Long Scribblings Poems
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CATULLUS TRANSLATIONS
Catullus LXXXV: 'Odi et Amo'
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
I hate. I love.
You ask, 'Why not refrain?'
I wish I could explain.
I can't, but feel the pain.
2.
I hate. I love.
Why? Heavens above!
I wish I could explain.
I can't, but feel the pain.
3.
I hate. I love.
How can that be, turtledove?
I wish I could explain.
I can't, but feel the pain.
Catullus CVI: 'That Boy'
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
See that young boy, by the auctioneer?
He's so pretty he sells himself, I fear!
Catullus LI: 'That Man'
This is Catullus's translation of a poem by Sappho of Lesbos
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I'd call that man the equal of the gods,
or,
could it be forgiven
in heaven,
their superior,
because to him space is given
to bask in your divine presence,
to gaze upon you, smile, and listen
to your ambrosial laughter
which leaves men senseless
here and hereafter.
Meanwhile, in my misery,
I'm left speechless.
Lesbia, there's nothing left of me
but a voiceless tongue grown thick in my mouth
and a thin flame running south...
My limbs tingle, my ears ring, my eyes water
till they swim in darkness.
Call it leisure, Catullus, or call it idleness,
whatever it is that incapacitates you.
By any other name it's the nemesis
fallen kings, empires and cities rue.
Catullus 1 ('cui dono lepidum novum libellum')
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To whom do I dedicate this novel book
polished drily with a pumice stone?
To you, Cornelius, for you would look
content, as if my scribblings took
the cake, when in truth you alone
unfolded Italian history in three scrolls,
as learned as Jupiter in your labors.
Therefore, this little book is yours,
whatever it is, which, O patron Maiden,
I pray will last more than my lifetime!
Catullus XLIX: 'A Toast to Cicero'
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Cicero, please confess:
You're drunk on your success!
All men of good taste attest
That you're the very best—
At making speeches, first class!
While I'm the dregs of the glass.
Keywords/Tags: Catullus, Latin, English Translation, Rome, Roman, hate, love, pain, man, boy, Cicero, novel, book, books, god, gods, heaven
the silence of these
screaming profanities!
only the light rise
of my bosom,
fluttering erratically,
soon to die.
ever stinging ache within
ablaze, engulfing my torso.
my inner-thoughts, my betrayal,
weakness emanating from my
sweat!
my cold cruel heart,
shut off from that once
intoxicating
passion that consumed my soul.
bitterness now my old friend,
keeping me alive by torture!
was i ever a woman consumed
by passions, that lived depite
my murderous intent?
ever drowning in my lovers
arms,
this wall is built of bitter bricks.
My fortress, your all consuming
love.
i seek you not...
must endure a thousand paths
of torment and a thousand
paths, which have no end or
start.
my contentment lies in
masters of old, for thier
insanity is kindred to my own,
troubles of the mind.
never to recieve any sign, only
to grasp, on turn of a phrase, to
sustain thought of my
bloodsport of art.
on the brink of lunacy...
never ending craving to read
the word or phrase that
connects my strewn about dots.
barely sane to be sober...
cutting deep into my warped
inner being,
no one one can understand or
put meaning to my vague
scribblings.
I'm not profound, written for
an emotional stunt, the ever
poetic child.
climbing to scratch his mark on
forest tree.
long forgotten, the passion in
this dungeon of my coldest
construct.
now, know these tradegys
scribbled!
lines of self pity and contempt,
if such are true realities in my
backward and warped
misinterpretations.
fools who find the meaning,
never have scratched my
surface.
nice to think they they can be
sympathized when devoid of all
true compassions,
they lie to them and pretend to
get the deeper consciousness
born , immaculate, chosen by
celestial providence...
the passion, she's calling you,
has been a forced
joke, fit in.
but truth be ,told, you have
been destined for this auction
of your soul, piece by piece,
like a bleeding cutout heart,
this much be private
understood hopefully by you.
but your peers will give you
accolades and those can't bear
to like your work, simply cause
they havent reached you realm
yet.
words to wise; protect your
words, as your breath, it's all
you really have now; survival
Perhaps like a lightning
bolt of clear out of the blue
rigor mortis (tenon and
three decades hence)
two thousand fifty nine if you
count from January 13th 2019, adieu
attest that day 9 months I did brew
in wound (of the late Harriet Harris),
now finds me loved ones
crying boo hoo,
after this stiff mortal
Earthling bid toodle loo
with symbolic casket
(carrying cremated urn of ashes)
remembrance attended
by gentile and Jew
sharing positive memories purportedly
about this nondescript
fellow they knew
mainly indirectly, poignantly,
and wickedly shot thru
with his insightful humorous scribblings,
plus magnus opus titled
"How do ye do,"
an informal rambling missive bereft
of any subject and
devoid with little clue,
the purpose of said hefty tome
out weighing The Federalist circa: knew
lee after American independence
Papers, written by true
purrs under the pseudonym "Publius"
but great (as a great doorstop), or
alight as tinder for barbeque
since many admirers never
read his text written in Hebrew,
fluency acquired spending
final years he grew
old, since automatic citizenship
granted based on genetic goo
plus Mediterranean climate helped promote
longevity to century his health did hew
thus naturally pronounced philosophy,
where he drew
quite a wide web asper the many
claims Matthew Scott did eschew
to maintain longevity (more
quackery than science), but who
could dispute glorious
principles, not to poo poo
analogous to placebo effect
harmless fervent coping methods,
whether to cure ague
interestingly enough he cited ack hue
puncture for a gamut of physical ills
as well he did advocate chew
wing food (after taking small bites)
until mouthful became pulpy slew
(proponent of Fletcherism), this to
exercise dentures in addition
to maximize stew
pen diss experience of simple
routine eating view
wing thoroughly good (by George)
said quotidian activity grew
tubby spiritual, similarly basic
functions in general did get skew
ward whereby meditation on intrinsic,
metabolic and scholastic
processes to name a few
added a dimension of enhancement prior to
exiting life into frontier mortals can only rue.
Friday the thirteenth, (September
tooth house hind nineteen)
dark shadows winessed scads of bats
(base sic cully lobbing soupy Matzo balls)
eyeing yours truly as seldom seen
human sacrificial cuisine,
which dime a dozen story true story
red within tabloid National Enquirer 'zine.
Minus blood sucking mammals more averse
than bill collectors or insurance companies
bared fangs greeted yours truly courtesy
of bloodthirsty nurse
triggering instantaneous qualm
ordinarily, I dune hot feel averse
nor nain availing one arm or the other,
wherein needle tip doth stick
prominent vein, yet an idling hearse
unwittingly induced heightened alarm,
on flip Wilson side... sense and sensibility
awoke regarding no impact upon purse
anyway death could never as worse
compared to hand to mouth
dirty deeds done... dirt poor curse.
A deep inhalation induced relaxed state
courtesy ujjayi breath
filled lungs to alleviate
(yea right slim/fat chance analogous
to one sniveling, mutering, groveling...
writer wannabe called upon to curate)
quirky rhyming scribblings
attempting to pass muster
easily, joyfully, worthily...
declared poet laureate
hence hastily erected castle
in the sky fate
meeting divine heavenly lorded
tailor tete a tete
gradually alleviated helter skelter
mental condition within pate
experienced sudden calm
displaced initial panic, thus great
ecstasy donned "FAKE" trumpeting guise
knowing within short shrift
death would assimilate
me, while providing fancy feast
where Desmodontinae
would undulate
this vampire weekend,
aware I prevaricate
and horrible anecdote purely
meant to demonstrate
how believability easily
wrought to fascinate
(ha) captive audience,
he/she exhibiting skeptical trait
might doubt claim (mine), who as inmate
within human zoo forced to risk death
defying daredevil metier height
figurative tightrope walker I gyrate
balanced on iambic foot in toto
all the while able to coordinate
vaguely flowing continuity
eventually metaphorical
erythrocytes coagulate.
Things bloom more beautiful when breaking down.
The nave now ploughs through foams of flowering trees,
a frozen caravel. Kissed by the breeze,
the river surface suddenly seems to frown
exquisitely. The apse’s jaunty crown
of weeds above one (sightless) eye would please
romantic poets. What was once a friese
lies strewn about, a shaley shanty-town.
We love whatever withers, atrophies.
To see a calked construction founder, drown
beneath its own detritus, by degrees
slough off its shape and, sinking to its knees,
expire, is satisfying. Velvet gown?
We’d much prefer to see a soiled chemise.
A lake? A cloud? A mountain? Megan Fox?
If we acknowledge Beauty in these things,
what are we saying? As when Smokey sings,
or girls emerge in slinky summer frocks,
something’s taking place outside the box
of regularity, and sprouting wings.
How might we classify these happenings?
A rupture in the norm? The whole Baroque’s
built on this very point. If Beauty rocks,
what is the special quality it brings,
and why is it so pleasing? Beauty flings
a spanner in the works of Orthodox,
and laughs at Workaday. It mocks
our essence, lurks in quirks, and smirks at clocks.
“The Wordsworth ouevre is cretinous. Discuss.”
The Long, Laborious Quest, The Sparrow’s Nest,
The Noble Oak of Guernica, Addressed –
We can’t escape the feeling he’s a wuss.
His subjects are unconscionable, plus
the rhymes he uses are a facilefest.
If only he were even half in jest!
His humour’s unintentional, and thus
more entertaining than he could have guessed.
Yet something in his scribblings seems to wrest
significance from dross, analogous
to Newton’s differential calculus,
invented by the by, at whim’s behest.
When Wordsworth falls apart, he’s at his best.
(Dedication: For Regina Riddle)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tree caterpillar crawling
Strong windy debris;
Blown over the bough
~~~~~~~~~
Violet blossoms
Vine decorations dancing;
Sun and breeze move
~~~~~~~~~
Joy wears a face:
Your smiles highlight;
Dazzle of morning
~~~~~~~~~
Hasty scribblings
Poetry in motion;
Grassy blooms unnoticed
~~~~~~~~~
Rose garden memories
Touch of rapture;
Thorny issues exfoliate
~~~~~~~~~
Sweet yellow guava
Pleasant tasty treat;
Oxford Road townhouse
~~~~~~~~~
This old Jasmine tree
Fondly remembers;
Our rowdy flower picking
~~~~~~~~~
Joy wears a face
Nature reveals seasons;
Change comes to all
~~~~~~~~~
Look to strange change
To re-jig feelings;
Afternoon rain respite
~~~~~~~~~
Be of good cheer
Bear with bad weather;
Dance with danger
~~~~~~~~~
Mid-autumn frolic
Peace in kind harvest;
Moon cakes and moonlight
~~~~~~~~~
Ghosts of lovers past
Touch of fond rapture;
Breezy plumeria garden
~~~~~~~~~
Voice in the wind
Fragrant with rain;
Black clouds threaten
~~~~~~~~~
Evening stroll
Hand-in-hand;
Plumeria flowers preside
~~~~~~~~~
So much to discern
Harmony trees here;
Gardens By The Bay
~~~~~~~~~
Evening serenade
Cicadas and frogs;
Sounds at nightfall
~~~~~~~~~
Orchard Boulevard stroll
Sense surrounds;
Fragrant touch sifting
~~~~~~~~~
Two yellow butterflies
Fluttering between shrubs;
Sky Bridge tower above
~~~~~~~~~
Haiku surprise
Or senryu moment;
Experience reveals
~~~~~~~~~
Observe dear heart
What nature shows;
See things clearly
~~~~~~~~~
Frangipani tree
Crimson and red flowers;
Walkway perfumery
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
10 August 2014
Singapore
I've roamed the halls of Poetry Soup for nearly nine years
and had lots of ups and downs, cried happy and sad tears
Some poets are super duper people that I call my 'friends'
There are some snoopers who have need to make amends
Soupers are a varied lot from different backgrounds in life
But never should there be reason for enmity, vitriol or strife
I've laughed at humorous scribblings of many bawdy limericks
Shook my head at rude comments that have caused conflicts
Those few are in the ranks of poets I call 'the party poopers'
And there are some who enjoy interfering ~ 'the bloopers'
They spread rumors that cause chaos in the soup kitchen
The site would be much better if they would stop b****in'
I cannot claim my innocence for I've battled a time or thrice
When bullies and trolls have said things that weren't very nice
I've been called a 'mean girl' but it's a name I take in stride
Bet money on it being said again and I'll say, "Let it Ride!"
I've written for other poetry sites, but I remain in the Soup
and if you question why I've returned, well, here's the scoop...
There are fantastic men and women here that I have met
who are sincerely kindhearted. I owe them gratitude as a debt
I prefer to ignore those who cast aspersions with a snicker
But like most kinfolk, there will be times when we bicker
As a community of artists, we are writers of poetic verse
with a common interest shared across the entire universe
We should strive to be united with the same goal in mind
'Respect each other as Poetry Soupers and remain aligned'
Positive comments are encouraging. Ladle them and you'll see
That supporting Super Soupers will keep the site hassle free
Fifty nine inch tall wife
once willowy wisp
postmenopausal galloping gourmandiser
playboy centerfold girly
figure ain't no mo,'
which superfluous weight deterrent,
love life yours truly
took Kamikaze nosedive
arousing, exciting, stimulating...
as romancing the stone statue,
but seen thru Tom
gobbler beady eyes
butterball babe resembles hottie
female turkey on steroids without feathers,
spouse already qualifies as Hen pecker
not admirable characteristic
to encourage physical intimacy
whew, which allows this husband
to redirect pro creative pursuits
where English language
beak homes muse,
which amateur philologist
attests to literary penchant
most likely garnering posthumous fame
revving up avast surge
necessitating Barry yore
to deter den of thieves
against stealing precious
documents - sold at auction
avid fans snapping up
bajillion tattered staind scribblings
indistinguishable from chicken scratch
interlaced with gobbledygook
(unbeknownst to John Doe
who faintly resembled me dead
drunken grizzled shabby skidrow
anonymous deceased wordsmith),
mortuary performed makeover
courtesy same Joseph and the
amazing technicolor dreamcoat
academy award winners
unexpected set couture club craze
suddenly everybody and their ilk
including grandmother goose, pink panther,
porky pig, Scoobie doobie do, ugly duckling...
triggered feverish buzz feeding frenzy
even cosmetic surgeons experienced
boomtimes, cuz ma
eternally sleeping pose
inspired cottage (cheesy) industry,
the global economy witnessed
unprecedented unsurge
ending world wide poverty.
There are those engaged in pedagogy
To facilitate the drip... drip... drip
Of poison to accost a child's ear.
Maneuvering with glee and juicy decadence...
Sequestering all they say and hear.
Filled with righteous indignation
And a blind sanctification to their cause.
They pervert both judge and jury...
Twisting truth with sainted claws.
Under a veil of woeful ignorance...
They molest and kink impeccant minds.
When pressed to divulge their scribblings...
They graciously decline.
'You've not the right!' They blindly scream.
'Your fear and doubt is blatantly absurd.
We are gentle shepherds of our flock...
But you'll just have to take our word.'
For far too long we've abdicated our
Responsibility to these purveyors of disruption.
As they've repackaged long failed ideologies...
Fattening our children for destruction.
Nothing good comes from darkness
Except mushrooms and a willingness to deceive.
And proselytizing children like some fungi...
Seems unnecessarily naive.
These predators, race-baiters and gangsters
Are akin to an unruly cockroach in the night.
They happily go about their sordid business
Till someone dares to shine a light.
If you refuse to rise and shine that light...
Then we be back where this began.
But there are still foxes in the chicken-coop...
There be wolves among the lambs.
The End
*Follow my cartoon at Webtoon Bob's your uncle
*Pedagogy: -the principles and methods of instruction.
-the activities of teaching.
My mind is a dreamy river,
that flows untiring - smooth and rapid,
murmuring the words it adores,
the burbles of its ponderings.
These burbles of my musings
are simple little things I admire,
that capture my imagination
and get bottled up in my mind,
waiting impatiently to escape and sprinkle
in fragments of letters and scribblings.
When creative instinct is aroused,
the poet's eloquent pen dances to the
tunes of his chords of inspiration,
soothing and healing a wounded soul.
Words that splash from a poetic mind,
brightens the inner vision of the blind.
They relate to the listener's heart,
Calming his wavering mind.
A poet's gifted verses
dig out those untold secrets,
from the innermost cores of unknown minds
that connect to those lines of rhythm.
This dreamy river will gently swirl and flow,
to become wider - carrying loads of insights.
Ceaseless will it continue its course
until it reaches the end of its journey.
May weaken then, but would not stop,
creating valuable thoughts of wisdom,
in the fertile deltas it creates,
before it becomes one with the ocean.
Date: 02/06/2023
2022 Poetry Marathon Qualifiers' FINAL Placement Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Date: 11/27/2020
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 14 Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Mark Toney
Date: 11/27/2020
Where Do We Poets Go Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Silent One