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Poems about Poems IV

Poems about Poems IV The Toast by Michael R. Burch For longings warmed by tepid suns (brief lusts that animated clay), for passions wilted at the bud and skies grown desolate and gray, for stars that fell from tinseled heights and mountains bleak and scarred and lone, for seas reflecting distant suns and weeds that thrive where seeds were sown, for waltzes ending in a hush, for rhymes that fade as pages close, for flames' exhausted, drifting ash, and petals falling from the rose,... I raise my cup before I drink, saluting ghosts of loves long dead, and silently propose a toast: to joys set free, and those I fled. Brother Iran by Michael R. Burch for the poets of Iran Brother Iran, I feel your pain. I feel it as when the Turk fled Spain. As the Jew fled, too, that constricting span, I feel your pain, Brother Iran. Brother Iran, I know you are noble! I too fear Hiroshima and Chernobyl. But though my heart shudders, I have a plan, and I know you are noble, Brother Iran. Brother Iran, I salute your Poets! your Mathematicians!, all your great Wits! O, come join the earth's great Caravan. We'll include your Poets, Brother Iran. Brother Iran, I love your Verse! Come take my hand now, let's rehearse the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. For I love your Verse, Brother Iran. Bother Iran, civilization's Flower! How high flew your spires in man's early hours! Let us build them yet higher, for that's my plan, civilization's first flower, Brother Iran. To Please The Poet by Michael R. Burch for poets who still write musical verse To please the poet, words must dance: staccato, brisk, a two-step: so! Or waltz in elegance to time of music mild, adagio. To please the poet, words must chance emotion in catharsis: flame. Or splash into salt seas, descend in sheets of silver-shining rain. To please the poet, words must prance and gallop, gambol, revel, rail. Or muse upon a moment: mute, obscure, unsure, imperfect, pale. To please the poet, words must sing, or croak, wart-tongued, imagining. Originally published by The Lyric The Po' Biz Explained by Michael R. Burch A poet may work from sun to sun, but his editor's work is never done. The editor’s work is never done. The critic adjusts his cummerbund. While the critic adjusts his cummerbund, the audience exits to mingle and slum. As the audience exits to mingle and slum, the anthologist rules, a pale jury of one. Performing Art by Michael R. Burch Who teaches the wren in its drab existence to explode into song? What parodies of irony does the jay espouse with its sharp-edged tongue? What instinctual memories lend stunning brightness to the strange dreams of the dull gray slug (spinning its chrysalis, gluing rough seams) abiding in darkness its transformation, till, waving damp wings, it applauds its performance? I am done with irony. Life itself sings. An Obscenity Trial by Michael R. Burch The defendant was a poet held in many iron restraints against whom several critics cited numerous complaints. They accused him of trying to reach the "common crowd," and they said his poems incited recitals far too loud. The prosecutor alleged himself most stylish and best-dressed; it seems he’d never lost a case, nor really once been pressed. He was known far and wide for intensely hating clarity; twelve dilettantes at once declared the defendant another fatality. The judge was an intellectual well-known for his great mind, though not for being merciful, honest, sane or kind. Clerks loved the "Hanging Judge" and the critics were his kin. Bystanders said, "They'll crucify him!" The public was not let in. The prosecutor began his case by spitting in the poet's face, knowing the trial would be a farce. "It is obscene," he screamed, "to expose the naked heart!" The recorder (bewildered Society) greeted this statement with applause. "This man is no poet. Just look: his Hallmark shows it. Why, see, he utilizes rhyme, symmetry and grammar! He speaks without a stammer! His sense of rhythm is too fine! He does not use recondite words or conjure ancient Latin verbs. This man is an imposter! I ask that his sentence be the almost perceptible indignity of removal from the Post-Modernistic roster." The jury left in tears of joy, literally sequestered. The defendant sighed in mild despair, "Please, let me answer to my peers." But how His Honor giggled then, seeing no poets were let in. Later, the clashing symbols of their pronouncements drove him mad and he admitted both rhyme and reason were bad. This poem was completed by the end of my sophomore year in college. I believe I wrote the original version around age 18 or 19. Confetti for Ferlinghetti by Michael R. Burch Lawrence Ferlinghetti is the only poet whose name rhymes with “spaghetti” and, while not being quite as rich as J. Paul Getty, he still deserves some confetti for selling a million books while being a modern Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Like Dante Gabriel Rossetti, Lawrence Ferlinghetti was both poet and painter. The Century’s Wake by Michael R. Burch lines written at the close of the 20th century Take me home. The party is over, the century passed: no time for a lover. And my heart grew heavy as the fireworks hissed through the dark over Central Park, past high-towering spires to some backwoods levee, hurtling banner-hung docks to the torchlit seas. And my heart grew heavy; I felt its disease, its apathy, wanting the bright, rhapsodic display to last more than a single day. If decay was its rite, now it has learned to long for something with more intensity, more gaudy passion, more song: like the huddled gay masses, the wildly-cheering throng. You ask me: How can this be? A little more flair, or perhaps only a little more clarity. I leave her tonight to the century’s wake; she disappoints me. Keywords: allegory, allusion, appreciation, art, poems, poets, poetry, verse, romantic, romanticism, inspiration, writing Published as the collection “Poems about Poems IV”

Copyright © | Year Posted 2020




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