Poems About Poets I

Poems about Poets I The Wonder Boys by Michael R. Burch for Leslie Mellichamp The stars were always there, too-bright cliches: scintillant truths the jaded world outgrew as baffled poets winged keyed kites—amazed, in dream of shocks that suddenly came true ... but came almost as static—background noise, a song out of the cosmos no one hears, or cares to hear. The poets, starstruck boys, lay tuned in to their kite strings, saucer-eared. They thought to feel the lightning’s brilliant sparks electrify their nerves, their brains; the smoke of words poured from their overheated hearts. The kite string, knotted, made a nifty rope ... You will not find them here; they blew away— in tumbling flight beyond nights’ stars. They clung by fingertips to satellites. They strayed too far to remain mortal. Elfin, young, their words are with us still. Devout and fey, they wink at us whenever skies are gray. 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. Kin by Michael R. Burch for Richard Moore 1. Shrill gulls, how like my thoughts you, struggling, rise to distant bliss— the weightless blue of skies that are not blue in any atmosphere, but closest here ... 2. You seek an air so clear, so rarified the effort leaves you famished; earthly tides soon call you back— one long, descending glide ... 3. Disgruntledly you grope dirt shores for orts you pull like mucous ropes from shells’ bright forts ... You eye the teeming world with nervous darts— this way and that ... Contentious, shrewd, you scan— the sky, in hope, the earth, distrusting man. 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. Caveat Spender and other Poems about Poets Caveat Spender by Michael R. Burch for Stephen Spender It’s better not to speculate "continually" on who is great. Though relentless awe’s a Célèbre Cause, please reserve some time for the contemplation of the perils of EXAGGERATION. The Beat Goes On (and On and On and On ...) by Michael R. Burch Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts at “meter,” I crossly concluded I’d use each iamb in lieu of a lamb, bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded. Originally published by Grand Little Things The Better Man by Michael R. Burch Dear Ed: I don’t understand why you will publish this other guy— when I’m brilliant, devoted, one hell of a poet! Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie! Fie! A pox on your head if you favor this poet who’s dubious, unsavor y, inconsistent in texts, no address (I checked!): since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager! Kin by Michael R. Burch O pale, austere moon, haughty beauty ... what do we know of love, or duty? Published by Swathe of Light and The HyperTexts Fahr an' Ice by Michael R. Burch Apologies to Robert Frost and Ogden Nash! From what I know of death, I'll side with those who'd like to have a say in how it goes: just make mine cool, cool rocks (twice drowned in likker), and real fahr off, instead of quicker. Mnemosyne was stunned into astonishment when she heard honey-tongued Sappho, wondering how mortal men merited a tenth Muse. —Antipater of Sidon, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Come, investigate loneliness! a solitary leaf clings to the Kiri tree ? Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Abide by Michael R. Burch after Philip Larkin’s “Aubade” It is hard to understand or accept mortality— such an alien concept: not to be. Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion, or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea boiling like goopy green soup in a kettle. Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle. And so we abide . . . even in life, staring out across that dark brink. And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink, it is best not to drink (or, drinking, certainly not to think). Originally published by Light Confetti for Ferlinghetti by Michael R. Burch Lawrence Ferlinghetti is the only poet whose name rhymes with “spaghetti” and, while not being quite as rich as J. Paul Getty, he still deserves some confetti for selling a million books while being a modern Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Like Dante Gabriel Rossetti, his rhyming namesake, Lawrence Ferlinghetti was both poet and painter. A Passing Observation about Thinking Outside the Box by Michael R. Burch William Blake had no public, and yet he’s still read. His critics are dead. Housman was right ... by Michael R. Burch It's true that life’s not much to lose, so why not hang out on a cloud? It’s just the "bon voyage" is hard and the objections loud. Keywords: poet, poets, poems, poetry, writing, muse, inspiration, romantic, visions, visionary, words, dreams, imagination, meter, rhyme