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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Love has a Southern flavor: honeydew, ripe cantaloupe, the honeysuckle’s spout we tilt to basking faces to breathe out the ordinary, and inhale perfume ... Love’s Dixieland-rambunctious: tangled vines, wild clematis, the gold-brocaded leaves that will not keep their order in the trees, unmentionables that peek from dancing lines ... Love cannot be contained, like Southern nights: the constellations’ dying mysteries, the fireflies that hum to light, each tree’s resplendent autumn cape, a genteel sight ... Love also is as wild, as sprawling-sweet, as decadent as the wet leaves at our feet. Published by The Lyric, Contemporary Sonnet, The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Better Than Starbucks, The Chained Muse, Setu (India), Victorian Violet Press and Trinacria He Lived: Excerpts from “Gilgamesh” loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I. He who visited hell, his country’s foundation, Was well-versed in mysteries’ unseemly dark places. He deeply explored many underworld realms Where he learned of the Deluge and why Death erases. II. He built the great ramparts of Uruk-the-Sheepfold And of holy Eanna. Then weary, alone, He recorded his thoughts in frail scratchings called “words”: But words made immortal, once chiseled in stone. III. These walls he erected are ever-enduring: Vast walls where the widows of dead warriors weep. Stand by them. O, feel their immovable presence! For no other walls are as strong as this keep’s. IV. Come, climb Uruk’s tower on a starless night— Ascend its steep stairway to escape modern error. Cross its ancient threshold. You are close to Ishtar, The Goddess of Ecstasy and of Terror! V. Find the cedar box with its hinges of bronze; Lift the lid of its secrets; remove its dark slate; Read of the travails of our friend Gilgamesh— Of his descent into hell and man’s terrible fate! VI. Surpassing all kings, heroic in stature, Wild bull of the mountains, the Goddess his dam —Bedding no other man; he was her sole rapture— Who else can claim fame, as he thundered, “I am!” Enkidu Enters the House of Dust an original poem by Michael R. Burch I entered the house of dust and grief. Where the pale dead weep there is no relief, for there night descends like a final leaf to shiver forever, unstirred. There is no hope left when the tree’s stripped bare, for the leaf lies forever dormant there and each man cloaks himself in strange darkness, where all company’s unheard. No light’s ever pierced that oppressive night so men close their eyes on their neighbors’ plight or stare into darkness, lacking sight ... each a crippled, blind bat-bird. Were these not once eagles, gallant men? Who sits here—pale, wretched and cowering—then? O, surely they shall, they must rise again, gaining new wings? “Absurd! For this is the House of Dust and Grief where men made of clay, eat clay. Relief to them’s to become a mere windless leaf, lying forever unstirred.” “Anu and Enlil, hear my plea! Ereshkigal, they all must go free! Beletseri, dread scribe of this Hell, hear me!” But all my shrill cries, obscured by vast eons of dust, at last fell mute as I took my place in the ash and soot. Reclamation an original poem by Michael R. Burch after Robert Graves, with a nod to Mary Shelley I have come to the dark side of things where the bat sings its evasive radar and Want is a crooked forefinger attached to a gelatinous wing. I have grown animate here, a stitched corpse hooked to electrodes. And night moves upon me—progenitor of life with its foul breath. Blind eyes have their second sight and still are deceived. Now my nature is softly to moan as Desire carries me swooningly across her threshold. Stone is less infinite than her crone’s gargantuan hooked nose, her driveling lips. I eye her ecstatically—her dowager figure, and there is something about her that my words transfigure to a consuming emptiness. We are at peace with each other; this is our venture— swaying, the strings tautening, as tightropes tauten, as love tightens, constricts to the first note. Lyre of our hearts’ pits, orchestration of nothing, adits of emptiness! We have come to the last of our hopes, sweet as congealed blood sweetens for flies. Need is reborn; love dies. Marsh Song by Michael R. Burch Here there is only the great sad song of the reeds and the silent herons, wraithlike in the mist, and a few drab sunken stones, unblessed by the sunlight these late sixteen thousand years, and the beaded dews that drench strange ferns, like tears collected against an overwhelming sadness. Here the marsh exposes its dejectedness, its gutted rotting belly, and its roots rise out of the earth’s distended heaviness, to claw hard at existence, till the scars remind us that we all have wounds, and I ... I have learned again that living is despair as the herons cleave the placid, dreamless air. Originally published by The Lyric Keywords/Tags: Epic of Gilgamesh, epic, epical, orient occident, oriental, ancient, ancestors, ancestry, primal
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