Ophelia
POEMS ABOUT OPHELIA
Ophélie (“Ophelia”)
by Arthur Rimbaud
translation by Michael R. Burch
On pitiless black waves unsinking stars abide
while pale Ophelia, a lethargic lily, drifts by.
Here, tangled in her veils, she floats on the tide.
Far-off, in the woods, we hear the strident bugle’s cry.
For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
This albescent phantom, has rocked here, to and fro.
For a thousand years, or more, in her gentle folly,
Ophelia has rocked here when the night breezes blow.
For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
Has passed, an albescent phantom, down this long black river.
For a thousand years, or more, in her sweet madness
Ophelia has made this river shiver.
Ophelia
by Michael R. Burch
Ophelia, madness suits you well,
as the ocean sounds in an empty shell,
as the moon shines brightest in a starless sky,
as suns supernova before they die ...
Pale Ophelias
by Michael R. Burch
Ever in danger of a lethal tryst,
with a comical father crying, “Desist!”
We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist.
“Please do be careful!” our mothers insist,
and yet we plow forward, in search of bliss,
ever in danger of a lethal tryst.
“Remember Eve’s apple,” our wise conscience hissed,
which of course we ignored, the prudish miss!
We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist.
“Love’s on our side!” Or so we have wished.
And who can resist such a delectable dish,
whatever the dangers of a lethal tryst?
“Stay away, Cupid!” With a balled-up fist,
we lecture the stars when things go amiss.
We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist.
Lovers are criminals & need to be frisked!
We’re up to the task, like lobsters in bisque.
Ever in danger of a lethal tryst,
We’re all pale Ophelias in the mist.
The Appointment
by Marina Tsvetaeva
translation by Michael R. Burch
I will be late for the appointed meeting.
When I arrive, my hair will be gray,
because I abused spring.
And your expectations were much too high!
I shall feel the effects of the bitter mercury for years.
(Ophelia tasted, but didn't spit out, the rue.)
I will trudge across mountains and deserts,
trampling souls and hands without flinching,
living on, as the earth continues
with blood in every thicket and creek.
But always Ophelia's pallid face will peer out
from between the grasses bordering each stream.
She took a swig of passion, only to fill her mouth
with silt. Like a shaft of light on metal,
I set my sights on you, highly. Much too high
in the sky, where I have appointed my dust its burial.
Copyright ©
Michael Burch
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