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Instruction by Michael R. Burch Toss this poem aside to the filigreed and the wild tide of sunset. Strike my name, and still it is all the same. The onset of night is in the despairing skies; each hut shuts its bright bewildered eyes. The wind sighs and my heart sighs with her: my only companion, O Lovely Drifter! Still, men are not wise. The moon appears; the arms of the wind lift her, pooling the light of her silver portent, while men, impatient, are beings of hurried and harried despair. Now willows entangle their fragrant hair. Men sleep. Cornsilk tassels the moonbright air. Deep is the sea; the stars are fair. I reap. Originally published by Romantics Quarterly. Keywords/Tags: Pastoral, Tercet, Tercets, Romanticism, Romantic, Sunset, Night, Moon, Light, Moonlight, Stars, Starlight, Sea, Seas, Ocean, Oceans, Tide, Tides, Hut, Huts, Wind, Sigh, Sighs, Willows, Cornsilk, Tassels, Reap, Reaping, Epigram, Epitaph This World's Joy anonymous Middle English lyric loose translation by Michael R. Burch Winter awakens all my care as leafless trees grow bare. For now my sighs are fraught whenever it enters my thought: regarding this world's joy, how everything comes to naught. Elegy for a little girl, lost by Michael R. Burch ... qui laetificat juventutem meam ... She was the joy of my youth, and now she is gone. ... requiescat in pace ... May she rest in peace. ... amen ... Amen. How Long the Night Middle English lyric, circa 13th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts with the mild pheasants' song ... but now I feel the northern wind's blast, its severe weather strong. Alas! Alas! This night seems so long! And I, because of my momentous wrong now grieve, mourn and fast. Fowles in the Frith Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The fowls in the forest, the fishes in the flood and I must go mad: such sorrow I've had for beasts of bone and blood! I am of Ireland Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I am of Ireland, and of the holy realm of Ireland. Gentlefolk, I pray thee: for the sake of saintly charity, come dance with me in Ireland! Whan the turuf is thy tour Middle English lyric, circa 13th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 1. When the turf is your tower and the pit is your bower, your pale white skin and throat shall be sullen worms’ to note. What help to you, then, was all your worldly hope? 2. When the turf is your tower and the grave is your bower, your pale white throat and skin worm-eaten from within ... what hope of my help then? Ech day me comëth tydinges thre Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Each day I’m plagued by three doles, These gargantuan weights on my soul: First, that I must somehow exit this fen. Second, that I cannot know when. And yet it’s the third that torments me so, Because I don't know where the hell I will go! Ich have y-don al myn youth Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I have done it all my youth: Often, often, and often! I have loved long and yearned zealously ... And oh what grief it has brought me! I Sing of a Maiden Medieval English Lyric, circa 15th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I sing of a maiden That is matchless. The King of all Kings For her son she chose. He came also as still To his mother's breast As April dew Falling on the grass. He came also as still To his mother's bower As April dew Falling on the flower. He came also as still To where his mother lay As April dew Falling on the spray. Mother and maiden? Never one, but she! Well may such a lady God's mother be! Enigma by Michael R. Burch O, terrible angel, bright lover and avenger, full of whimsical light and vile anger; wild stranger, seeking the solace of night, or the danger; pale foreigner, alien to man, or savior ... Who are you, seeking consolation and passion in the same breath, screaming for pleasure, bereft of all articles of faith, finding life harsher than death? Grieving angel, giving more than taking, how lucky the man who has found in your love, this, our reclamation; fallen wren, you must strive to fly though your heart is shaken; weary pilgrim, you must not give up though your feet are aching; lonely child, lie here still in my arms; you must soon be waking. Floating by Michael R. Burch Memories flood the sand’s unfolding scroll; they pour in with the long, cursive tides of night. Memories of revenant blue eyes and wild lips moist and frantic against my own. Memories of ghostly white limbs ... of soft sighs heard once again in the surf’s strangled moans. We meet in the scarred, fissured caves of old dreams, green waves of algae billowing about you, becoming your hair. Suspended there, where pale sunset discolors the sea, I see all that you are and all that you have become to me. Your love is a sea, and I am its trawler— harbored in dreams, I ride out night’s storms. Unanchored, I drift through the hours before morning, dreaming the solace of your warm breasts, pondering your riddles, savoring the feel of the explosions of your hot, saline breath. And I rise sometimes from the tropical darkness to gaze once again out over the sea ... You watch in the moonlight that brushes the water; bright waves throw back your reflection at me. I believe I wrote this poem in my teens. Published by Penny Dreadful, Romantics Quarterly, Boston Poetry Magazine. Shattered by Vera Pavlova loose translation by Michael R. Burch I shattered your heart; now I limp through the shards barefoot. Epitaph for a Palestinian Child by Michael R. Burch I lived as best I could, and then I died. Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.

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Instruction

Instruction by Michael R. Burch Toss this poem aside to the filigreed and the wild tide of sunset. Strike my name, and still it is all the same. The onset of night is in the despairing skies; each hut shuts its bright bewildered eyes. The wind sighs and my heart sighs with her: my only companion, O Lovely Drifter! Still, men are not wise. The moon appears; the arms of the wind lift her, pooling the light of her silver portent, while men, impatient, are beings of hurried and harried despair. Now willows entangle their fragrant hair. Men sleep. Cornsilk tassels the moonbright air. Deep is the sea; the stars are fair. I reap. Originally published by Romantics Quarterly. Keywords/Tags: Pastoral, Tercet, Tercets, Romanticism, Romantic, Sunset, Night, Moon, Light, Moonlight, Stars, Starlight, Sea, Seas, Ocean, Oceans, Tide, Tides, Hut, Huts, Wind, Sigh, Sighs, Willows, Cornsilk, Tassels, Reap, Reaping, Epigram, Epitaph This World's Joy anonymous Middle English lyric loose translation by Michael R. Burch Winter awakens all my care as leafless trees grow bare. For now my sighs are fraught whenever it enters my thought: regarding this world's joy, how everything comes to naught. Elegy for a little girl, lost by Michael R. Burch ... qui laetificat juventutem meam ... She was the joy of my youth, and now she is gone. ... requiescat in pace ... May she rest in peace. ... amen ... Amen. How Long the Night Middle English lyric, circa 13th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts with the mild pheasants' song ... but now I feel the northern wind's blast, its severe weather strong. Alas! Alas! This night seems so long! And I, because of my momentous wrong now grieve, mourn and fast. Fowles in the Frith Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The fowls in the forest, the fishes in the flood and I must go mad: such sorrow I've had for beasts of bone and blood! I am of Ireland Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I am of Ireland, and of the holy realm of Ireland. Gentlefolk, I pray thee: for the sake of saintly charity, come dance with me in Ireland! Whan the turuf is thy tour Middle English lyric, circa 13th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 1. When the turf is your tower and the pit is your bower, your pale white skin and throat shall be sullen worms’ to note. What help to you, then, was all your worldly hope? 2. When the turf is your tower and the grave is your bower, your pale white throat and skin worm-eaten from within ... what hope of my help then? Ech day me comëth tydinges thre Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Each day I’m plagued by three doles, These gargantuan weights on my soul: First, that I must somehow exit this fen. Second, that I cannot know when. And yet it’s the third that torments me so, Because I don't know where the hell I will go! Ich have y-don al myn youth Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I have done it all my youth: Often, often, and often! I have loved long and yearned zealously ... And oh what grief it has brought me! I Sing of a Maiden Medieval English Lyric, circa 15th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I sing of a maiden That is matchless. The King of all Kings For her son she chose. He came also as still To his mother's breast As April dew Falling on the grass. He came also as still To his mother's bower As April dew Falling on the flower. He came also as still To where his mother lay As April dew Falling on the spray. Mother and maiden? Never one, but she! Well may such a lady God's mother be! Enigma by Michael R. Burch O, terrible angel, bright lover and avenger, full of whimsical light and vile anger; wild stranger, seeking the solace of night, or the danger; pale foreigner, alien to man, or savior ... Who are you, seeking consolation and passion in the same breath, screaming for pleasure, bereft of all articles of faith, finding life harsher than death? Grieving angel, giving more than taking, how lucky the man who has found in your love, this, our reclamation; fallen wren, you must strive to fly though your heart is shaken; weary pilgrim, you must not give up though your feet are aching; lonely child, lie here still in my arms; you must soon be waking. Floating by Michael R. Burch Memories flood the sand’s unfolding scroll; they pour in with the long, cursive tides of night. Memories of revenant blue eyes and wild lips moist and frantic against my own. Memories of ghostly white limbs ... of soft sighs heard once again in the surf’s strangled moans. We meet in the scarred, fissured caves of old dreams, green waves of algae billowing about you, becoming your hair. Suspended there, where pale sunset discolors the sea, I see all that you are and all that you have become to me. Your love is a sea, and I am its trawler— harbored in dreams, I ride out night’s storms. Unanchored, I drift through the hours before morning, dreaming the solace of your warm breasts, pondering your riddles, savoring the feel of the explosions of your hot, saline breath. And I rise sometimes from the tropical darkness to gaze once again out over the sea ... You watch in the moonlight that brushes the water; bright waves throw back your reflection at me. I believe I wrote this poem in my teens. Published by Penny Dreadful, Romantics Quarterly, Boston Poetry Magazine. Shattered by Vera Pavlova loose translation by Michael R. Burch I shattered your heart; now I limp through the shards barefoot. Epitaph for a Palestinian Child by Michael R. Burch I lived as best I could, and then I died. Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.

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