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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required My most popular poems on the Internet (III) A number of my poems and translations have gone viral, according to Google, and some have been copied onto hundreds to thousands of web pages. That’s a lot of cutting and pasting! The poems below are based on the results returned by Google at the time I did the searches. Auschwitz Rose by Michael R. Burch There is a Rose at Auschwitz, in the briar, a rose like Sharon's, lovely as her name. The world forgot her, and is not the same. I still love her and extend this sacred fire to keep her memory exalted flame unmolested by the thistles and the nettles. On Auschwitz now the reddening sunset settles! They sleep alike?diminutive and tall, the innocent, the "surgeons." Sleeping, all. Red oxides of her blood, bright crimson petals, if accidents of coloration, gall my heart no less. Amid thick weeds and muck there lies a rose man's crackling lightning struck: the only Rose I ever longed to pluck. Soon I'll bed there and bid the world "Good Luck." Miklos Radnoti, in my opinion, was one of the greatest of the Jewish Holocaust poets. He died on a Nazi death march toward the end of World War II, and the poems below were found on his body by his wife. They were apparently written on the final days of the death march. Postcard 1 by Miklós Radnóti loose translation by Michael R. Burch Out of Bulgaria, the great wild roar of the artillery thunders, resounds on the mountain ridges, rebounds, then ebbs into silence while here men, beasts, wagons and imagination all steadily increase; the road whinnies and bucks, neighing; the maned sky gallops; and you are eternally with me, love, constant amid all the chaos, glowing within my conscience?incandescent, intense. Somewhere within me, dear, you abide forever? still, motionless, mute, like an angel stunned to silence by death or a beetle hiding in the heart of a rotting tree. Postcard 2 by Miklós Radnóti written October 6, 1944 near Crvenka, Serbia loose translation by Michael R. Burch A few miles away they're incinerating the haystacks and the houses, while squatting here on the fringe of this pleasant meadow, the shell-shocked peasants sit quietly smoking their pipes. Now, here, stepping into this still pond, the little shepherd girl sets the silver water a-ripple while, leaning over to drink, her flocculent sheep seem to swim like drifting clouds. Postcard 3 by Miklós Radnóti loose translation by Michael R. Burch The oxen dribble bloody spittle; the men pass blood in their piss. Our stinking regiment halts, a horde of perspiring savages, adding our aroma to death's repulsive stench. Postcard 4 by Miklós Radnóti loose translation by Michael R. Burch I toppled beside him?his body already taut, tight as a string just before it snaps, shot in the back of the head. "This is how you’ll end too; just lie quietly here," I whispered to myself, patience blossoming from dread. "Der springt noch auf," the voice above me jeered; I could only dimly hear through the congealing blood slowly sealing my ear. This was his final poem, written October 31, 1944 near Szentkirályszabadja, Hungary. "Der springt noch auf" means something like "That one is still twitching." Like Angels, Winged by Michael R. Burch Like angels?winged, shimmering, misunderstood? they flit beyond our understanding being neither evil, nor good. They are as they are ... and we are their lovers, their prey; they seek us out when the moon is full; they dream of us by day. Their eyes?hypnotic, alluring? trap ours with their strange appeal till like flame-drawn moths, we gather ... to see, to touch, to feel. And in their arms, enchanted, we feel their lips, grown old, till with their gorging kisses we warm them, growing cold. Pale Though Her Eyes by Michael R. Burch Pale though her eyes, her lips are scarlet from drinking of blood, this child, this harlot born of the night and her heart, of darkness, evil incarnate to dance so reckless, dreaming of blood, her fangs?white?baring, revealing her lust, and her eyes, pale, staring ... pretty pickle by michael r. burch u'd blaspheme if u could because ur God's no good, but of course u cant: ur a lowly ant (or so u were told by a Hierophant) . 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. Multiplication, Tabled by Michael R. Burch (for the Religious Right) "Be fruitful and multiply"— great advice, for a fruitfly! But for women and men, simple Simons, say, "WHEN! " Keywords/Tags: Michael Burch, popular, most popular, best poems, viral poems, poetry, poets, poetic expression, write, writing, epigrams, epitaph, translation, translations, quotes, Google, Internet, journals, literary journals, blogs, social media, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Yahoo, international, Holocaust, World War II
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