Let Me Give Her Diamonds

Let Me Give Her Diamonds by Michael R. Burch Let me give her diamonds for my heart's sharp edges. Let me give her roses for my soul's thorn. Let me give her solace for my words of treason. Let the flowering of love outlast a winter season. Let me give her books for all my lack of reason. Let me give her candles for my lack of fire. Let me kindle incense, for our hearts require the breath-fanned flaming perfume of desire. Keywords/Tags: love, heart, passion, desire, longing, romance, intimacy, Valentine, relationships Les Bijoux (The Jewels) by Charles Baudelaire translation by Michael R. Burch My lover nude and knowing my heart's whims Wore nothing more than a few bright-flashing gems; Her art was saving men despite their sins— She ruled like harem girls crowned with diadems! She danced for me with a gay but mocking air, My world of stone and metal sparking bright; I discovered in her the rapture of everything fair— Nay, an excess of joy where the spirit and flesh unite! Naked she lay and offered herself to me, Parting her legs and smiling receptively, As gentle and yet profound as the rising sea— Till her surging tide encountered my cliff, abruptly. A tigress tamed, her eyes met mine, intent ... Intent on lust, content to purr and please! Her breath, both languid and lascivious, lent An odd charm to her metamorphoses. Her limbs, her loins, her abdomen, her thighs, Oiled alabaster, sinuous as a swan, Writhed pale before my calm clairvoyant eyes; Like clustered grapes her breasts and belly shone. Skilled in more spells than evil imps can muster, To break the peace which had possessed my heart, She flashed her crystal rocks’ hypnotic luster Till my quietude was shattered, blown apart. Her waist awrithe, her breasts enormously Out-thrust, and yet ... and yet, somehow, still coy ... As if stout haunches of Antiope Had been grafted to a boy ... The room grew dark, the lamp had flickered out. Mute firelight, alone, lit each glowing stud; Each time the fire sighed, as if in doubt, It steeped her pale, rouged flesh in pools of blood. The City Is a Garment by Michael R. Burch A rhinestone skein, a jeweled brocade of light,— the city is a garment stretched so thin her festive colors bleed into the night, and everywhere bright seams, unraveling, cascade their brilliant contents out like coins on motorways and esplanades; bead cars come tumbling down long highways; at her groin a railtrack like a zipper flashes sparks; her hills are haired with brush like cashmere wool and from their cleavage winking lights enlarge and travel, slender fingers ... softly pull themselves into the semblance of a barge. When night becomes too chill, she softly dons great overcoats of warmest-colored dawn. Caedmon's Hymn translation by Michael R. Burch Humbly now we honour heaven-kingdom's Guardian, the Measurer's might and his mind-plans, the goals of the Glory-Father. First he, the Everlasting Lord, established earth's fearful foundations. Then he, the First Scop, hoisted heaven as a roof for the sons of men: Holy Creator, mankind's great Maker! Then he, the Ever-Living Lord, afterwards made men middle-earth: Master Almighty! Bede's Death Song translation by Michael R. Burch Facing Death, that inescapable journey, who can be wiser than he who reflects, while breath yet remains, on whether his life brought others happiness, or pains, since his soul may yet win delight's or night's way after his death-day. Mirror by Kajal Ahmad translation by Michael R. Burch My era's obscuring mirror shattered because it magnified the small and made the great seem insignificant. Dictators and monsters filled its contours. Now when I breathe its jagged shards pierce my heart and instead of sweat I exude glass. The Lonely Earth by Kajal Ahmad translation by Michael R. Burch The pale celestial bodies never bid her “Good morning!” nor do the creative stars kiss her. Earth, where so many tender persuasions and roses lie interred, might expire for the lack of a glance, or an odor. She’s a lonely dusty orb, so very lonely!, as she observes the moon's patchwork attire knowing the sun's an imposter who sears with rays he has stolen for himself and who looks down on the moon and earth like lodgers. Kurds are Birds by Kajal Ahmad translation by Michael R. Burch Per the latest scientific classification, Kurds now belong to a species of bird! This is why, traveling across the torn, fraying pages of history, they are nomads recognized by their caravans. Yes, Kurds are birds! And, even worse, when there’s nowhere left to nest, no refuge from their pain, they turn to the illusion of traveling again between the warm and arctic sectors of their homeland. So I don’t think it strange Kurds can fly but not land. They wander from region to region never realizing their dreams of settling, of forming a colony, of nesting. No, they never settle down long enough to visit Rumi and inquire about his health, or to bow down deeply in the gust- stirred dust, like Nali. Raise your words, not their volume. Rain grows flowers, not thunder. —Rumi, translation by Michael R. Burch Birdsong by Rumi translation by Michael R. Burch Birdsong relieves my deepest griefs: now I'm just as ecstatic as they, but with nothing to say! Please universe, rehearse your poetry through me! In the Whispering Night by Michael R. Burch for George King In the whispering night, when the stars bend low till the hills ignite to a shining flame, when a shower of meteors streaks the sky while the lilies sigh in their beds, for shame, we must steal our souls, as they once were stolen, and gather our vigor, and all our intent. We must heave our bodies to some famished ocean and laugh as they vanish, and never repent. We must dance in the darkness as stars dance before us, soar, Soar! through the night on a butterfly's breeze ... blown high, upward-yearning, twin spirits returning to the heights of awareness from which we were seized.