Poems About Poems I

Poems about Poems (I) What the Poet Sees by Michael R. Burch What the poet sees, he sees as a swimmer ~~~underwater~~~ watching the shoreline blur sees through his breath’s weightless bubbles... Both worlds grow obscure. Muse/Goddess by Michael R. Burch “What will you conceive in me?” I asked her. But she only smiled. “Naked, I bore your child when the wolf wind howled, when the cold moon scowled... naked, and gladly.” “What will become of me?” I asked her, as she absently stroked my hand. Centuries later, I understand; she whispered, “I Am.” Currents by Michael R. Burch How can I write and not be true to the rhythm that wells within? How can the ocean not be blue, not buck with the clapboard slap of tide, the clockwork shock of wave on rock, the motion creation stirs within? Originally published by The Lyric 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. What Works by Michael R. Burch for David Gosselin What works? Hewn stone; the blush the iris shows the sun; the lilac’s pale-remembered bloom. The frenzied fly: mad-lively, gay, as seconds tick his time away, his sentence: one brief day in May, a period. And then decay. A frenzied rhyme’s mad tip-toed time, a ballad’s languid as the sea, seek, striving, immortality. When gloss peels off, what works will shine. When polish fades, what works will gleam. When intellectual prattle pales, the dying buzzing in the hive of tedious incessant bees, what works will soar and wheel and dive and milk all honey, leap and thrive, and teach the pallid poem to seethe. 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. The Heimlich Limerick by Michael R. Burch for T. M. The sanest of poets once wrote: "Friend, why be a sheep or a goat? Why follow the leader or be a blind breeder?" But almost no one took note. The Better Man by Michael R. Burch Dear Ed: I don’t understand why you will publish this other guy? when I’m brilliant, devoted, one hell of a poet! Yet you publish Anonymous. Fie! Fie! A pox on your head if you favor this poet who’s dubious, unsavor y, inconsistent in texts, no address (I checked!): since he’s plagiarized Unknown, I’ll wager! The State of the Art by Michael R. Burch Has rhyme lost all its reason and rhythm, renascence? Are sonnets out of season and poems but poor pretense? Are poets lacking fire, their words too trite and forced? What happened to desire? Has passion been coerced? Shall poetry fade slowly, like Latin, to past tense? Are the bards too high and holy, or their readers merely dense? Caveat Spender by Michael R. Burch It’s better not to speculate "continually" on who is great. Though relentless awe’s a Célèbre Cause, please reserve some time for the contemplation of the perils of EXAGGERATION. The Beat Goes On by Michael R. Burch Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts at “meter,” I crossly concluded I’d use each iamb in lieu of a lamb, bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded. US Verse, after Auden by Michael R. Burch Verse has small value in our Unisphere, nor is it fit for windy revelation. It cannot legislate less taxing fears; it cannot make us, several, a nation. Enumerator of our sins and dreams, it pens its cryptic numbers, and it sings, a little quaintly, of the ways of love. (It seems of little use for lesser things.) The Forge by Michael R. Burch To at last be indestructible, a poem must first glow, almost flammable, upon a thing inert, as gray, as dull as stone, then bend this way and that, and slowly cool at arms-length, something irreducible drawn out with caution, toughened in a pool of water so contrary just a hiss escapes it--water instantly a mist. It writhes, a thing of senseless shapelessness... And then the driven hammer falls and falls. The horses prick their ears in nearby stalls. A soldier on his cot leans back and smiles. A sound of ancient import, with the ring of honest labor, sings of fashioning. Instruction by Michael R. Burch Toss this poem aside to the filigreed and the prettified tide of sunset. Strike my name, and still it is all the same. The onset of night is in the despairing skies; each hut shuts its bright bewildered eyes. The wind sighs and my heart sighs with her-- my only companion, O Lovely Drifter! Still, men are not wise. The moon appears; the arms of the wind lift her, pooling the light of her silver portent, while men, impatient, are beings of hurried and harried despair. Now willows entangle their fragrant hair. Men sleep. Cornsilk tassels the moonbright air. Deep is the sea; the stars are fair. I reap. The Whole of Wit by Michael R. Burch for Richard Moore If brevity is the soul of wit then brevity and levity are the whole of it. Muse/Goddess by Michael R. Burch “What will you conceive in me?” I asked her. But she only smiled. “Naked, I bore your child when the wolf wind howled, when the cold moon scowled... naked, and gladly.” “What will become of me?” I asked her, as she absently stroked my hand. Centuries later, I understand; she whispered, “I Am.” Keywords/Tags: Poems, Poets, Poetry, Muse, God, Goddess, Rhythm, Rhyme, Creation, Words, Works