Ophelia

POEMS ABOUT OPHELIA Ophélie (“Ophelia”) by Arthur Rimbaud translation by Michael R. Burch On pitiless black waves unsinking stars abide while pale Ophelia, a lethargic lily, drifts by. Here, tangled in her veils, she floats on the tide. Far-off, in the woods, we hear the strident bugle’s cry. For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia, This albescent phantom, has rocked here, to and fro. For a thousand years, or more, in her gentle folly, Ophelia has rocked here when the night breezes blow. For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia, Has passed, an albescent phantom, down this long black river. For a thousand years, or more, in her sweet madness Ophelia has made this river shiver. Ophelia by Michael R. Burch Ophelia, madness suits you well, as the ocean sounds in an empty shell, as the moon shines brightest in a starless sky, as suns supernova before they die ... Pale Ophelias by Michael R. Burch Ever in danger of a lethal tryst, with a comical father crying, “Desist!” We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist. “Please do be careful!” our mothers insist, and yet we plow forward, in search of bliss, ever in danger of a lethal tryst. “Remember Eve’s apple,” our wise conscience hissed, which of course we ignored, the prudish miss! We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist. “Love’s on our side!” Or so we have wished. And who can resist such a delectable dish, whatever the dangers of a lethal tryst? “Stay away, Cupid!” With a balled-up fist, we lecture the stars when things go amiss. We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist. Lovers are criminals & need to be frisked! We’re up to the task, like lobsters in bisque. Ever in danger of a lethal tryst, We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist. The Appointment by Marina Tsvetaeva translation by Michael R. Burch I will be late for the appointed meeting. When I arrive, my hair will be gray, because I abused spring. And your expectations were much too high! I shall feel the effects of the bitter mercury for years. (Ophelia tasted, but didn't spit out, the rue.) I will trudge across mountains and deserts, trampling souls and hands without flinching, living on, as the earth continues with blood in every thicket and creek. But always Ophelia's pallid face will peer out from between the grasses bordering each stream. She took a swig of passion, only to fill her mouth with silt. Like a shaft of light on metal, I set my sights on you, highly. Much too high in the sky, where I have appointed my dust its burial.