republic'; Dante's strange crew;
Shakespeare's Othello, mad Hamlet, Macbeth;
Cervantes' Quixote; fat, funny Falstaff! ;
Blake's shimmering visions. Those days, though, are through...
for, puling and tedious, their 'poets' now seem
content to write, but not to dream,
and they fill the world with their pale derision
of things they completely fail to understand.
Now, since God has long fled, I am here, in command,
reading this crap. Earth is Hell. We're all ******.
Brief Encounters: Other Roman, Italian and Greek Epigrams
No wind is favorable to the man who lacks direction.—Seneca the Younger, translation by Michael R. Burch
Little sparks ignite great Infernos.—Dante, translation by Michael R. Burch
The danger is not aiming too high and missing, but aiming too low and hitting the mark.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch
He who follows will never surpass.—Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch
Nothing enables authority like silence.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch
My objective is not to side with the majority, but to avoid the ranks of the insane.—Marcus Aurelius, translation by Michael R. Burch
Time is sufficient for anyone who uses it wisely.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch
Blinding ignorance misleads us. Myopic mortals, open your eyes! —Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch
It is easier to oppose evil from the beginning than at the end.—Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch
Fools call wisdom foolishness.—Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch
One true friend is worth ten thousand kin.—Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch
Not to speak one's mind is slavery.—Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch
I would rather die standing than kneel, a slave.—Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch
Fresh tears are wasted on old griefs.—Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch
Improve yourself by other men's writings, attaining less painfully what they gained through great difficulty.—Socrates, translation by Michael R. Burch
Just as I select a ship when it's time to travel, or a house when it's time to change residences, even so I will choose when it's time to depart from life.―Seneca, speaking about the right to euthanasia in the first century AD, translation by Michael R. Burch
Booksellers laud authors for novel editions
as p-mps praise their wh-res for exotic positions.
—Thomas Campion, Latin epigram, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
#POEMS #POETRY #LATIN #ROMAN #ITALIAN #TRANSLATION #MRB-POEMS #MRB-POETRY #MRBPOEMS #MRBPOETRY #MRBLATIN #MRBROMAN #MRBITALIAN #MRBTRANSLATION
Ah! Sunflower
by Michael R. Burch
after William Blake
O little yellow flower
like a star...
how beautiful,
how wonderful
we are!
Published as the collection "Modern Charon"
Keywords/Tags: Charon, Styx, death, ferry, boat, ship, captain, steering, helm, wheel, rudder, shipwreck, disaster, night, darkness, 911, 9-11, mrbch
