Long Disconsolate Poems
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Walking toward His grave, the cool air nipping at my nape on this chilly Nisan morning, feeling disconsolate. The sun has just risen over the Mount of Olives, while the magnificent temple basks in radiant light just beyond. I used to view the holy place with such reverence. Everything seems different now, at least for me. My head is still spinning over the events we witnessed this past week. The most compassionate man the world has ever known is no more. My spirit sank as they spat on him, hit him with their open hands and fists, beat him mercilessly with bone-braided whips, taunted him, cursed him, then accused him of being a blasphemer and seditionist. To the leaders of my nation he was an outcast, spiritually diseased, the Devil's offspring. And yet, the things we saw him do...
leper messiah
execrated pariah
nailed upon a tree
As I near the tomb where he lay my intent is simply to pray and pay homage, nothing more. Birds are singing sweetly, oblivious to the pain I am feeling deep in my heart. What will I do with the rest of my life now that he is gone? What will Peter and the others... Wait!
MY GOD! I cannot believe what I am seeing. Two guards lie on the ground before the tomb, as if dead. The huge stone, sealed with mortar at Pilate's command, has been rolled to the side, leaving the tomb wide open. What in heaven's name is going on? I glance around, no one in sight. Cautiously I enter. What I see now compels me to drop to my knees. In the place where his body was laid lies the garment that he wore upon the stake, bloodstained and rolled up neatly. Tears fill my eyes as the wonderment of what has happened, or might have happened, breaks my heart. Has his body been stolen? Has all of this been some sort of ruse? Just as I am contemplating recent events, two men in white robes appear beside me and say: "Young man, who are you looking for? This Jesus whom you adore has been raised up, as he explained to you on many occasions. Now go, He is waiting for you in Galilee." As mysteriously as they appeared they vanish before my eyes. One thought consumes me now in this sobering moment, I must spread the word. The Messiah, HE LIVES!
sweet sacred sunrise
dawning of a bright new day
birdsong fills the air
* See my companion poem - Golgotha
Buna
by Primo Levi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Mangled feet, cursed earth,
the long interminable line in the gray morning
as Buna smokes corpses through industrious chimneys...
Another gray day like every other day awaits us.
The terrible whistle shrilly announces dawn:
"Rise, wretched multitudes, with your lifeless faces,
welcome the monotonous hell of the mud...
another day’s suffering has begun!"
Weary companion, I know you well.
I see your dead eyes, my disconsolate friend.
In your breast you bear the burden of cold, deprivation, emptiness.
Life long ago broke what remained of your courage.
Colorless one, you once were a real man;
a considerable woman once accompanied you.
But now, my invisible companion, you lack even a name.
So forsaken, you are unable to weep.
So poor in spirit, you can no longer grieve.
So tired, your flesh can no longer shiver with fear...
My once-strong man, now spent,
were we to meet again
in some other world, beneath some sunnier sun,
with what unfamiliar faces would we recognize each other?
Buna was the largest Auschwitz sub-camp, with around 40, 000 foreigners “workers” who had been enslaved by the Nazis. Primo Levi called the Jews of Buna the “slaves of slaves” because the other slaves outranked them. Despite Buna’s immense size and four years of activity, according to Levi it never produced a kilo of its intended product: synthetic rubber. Levi described Buna as “desperately and essentially opaque and gray.” He said not a blade of grass grew within the compound because its soil had been impregnated with the “poisonous juices of coal and petroleum” so that nothing was alive but machines and slaves, with the former “more alive” than the latter. Levi also related hearing a Buna Kapo say that the only way Jews could leave Auschwitz was “through the Chimney” of the crematorium. It is possible that the companion being addressed in “Buna” is Primo Levi himself, recognizing what he had been reduced to. Keywords/Tags: Primo Levi, translation, Holocaust poem, Auschwitz, Buna, mud, chimney, smoke, smoking, crematorium, corpses, bodies, death, murder, starvation, gray, color, colorless, invisible, nameless, slave, slaves, slavery, slave labor, race, racist, racism, horror, hell
At dusk, a brilliant western panorama
displayed off our seventh floor balcony.
Fluorescent colors, clouds of fuchsia, amber,
yummy yellow golden glazes across the sky.
So spectacularly spanning sentient space
a show of shows of unearthly grace.
Looming large clouds block the final moments
of light, tumultuous turmoils of my
little life reappear to slant the final view.
In contrast to my current mind of hope lost
for the future, the world closes in as I fell
into the despairing darkness of sleep that night
to awake in my dream to a gala porch party
on our balcony, attending was everyone,
my benefactors - Mark Twain, Martin Luther King,
Albert Einstein, Leonard Cohen, Rudyard Kipling,
Robert Frost, Maya Angelou and Dorothy Parker.
The "usuals" who would, could draw me close
but I'd have none of it, my mood morose.
Sullen, I waded disconsolate through the crowd
to the rail, reached in the basket I'd kept
for the long hemp escape rope, supple as a snake,
knotted it, put the loop around my neck
heart pounding, they gasped, chatter turned to fear.
Then a white dove flew under our canopy
and sat on Kipling's shoulder peacefully posing.
Clumsily confused, I climbed atop the railing
turned to look at the party - troubled, bereft,
speechless, said nothing, then jumped.
Oh the rushed flying feeling enthralling!
Soaring in the wind, all the while falling -
instantly, I was sorry it would all stop.
The dove descending on me caught my gaze
an iconic spiritual symbol that allured.
Through the dove's eyes I saw the party leaning,
a taut rope, a body swinging below.
Startled from dour slumber, back in my bed;
no breath, panting, panicked, tears trickling,
my wife up to hug me, save me from myself.
Shaken, I knew just exactly what to do
quickly to the balcony, opened the rope basket
to find all in place, then I noticed my hands,
palms bleeding, rope burned and raw,
pinned to my nightshirt was a piece of paper,
on it was this poem that I'd never written.
Bleary beyond belief, a surge force welled up,
a dove flies into the dawn sky bursting new light -
the otherness released finally from within.
I felt new found freedom from dream depths -
reborn, awake with renewed hope,
that memorable morning on the seventh floor.
Written: August 16, 2025, for contest by Unseeking Seeker
Line of inquiry:
"conjoined with the whole - we play our life role
exuding a scent - granting love consent"
************
Conjoined with the Whole
Not as sovereigns,
but as sylphlike strands,
woven into a ductile tapestry—
Each act of kindness forges
a bond within the communal consciousness.
Love is not a shadowy incantation,
nor a glamour to inveigle us into isolation.
It is hortatory, beckoning forth...
a rosy summons to convene,
amid the clangor of squalor and sojourn
to supplant the slipshod ache
with a warm intention.
We are not mere wanderers
adrift in nebulous vacuum—
We are emulous embers,
thirsting for the amaranthine,
avid to imbue our days,
with seraphic resonance.
Community is not a chimera,
It is pavonine in its iridescent truth,
multivocal in its sweet sorrow,
edacious for connection
but never laden with avarice.
We do not dismiss the burden—
We collocate it, we share it
withdraw from silence,
and cast aside the Icarus myth,
a tale of solitary flight,
Even the untamed child.
crumbles for the quest of kinship—
Even the weary elder winnows,
the soothing balm of a neighbor’s touch.
Love sanctions its courtliness—
not merely a whispered sigh,
but as a philanthropic deed,
a calyx protruding,
amid the clamor of desire.
To love is to be an iconoclast
to find solace in a gentle embrace—
to forbear the yearning
to anathematize others
to witness the evocative elysian—
in the eyes of the distraught.
We are not aphonic.
We are harmonious,
even in our disconsolate times.
We are evocative, full of meaning,
even when our souls feel drained.
And when we reflect,
We accomplish this together—
in the emollient of shared grief,
in the soothing touch of shared joy.
So let us frolic with abandon,
Let us explore the hidden meadows of our lives.
Let us gather in our joy,
transcendent in our understanding,
Our sense of self is transient.
Let us be love—
not as an elusive dream,
but a tangible act.
Let us be united with the whole.
And play our life roles.
with eloquence
vibrancy,
and grace.
Poems about Flight, Flying, and Birds (III)
Songstress
by Michael R. Burch
Within its starkwhite ribcage, how the heart
must flutter wildly, O, and always sing
against the pressing darkness: all it knows
until at last it feels the numbing sting
of death. Then life's brief vision swiftly passes,
imposing night on one who clearly saw.
Death held your bright heart tightly, till its maw–
envenomed, fanged–could swallow, whole, your Awe.
And yet it was not death so much as you
who sealed your doom; you could not help but sing
and not be silenced. Here, behold your tomb's
white alabaster cage: pale, wretched thing!
But you'll not be imprisoned here, wise wren!
Your words soar free; rise, sing, fly, live again.
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.
Lean Harvests
by Michael R. Burch
for T.M.
the trees are shedding their leaves again:
another summer is over.
the Christians are praising their Maker again,
but not the disconsolate plover:
i hear him berate
the fate
of his mate;
he claims God is no body’s lover.
My Forty-Ninth Year
by Michael R. Burch
My forty-ninth year
and the dew remembers
how brightly it glistened
encrusting September,...
one frozen September
when hawks ruled the sky
and death fell on wings
with a shrill, keening cry.
My forty-ninth year,
and still I recall
the weavings and windings
of childhood, of fall...
of fall enigmatic,
resplendent, yet sere,...
though vibrant the herald
of death drawing near.
My forty-ninth year
and now often I've thought on
the course of a lifetime,
the meaning of autumn,
the cycle of autumn
with winter to come,
of aging and death
and rebirth... on and on.
Keywords/Tags: flight, fly, flying, bird, birds, hawks, plover, wren, songbird, cage, song
Standing reverent in a dull cast mist
glazing my cheeks while prayers were said
so silent stood at Rand's memorial
My mind dashed to the self-drawn sketch
he staged as "The Youthful Raconteur";
profile, pipe, wavy cinema legend hair -
his final role, being lowered by rope
into a eternal, earthen wall home
Flowers fell like words fall, droplets in air
completing his circle, our circle too
His "Janie" bowed, seated solitary
almost estranged by her own dreams dashed
her beauty gone long ago, buried too
As the "Wedding Cake Couple" sixty years past
right up to the very day of their marriage
which proved a confection in itself
Rand was the one who always got the girl
perky, popular, blonde, "Homecoming Queen"
They spent lifetimes contriving their image
striving for the unattainable ideal
then crashing, having to pick up the pieces,
not content, tortured by delusions
This is how my older brother's life ends
a cacophony of misadventures
He wanted to be called only Rand
not Randall and never Randy, just Rand
So then, I always called him Randy
it's what a younger brother must do
to bring one down to earth, he was up there
Chasing fate, dashing towards his destiny
daring too often, reality hits head on
His good looks, handsome physique were no match
for surging corporate expectations
while sinking, his wake tipped lots of boats
his marriage, his family in a free fall
my piddling attempts to help were futile
Truth was, I never knew his inner mind
I guess I loved him but I don't know -
was he simply the superior image
or the vulnerable suffering reality?
So he flailed through his eighty eight years
disconsolate, in debt and detached,
his affections only came in a knot
Where were Randy's spiritual benefactors?
Are we heirs of our actions, not wishes?
Can we dream but not make dreams our masters?
So what about my own selfish frailties?
I take no pride in this awful life's play
my failures were many and to think now
I lost a life so close, that I watched
for so long devolve and did so little -
will be with me forever, this my fate;
not dashing towards the ones I love most
Afterglow
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
The night is full of stars. Which still exist?
Before time ends, perhaps one day we’ll know.
For now I hold your fingers to my lips
and feel their pulse ... warm, palpable and slow ...
once slow to match this reckless spark in me,
this moon in ceaseless orbit I became,
compelled by wilder gravity to flee
night’s universe of suns, for one pale flame ...
for one pale flame that seemed to signify
the Zodiac of all, the meaning of
Love’s wandering flight past Neptune. Now to lie
in dawning recognition is enough ...
enough each night to bask in you, to know
the face of love ... eyes closed ... its afterglow.
The Insurrection of Sighs
by Michael R. Burch
She was my Shiloh, my Gethsemane;
she nestled my head to her breast
and breathed upon my insensate lips
the fierce benedictions of her ubiquitous sighs,
the veiled allegations of her disconsolate tears . . .
Many years I abided the agile assaults of her flesh . . .
She loved me the most when I was most sorely pressed;
she undressed with delight for her ministrations
when all I needed was a good night’s rest . . .
She anointed my lips with her soft lips’ dews;
the insurrection of sighs left me fallen, distressed, at her elegant heel.
I felt the hard iron, the cold steel, in her words and I knew:
the terrible arrow showed through my conscripted flesh.
The sun in retreat left her victor and all was Night.
The last peal of surrender went sinking and dying—unheard.
Star Crossed
by Michael R. Burch
Remember—
night is not like day;
the stars are closer than they seem ...
now, bending near, they seem to say
the morning sun was merely a dream
ember.
The State of the Art (?)
by Michael R. Burch
Has rhyme lost all its reason
and rhythm, renascence?
Are sonnets out of season
and poems but poor pretense?
Are poets lacking fire,
their words too trite and forced?
What happened to desire?
Has passion been coerced?
Shall poetry fade slowly,
like Latin, to past tense?
Are the bards too high and holy,
or their readers merely dense?
My soul's eyes look upon the past,
and see hers meet mine for the first time;
I watch as our love's die is cast,
as the bells signaling our fates chime.
I watch as the fires within us ignite,
as everything we will be finds its beginnings;
this love at first sight burns ever so bright,
making our hearts rejoice at their lofty winnings.
I watch every passionate, yet tender
moment flow by, again kindling my emotions;
to her, I watch myself surrender,
diving into her love's boundless oceans.
I watch as we smile,
as we laugh and love.
We were convinced this would last awhile;
that this was ordained far above.
Then, we foundered, led ourselves astray;
her passion whisked away as if by a thief.
At this, I strive to look away,
to turn my gaze from this pain and grief.
But no man can shy away from the truth
of what he had and what he's lost.
He must forever contend with the mistakes of youth,
tears shed in vain and pain his cost.
Therefore I watch as the embers die,
as she turns away, headed for that door.
I watch as what I thought would be our life goes awry;
as we fade away, becoming no more.
I watch as she sheds
herself of what we were, gives up on me;
I watch as she tears into shreds
the heart I gave to her, and scatters the debris.
At length, after much introspection
I begin to wonder and muse;
if I had a chance to go back and make a correction,
what would I do to prevent these blues?
Would I try to discover the source
of her disaffection and our loss;
or would I simply plot a new course
from the start, never letting our stars cross?
They say that it's better to have loved and lost
than never to have loved at all;
but my disconsolate heart thinks that this has glossed
over the true depth of a spent heart's fall.
The beaten, weary soul knows not whether to pay heed
to the maxims of those dead and gone;
knows not whether to concede
that there might indeed someday be a new dawn.
At long last I reach the end of this vision,
the tragic finale of this bittersweet reverie.
The sad reality settles on me, of our division;
no greater agony exists in my memory.
...a tribute to Hermann Hesse and his novel 'Narziss Und Goldmund.'
***********
Two friends in early childhood when their lives were worry free,
each pursued his own direction to fulfill his destiny.
One was tempted by the devil to devote his life to greed,
debauchery, dissimulation, he embraced each sinful deed.
He ingratiated himself with the wealthy, bedding courtesans and Queens,
all the while maintaining strict discretion, gaining riches by deception and guile.
From palace to palace he traveled, always escaping detection,
'til he tired of all of the cheating and lies, and spent time in devoted reflection.
Much older now, his skills were not the sharpest,
no longer did he yearn for wealth and fame,
he became disconsolate, and longed for peace and solace,
a return to the village where they called him by his real name.
Meanwhile the other spent his time in isolation,
became a monk and took a vow of silence,
as part of a brotherhood he was content,
rarely, if ever, was he called upon for penance.
He left his cell each afternoon to tend the Bishop's garden,
tilling and weeding the flowers and plants,
in the evening he could be heard singing,
embroidering the hymns with soaring descants.
Asceticism is a doctrine that requires self-denial,
taken in excess it lays a burden on the soul,
a burden which in retrospect is seen as self-defeating,
what steps can be taken to ensure the soul is whole?
The two men reunited in the village where they spent
such happy times in playful animation,
examining their practices they sought an end to their excesses,
too much praying and playing required a strict examination.
In the midst of life's continuum to maintain a happy medium,
play and prayer and work and everything in equal measure,
the Greeks had a phrase for it ~ 'Nothing In Excess,'
a lifestyle we would all do well to emulate and treasure.
Copyright © 2016 Keith Bickerstaffe
Dark thoughts and desires are just that for a reason...human beings are prone to irrational thoughts, and we all carry secrets that drip into the blackness of our bleeding souls, extending downward below our fetal positioned graves.
Caught up inside my morbidity, concealed the mystery of my subconscious,
sinister stemming from evil, inside my dismal grim, I choked on regret and fed off your disconsolate lies and I believed them, as much as you believed...
I wanted to live...
depths bleed into hell
shared defeat only for us
morbid and alone
Living is nothing but a curse, stitches on my wrists, and spirals down into the oblivion of hell. My contradictions are breeding with my veins as I prepare for the longing of your misery....
...your misery is me.
I am your distal demon, sucking the life from your brave intentions, my weak intentions reach a depth, so far I can not see without hearing your screams. Your shadow's are killing me, but I'm needy for the weightlessness you throw at me daily...nightly...daily...non stop recurrence putting me to sleep, way too young...I tied myself up and kicked away your chair, left with out breath, and still, no one to turn to...
the fiend within me
sleeping in our graves too young
your curse inside me
There are two of me...
One.... broken and damaged...alone and afraid...yearning, longing to free myself from all the hatred bottled up inside my core. Fighting for life beneath the hell of destruction, worshiping black to find my grey..for there will never be white...
Needing you to show me every twisted path I believe should be mine. May your breath crack my bones and your eyes tear my flesh to pieces. Then...I am one who will stand up for your wicked endeavors and concrete sacred thoughts of me not being able to live anymore...
no more life to live
broken you and broken me
no more pain to give
Date Written: December 27, 2015