Poems About Poets Vii

Poems for Poets VII Sweenies (or Swine-ies) Among the Nightingales by Michael R. Burch (for the Corseted Ones and the Erratics) Open yourself to words, and if they come, be glad the stone-tongued apes are stricken dumb by anything like music; they believe in petrified dry meaning. Love conceives wild harmonies, while lumberjacks fell trees. Sweet, unifying music, a cappella ... but apeneck Sweeny’s not the brightest fella. He has no interest in celestial brightness; he’d distill Love to chivalry, politeness, yet longs to be acclaimed, like those before him who (should the truth be told) confuse and bore him. For Sweeney is himself a piggish boor — the kind pale pearl-less swine claim to adore. Untitled Haiku Fireflies thinking to illuminate the darkness? Poets! —Michael R. Burch BeMused by Michael R. Burch You will find in her hair a fragrance more severe than camphor. You will find in her dress no hint of a sweet distractedness. You will find in her eyes horn-owlish and wise no metaphors of love, but only reflections of books, books, books. If you like Her looks, meet me in the long rows, between Poetry and Prose, where we’ll win Her favor with jousts, and savor the wine of Her hair, the shimmery wantonness of Her rich-satined dress; where we’ll press our good deeds upon Her, save Her from every distress, for the lovingkindness of Her matchless eyes and all the suns of Her tongues. We were young, once, unlearned and unwise . . . but, O, to be young when love comes disguised with the whisper of silks and idolatry, and even the childish tongue claims the intimacy of Poetry. Impotent by Michael R. Burch Tonight my pen is barren of passion, spent of poetry. I hear your name upon the rain and yet it cannot comfort me. I feel the pain of dreams that wane, of poems that falter, losing force. I write again words without end, but I cannot control their course . . . Tonight my pen is sullen and wants no more of poetry. I hear your voice as if a choice, but how can I respond, or flee? I feel a flame I cannot name that sends me searching for a word, but there is none not over-done, unless it's one I never heard. I believe this poem was written in my late teens or early twenties. Keywords/Tags: poet, poets, poetry, poems, words, night, nightingales, music, love