Sonnets C-Civ

“Whoso List to Hunt” is a famous early English sonnet written by Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542) in the mid-16th century. Whoever Longs to Hunt by Sir Thomas Wyatt loose translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch Whoever longs to hunt, I know the deer; but as for me, alas!, I may no more. This vain pursuit has left me so bone-sore I'm one of those who falters, at the rear. Yet friend, how can I draw my anguished mind away from the doe? Thus, as she flees before me, fainting I follow. I must leave off, therefore, since in a net I seek to hold the wind. Whoever seeks her out, I relieve of any doubt, that he, like me, must spend his time in vain. For graven with diamonds, set in letters plain, these words appear, her fair neck ringed about: Touch me not, for Caesar's I am, And wild to hold, though I seem tame. how many Nights by michael r. burch how many Nights we laughed to see the sun go down because the Night was made for reckless fun. ...Your golden crown, Your skin so soft, so smooth, and lightly downed... how many nights i wept glad tears to hold You tight against the years. ...Your eyes so bold, Your hair spun gold, and all the pleasures Your soft flesh foretold... how many Nights i did not dare to dream You were so real... now all that i have left here is to feel in dreams surreal Time is the Nightmare God before whom men kneel. and how few Nights, i reckoned, in the end, we were allowed to gather, less to spend. The Strangest Rain by Michael R. Burch “I ... am small, like the Wren, and my Hair is bold, like the Chestnut Bur—and my eyes, like the Sherry in the Glass, that the Guest leaves ...”—Emily Dickinson The strangest rain, a few bright sluggish drops, unsure if they should fall, run through with sun, came tumbling down and touched me, one by one, too few to animate the shriveled crops of nearby farmers (though their daughters might feel each cool splash, a-shiver with delight). I thought again of Emily Dickinson, who felt the tingle down her spine, inspired to lifting hairs, to nerves’ electric song of passion for a thing so deep-desired the heart and gut agree, and so must tremble as all the neurons of the brain assemble to whisper: This is love, but what is love? Wrens darting rainbows, laughter high above. Keywords/Tags: sonnet, Wyatt, animal, anxiety, bereavement, betrayal, break up, crush, depression, deer