State of the Art Iii

State of the Art (III) These are my "ars poetica" poems: the ones about the art and craft of writing poetry in a modern world that doesn't always recognize the artists or their work. Come Down by Michael R. Burch for Harold Bloom Come down, O, come down from your high mountain tower. How coldly the wind blows, how late this chill hour ... and I cannot wait for a meteor shower to show you the time must be now, or not ever. Come down, O, come down from the high mountain heather blown to the lees as fierce northern gales sever. Come down, or your heart will grow cold as the weather when winter devours and spring returns never. Originally published by The HyperTexts Orpheus by Michael R. Burch after William Blake I. Many a sun and many a moon I walked the earth and whistled a tune. I did not whistle as I worked: the whistle was my work. I shirked nothing I saw and made a rhyme to children at play and hard time. II. Among the prisoners I saw the leaden manacles of Law, the heavy ball and chain, the quirt. And yet I whistled at my work. III. Among the children’s daisy faces and in the women’s frowsy laces, I saw redemption, and I smiled. Satanic millers, unbeguiled, were swayed by neither girl, nor child, nor any God of Love. Yet mild I whistled at my work, and Song broke out, ere long. Originally published by The HyperTexts The Composition of Shadows by Michael R. Burch for poets who write late at night We breathe and so we write; the night hums softly its accompaniment. Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn leads onward, and we smile, content. And what we mean we write to learn: the vowels of love, the consonants’ strange golden weight, each plosive’s shape— curved like the heart. Here, resonant, sounds’ shadows mass beneath bright glass like singing voles curled in a maze of blank white space. We touch a face— long-frozen words trapped in a glaze that insulates our hearts. Nowhere can love be found. Just shrieking air. 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 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. Second Sight by Michael R. Burch I never touched you— that was my mistake. Deep within, I still feel the ache. Can an unformed thing eternally break? Now, from a great distance, I see you again not as you are now, but as you were then— eternally present and Sovereign. Alien Nation by Michael R. Burch for J. S. S., a "Christian" poet who believes in "hell" On a lonely outpost on Mars the astronaut practices “speech” as alien to primates below as mute stars winking high, out of reach. And his words fall as bright and as chill as ice crystals on Kilimanjaro — far colder than Jesus’s words over the “fortunate” sparrow. And I understand how gentle Emily felt, when all comfort had flown, gazing into those inhuman eyes, feeling zero at the bone. Oh, how can I grok his arctic thought? For if he is human, I am not. Keywords/Tags: ars poetica, poetry, poems, poets, art, craft, muse, write, writing