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Erin, for a girl who embodies Ireland by Michael R. Burch All that’s left of Ireland is her hair— bright carrot—and her milkmaid-pallid skin, her brilliant air of cavalier despair, her train of children—some conceived in sin, the others to avoid it. For nowhere is evidence of thought. Devout, pale, thin, gay, nonchalant, all radiance. So fair! How can men look upon her and not spin like wobbly buoys churned by her skirt’s brisk air? They buy. They grope to pat her nyloned shin, to share her elevated, pale Despair ... to find at last two spirits ease no one’s. All that’s left of Ireland is the Care, her impish grin, green eyes like leprechauns’. Keywords/Tags: Ireland, Irish, pubs, drink, drinking, flirt, flirting Haunted by Michael R. Burch Now I am here and thoughts of my past mistakes are my brethren. I am withering and the sweetness of your memory is like a tear. Go, if you will, for the ache in my heart is its hollowness and the flaw in my soul is its shallowness; there is nothing to fill. Take what you can; I have nothing left. And when you are gone, I will be bereft, the husk of a man. Or stay here awhile. My heart cannot bear the night, or these dreams. Your face is a ghost, though paler, it seems when you smile. Published by Romantics Quarterly Have I been too long at the fair? by Michael R. Burch Have I been too long at the fair? The summer has faded, the leaves have turned brown; the Ferris wheel teeters ... not up, yet not down. Have I been too long at the fair? honeybee by michael r. burch love was a little treble thing— prone to sing and (sometimes) to sting honeydew by michael r. burch i sampled honeysuckle and it made my taste buds buckle! Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ by Michael R. Burch Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ the bees rise in a dizzy circle of two. Oh, when I’m with you, I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too. Huntress Michael R. Burch Lynx-eyed cat-like and cruel you creep 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. Ibykos Fragment 286 (III) loose translation by Michael R. Burch Come spring, the grand apple trees stand watered by a gushing river where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver and the blossoming grape vine swells in the gathering shadows. Unfortunately for me Eros never rests but like a Thracian tempest ablaze with lightning emanates from Aphrodite; the results are frightening— black, bleak, astonishing, violently jolting me from my soles to my soul. Ince St. Child by Michael R. Burch When she was a child 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. When she was young, 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. Now she is old 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. Insurrection by Michael R. Burch She has become as the night—listening for rumors of dawn—while the dew, glistening, reminds me of her, and the wind, whistling, lashes my cheeks with its soft chastening. She has become as the lights—flickering in the distance—till memories old and troubling rise up again and demand remembering ... like peasants rebelling against a mad king. Success by Michael R. Burch for Jeremy We need our children to keep us humble between toast and marmalade; there is no time for a ticker-tape parade before bed, no award, no bright statuette to be delivered for mending skinned knees, no wild bursts of approval for shoveling snow. A kiss is the only approval they show; to leave us?the first great success they achieve. Sappho's Lullaby by Michael R. Burch for Jeremy Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys sleep unaware of the nightingale's call, while the pale calla lilies lie listening, glistening... this is their night, the first night of fall. Son, tonight, a woman awaits you; she is more vibrant, more lovely than spring. She'll meet you in moonlight, soft and warm, all alone... then you'll know why the nightingale sings. Just yesterday the stars were afire; then how desire flashed through my veins! But now I am older; night has come, I’m alone... for you I will sing as the nightingale sings. 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 your fingertips 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, sheltered by shade from a sweltering sun? Can you not always remain this way, stoking the fire: more beautiful than expected, in reverie? Darkness increases and we must remain vigilant since this distant light is our sole consolation... this imperiled flame, which from the beginning has constantly flickered, 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 Gaza City and is considered to be one of the very best Palestinian poets; his poetry has been said to be "characterized by metaphoric originality and a novel thematic approach unprecedented in Arabic poetry." He won the Palestine Prize for Poetry in 1997.

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Erin

Erin, for a girl who embodies Ireland by Michael R. Burch All that’s left of Ireland is her hair— bright carrot—and her milkmaid-pallid skin, her brilliant air of cavalier despair, her train of children—some conceived in sin, the others to avoid it. For nowhere is evidence of thought. Devout, pale, thin, gay, nonchalant, all radiance. So fair! How can men look upon her and not spin like wobbly buoys churned by her skirt’s brisk air? They buy. They grope to pat her nyloned shin, to share her elevated, pale Despair ... to find at last two spirits ease no one’s. All that’s left of Ireland is the Care, her impish grin, green eyes like leprechauns’. Keywords/Tags: Ireland, Irish, pubs, drink, drinking, flirt, flirting Haunted by Michael R. Burch Now I am here and thoughts of my past mistakes are my brethren. I am withering and the sweetness of your memory is like a tear. Go, if you will, for the ache in my heart is its hollowness and the flaw in my soul is its shallowness; there is nothing to fill. Take what you can; I have nothing left. And when you are gone, I will be bereft, the husk of a man. Or stay here awhile. My heart cannot bear the night, or these dreams. Your face is a ghost, though paler, it seems when you smile. Published by Romantics Quarterly Have I been too long at the fair? by Michael R. Burch Have I been too long at the fair? The summer has faded, the leaves have turned brown; the Ferris wheel teeters ... not up, yet not down. Have I been too long at the fair? honeybee by michael r. burch love was a little treble thing— prone to sing and (sometimes) to sting honeydew by michael r. burch i sampled honeysuckle and it made my taste buds buckle! Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ by Michael R. Burch Kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ the bees rise in a dizzy circle of two. Oh, when I’m with you, I feel like kissin’ ’n’ buzzin’ too. Huntress Michael R. Burch Lynx-eyed cat-like and cruel you creep 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. Ibykos Fragment 286 (III) loose translation by Michael R. Burch Come spring, the grand apple trees stand watered by a gushing river where the maidens’ uncut flowers shiver and the blossoming grape vine swells in the gathering shadows. Unfortunately for me Eros never rests but like a Thracian tempest ablaze with lightning emanates from Aphrodite; the results are frightening— black, bleak, astonishing, violently jolting me from my soles to my soul. Ince St. Child by Michael R. Burch When she was a child 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. When she was young, 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. Now she is old 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. Insurrection by Michael R. Burch She has become as the night—listening for rumors of dawn—while the dew, glistening, reminds me of her, and the wind, whistling, lashes my cheeks with its soft chastening. She has become as the lights—flickering in the distance—till memories old and troubling rise up again and demand remembering ... like peasants rebelling against a mad king. Success by Michael R. Burch for Jeremy We need our children to keep us humble between toast and marmalade; there is no time for a ticker-tape parade before bed, no award, no bright statuette to be delivered for mending skinned knees, no wild bursts of approval for shoveling snow. A kiss is the only approval they show; to leave us?the first great success they achieve. Sappho's Lullaby by Michael R. Burch for Jeremy Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys sleep unaware of the nightingale's call, while the pale calla lilies lie listening, glistening... this is their night, the first night of fall. Son, tonight, a woman awaits you; she is more vibrant, more lovely than spring. She'll meet you in moonlight, soft and warm, all alone... then you'll know why the nightingale sings. Just yesterday the stars were afire; then how desire flashed through my veins! But now I am older; night has come, I’m alone... for you I will sing as the nightingale sings. 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 your fingertips 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, sheltered by shade from a sweltering sun? Can you not always remain this way, stoking the fire: more beautiful than expected, in reverie? Darkness increases and we must remain vigilant since this distant light is our sole consolation... this imperiled flame, which from the beginning has constantly flickered, 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 Gaza City and is considered to be one of the very best Palestinian poets; his poetry has been said to be "characterized by metaphoric originality and a novel thematic approach unprecedented in Arabic poetry." He won the Palestine Prize for Poetry in 1997.