Arthur Poems - Poems about Arthur

Arthur Rimbaud Translations of Antico (“Ancient” or “Antique”), Rêvé Pour l'hiver (“Winter Dream”), and Dawn Antico (“Ancient” or “Antique”) by Arthur Rimbaud loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Graceful son of Pan! Around your brow, crowned with flowers and berries, your eyes, lustrous spheres, revolve. Your cheeks, stained with wine sediments, seem hollow. Your white fangs gleam. Your lyre-like...

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Le Bateau ivre (“The Drunken Boat”), an Excerpt by Arthur Rimbaud translation by Michael R. Burch The impassive river carried me downstream as howling warriors slashed the bargemen's throats, then nailed them, naked, to their former posts, while I observed all idly, in a dream. What did I care about the slaughtered crew, the Flemish barley or the English freight? The river had taught...

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Song of the Highest Tower by Arthur Rimbaud translation by Michael R. Burch Let it come, let it come, The day when all hearts love as one. I’ve endured so long That I’d even forgotten The pain and the terror. I’ve visited heaven, And yet a morbid thirst Still darkens my veins. Let it come, let it come, The day when all hearts love as one. Thus the...

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I tried to reason with the Lady of Shalott, "Be content! Don’t be so distraught! You may long for the world of Lancelot and Guinevere ~ but let me tell you what’s about to happen there ~ they're about to lose everything they've got." ...

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As a boy Charles fished on the Thames riverside He had a songbird, a dog, but life took a slide His father got him a dead-end job in a Scottish town It became a vortex bringing him down. He got married young, soon nine kids to feed His job barely paid; how could he get freed? He illustrated books, still not...

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Crows come And crows go But Arthur always was. For years the lofty oak had been His look-out every day And soon as Mother chucked the scraps His shiny eyes Would spot the crumbs From eighty yards away. No craftier crow In all the land Than Arthur black and strong And wise more wise Than all magpies He would not fly straight down. Although he’d had So many scraps From...

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One was trained To be the king of the table One was bred To be the king of the dead Hand in hand, down the path they walk Hand in hand, watching the future they sought Flash by In the blink of an eye The king of the dead is surrounded by the table And the king of the table is surrounded by death...

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We were bused from Sacramento to Reno. We rode a train from Reno to Salt Lake City. We then bused from SLC to Kansas City. Somewhere along the I-80 route, we crossed the Great Divide. At the time, the Kansas City Chiefs was not on my list of favorite things to do or places to go before my demise, but they soon became...

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My favourite poet is ME I’m obsessed with pooping and pee So I’m a crap poet Oh boy do I know it My poem fans may disagree! Some people may think I’m a schnook For writing a second rude book But I’m not lost for words Writing of pee and turds When published, will YOU dare to look!...

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Guinevere Was King Arthur's darling dear, Once day, she said, "I'm sorry M'Lord, I gave your nephew, Mordred, your sword". Mordred was not a man one should entrust. King Arthur was a bit more than nonplussed. Guinevere said, "Don't sweat it", But the king would regret it, As the weasel dispatched him with a thrust. The Knights of the Round Table all missed him and...

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Dear Arthur, I haven't met you yet, But I know you'll be here soon, And I can't wait to see your face, And hold you in my arms. I know you'll fall into our lives, Like long-awaited rain in Spring, Melting the last of winter snow, Along with our fragile hearts Soon you'll wake to a strange world That you won't understand, But I hope...

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Sir Arthur Conan Doyle Born on Scottish soil Both writer and physician, he delivered us Sherlock Holmes. A spiritualist too, he believed in fairies; possibly in gnomes!...

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Tribute to Poet Arthur Vaso, How great is Art, how great is Art!...

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Champagne and wine Elixirs of the elite's delight beverages of the upper classes as they rendezvous and converse amid soirées decked in elegance mingling among their latest art acquisitions envied, even by the Louvre The wonderful taste of caviar In opulent ballrooms, near and far where aristocrats and fashion find their air ah yet sometimes I ponder how the toiling working class gets through monotonous days I imagine...

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The gentlest soul springs from the hardest heart —when the fighting is over (Stonehenge: March, 1981)...

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