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Michael Burch Poem
Every Day You Play
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Every day you play with Infinity’s rays.
Exquisite visitor, you arrive with the flowers and the water.
You are vastly more than this immaculate head I clasp tightly
like a cornucopia, every day, between my hands ...
My Dog Died
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
My dog died;
so I buried him in the backyard garden
next to some rusted machine.
One day I'll rejoin him, over there,
but for now he's gone
with his shaggy mane, his crude manners and his cold, clammy nose,
while I, the atheist who never believed
in any heaven for human beings,
now believe in a paradise I'm unfit to enter.
Yes, I somehow now believe in a heavenly kennel
where my dog awaits my arrival
wagging his tail in furious friendship!
But I'll not indulge in sadness here:
why bewail a companion
who was never servile?
His friendship was more like that of a porcupine
preserving its prickly autonomy.
His was the friendship of a distant star
with no more intimacy than true friendship called for
and no false demonstrations:
he never clambered over me
coating my clothes with mange;
he never assaulted my knee
like dogs obsessed with sex.
But he used to gaze up at me,
giving me the attention my ego demanded,
while helping this vainglorious man
understand my concerns were none of his.
Aye, and with those bright eyes so much purer than mine,
he'd gaze up at me
contentedly;
it was a look he reserved for me alone
all his entire sweet, gentle life,
always merely there, never troubling me,
never demanding anything.
Aye, and often I envied his energetic tail
as we strode the shores of Isla Negra together,
in winter weather, wild birds swarming skyward
as my golden-maned friend leapt about,
supercharged by the sea's electric surges,
sniffing away wildly, his tail held erect,
his face suffused with the salt spray.
Joy! Joy! Joy!
As only dogs experience joy
in the shameless exuberance
of their guiltless spirits.
Thus there are no sad good-byes
for my dog who died;
we never once lied to each other.
He died, he's gone, I buried him;
that's all there is to it.
Tonight I will write the saddest lines
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Tonight I will write the saddest lines.
I will write, for example, “The night is less bright
and a few stars shiver in the distance
as I remember her unwarranted light ...”
Tonight I will write her the saddest lines:
that I loved her as she loved me too, sometimes,
all those long, lonely nights when I held her tight
and filled her ears with indecipherable rhymes ...
Then she loved me too, as I also loved her,
compelled by the spell of her enormous eyes.
Tonight I will write her the saddest lines
as I ponder love’s death and our mutual crimes.
Outside I hear night—silent, cold, dark, immense—
as these delicate words fall, useless as dew.
Oh, what does it matter that love came to naught
if love was false, or perhaps even true?
And yet I hear songs being sung in the distance.
How can I forget her, so soon since I lost her?
I seek to regain her, somehow bring her closer.
But my heart has been blinded; she will not appear!
Now moonlight and starlight whiten dark trees.
We also are ghosts, by love’s failing light.
My love has failed me, but how I once loved her!
My voice ... this cursed wind ... what use to recite?
Another’s. She will soon be another’s.
Her body, her voice, her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her! And why should I love her
when love is sad, short, mad, fickle, unwise?
Because of cold nights we clung through so closely,
I’m not satisfied to know she is gone.
And while I must end this hell I now suffer,
It’s sad to remember all love left undone.
You can crop all the flowers but you cannot detain spring.
—Pablo Neruda, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
While nothing can save us from death,
still love can redeem each breath.
—Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
As if you were set on fire from within,
the moon whitens your skin.
—Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Please understand that when I awaken weeping
it's because I dreamed I was a lost child
searching the leaf-heaps for your hands in the darkness.
—Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I’m no longer in love with her, that's certain ...
yet perhaps I love her still.
Love is so short, forgetting so long!
—Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I love you only because I love you
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I love you only because I love you;
I am torn between loving and not loving you,
Between apathy and desire.
My heart vacillates between ice and fire.
I love you only because you’re the one I love;
I hate you deeply, but hatred
Bends me all the more toward you, so that the measure of my variableness
Is that I do not see you, but love you blindly.
Perhaps January’s frigid light will consume my heart with its cruel rays,
robbing me of any hope of peace.
In this tragic plot, I am the one who dies,
Love’s only victim,
And I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, my Love, in fire and blood.
Love Sonnet XVII
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I do not love you like coral or topaz,
or the blazing hearth’s incandescent white flame:
I love you as obscure things are embraced in the dark:
secretly, in shadows, unrevealed & unnamed.
I love you like shrubs that refuse to bloom
while pregnant with the radiance of mysterious flowers;
now thanks to your love an earthy fragrance
lives dimly in my body’s odors.
I love you without knowing how, when, why or where;
I love you forthrightly, without complications or care:
I love you this way because I know no other.
Here, where “I” no longer exists, nor “you”...
so close that your hand on my chest is my own,
so close that your eyes close gently on my dreams.
Copyright © Michael Burch | Year Posted 2019
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Michael Burch Poem
Instruction
by Michael R. Burch
Toss this poem aside
to the filigreed and the wild tide
of sunset.
Strike my name,
and still it is all the same.
The onset
of night is in the despairing skies;
each hut shuts its bright bewildered eyes.
The wind sighs
and my heart sighs with her:
my only companion, O Lovely Drifter!
Still, men are not wise.
The moon appears; the arms of the wind lift her,
pooling the light of her silver portent,
while men, impatient,
are beings of hurried and harried despair.
Now willows entangle their fragrant hair.
Men sleep.
Cornsilk tassels the moonbright air.
Deep is the sea; the stars are fair.
I reap.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly. Keywords/Tags: Pastoral, Tercet, Tercets, Romanticism, Romantic, Sunset, Night, Moon, Light, Moonlight, Stars, Starlight, Sea, Seas, Ocean, Oceans, Tide, Tides, Hut, Huts, Wind, Sigh, Sighs, Willows, Cornsilk, Tassels, Reap, Reaping, Epigram, Epitaph
This World's Joy
anonymous Middle English lyric
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Winter awakens all my care
as leafless trees grow bare.
For now my sighs are fraught
whenever it enters my thought:
regarding this world's joy,
how everything comes to naught.
Elegy for a little girl, lost
by Michael R. Burch
... qui laetificat juventutem meam ...
She was the joy of my youth,
and now she is gone.
... requiescat in pace ...
May she rest in peace.
... amen ...
Amen.
How Long the Night
Middle English lyric, circa 13th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song ...
but now I feel the northern wind's blast,
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong
now grieve, mourn and fast.
Fowles in the Frith
Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The fowls in the forest,
the fishes in the flood
and I must go mad:
such sorrow I've had
for beasts of bone and blood!
I am of Ireland
Medieval Irish lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I am of Ireland,
and of the holy realm of Ireland.
Gentlefolk, I pray thee:
for the sake of saintly charity,
come dance with me
in Ireland!
Whan the turuf is thy tour
Middle English lyric, circa 13th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1.
When the turf is your tower
and the pit is your bower,
your pale white skin and throat
shall be sullen worms’ to note.
What help to you, then,
was all your worldly hope?
2.
When the turf is your tower
and the grave is your bower,
your pale white throat and skin
worm-eaten from within ...
what hope of my help then?
Ech day me comëth tydinges thre
Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Each day I’m plagued by three doles,
These gargantuan weights on my soul:
First, that I must somehow exit this fen.
Second, that I cannot know when.
And yet it’s the third that torments me so,
Because I don't know where the hell I will go!
Ich have y-don al myn youth
Middle English lyric, circa 13th-14th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I have done it all my youth:
Often, often, and often!
I have loved long and yearned zealously ...
And oh what grief it has brought me!
I Sing of a Maiden
Medieval English Lyric, circa 15th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I sing of a maiden
That is matchless.
The King of all Kings
For her son she chose.
He came also as still
To his mother's breast
As April dew
Falling on the grass.
He came also as still
To his mother's bower
As April dew
Falling on the flower.
He came also as still
To where his mother lay
As April dew
Falling on the spray.
Mother and maiden?
Never one, but she!
Well may such a lady
God's mother be!
Enigma
by Michael R. Burch
O, terrible angel,
bright lover and avenger,
full of whimsical light
and vile anger;
wild stranger,
seeking the solace of night,
or the danger;
pale foreigner,
alien to man, or savior ...
Who are you,
seeking consolation and passion
in the same breath,
screaming for pleasure, bereft
of all articles of faith,
finding life
harsher than death?
Grieving angel,
giving more than taking,
how lucky the man
who has found in your love,
this, our reclamation;
fallen wren,
you must strive to fly
though your heart is shaken;
weary pilgrim,
you must not give up
though your feet are aching;
lonely child,
lie here still in my arms;
you must soon be waking.
Floating
by Michael R. Burch
Memories flood the sand’s unfolding scroll;
they pour in with the long, cursive tides of night.
Memories of revenant blue eyes and wild lips
moist and frantic against my own.
Memories of ghostly white limbs ...
of soft sighs
heard once again in the surf’s strangled moans.
We meet in the scarred, fissured caves of old dreams,
green waves of algae billowing about you,
becoming your hair.
Suspended there,
where pale sunset discolors the sea,
I see all that you are
and all that you have become to me.
Your love is a sea,
and I am its trawler—
harbored in dreams,
I ride out night’s storms.
Unanchored, I drift through the hours before morning,
dreaming the solace of your warm breasts,
pondering your riddles, savoring the feel
of the explosions of your hot, saline breath.
And I rise sometimes
from the tropical darkness
to gaze once again out over the sea ...
You watch in the moonlight
that brushes the water;
bright waves throw back your reflection at me.
I believe I wrote this poem in my teens. Published by Penny Dreadful, Romantics Quarterly, Boston Poetry Magazine.
Shattered
by Vera Pavlova
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I shattered your heart;
now I limp through the shards
barefoot.
Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
Copyright © Michael Burch | Year Posted 2020
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Michael Burch Poem
I love you only because I love you
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I love you only because I love you;
I am torn between loving and not loving you,
Between apathy and desire.
My heart vacillates between ice and fire.
I love you only because you’re the one I love;
I hate you deeply, but hatred
Bends me all the more toward you, so that the measure of my variableness
Is that I do not see you, but love you blindly.
Perhaps January’s frigid light will consume my heart with its cruel rays,
robbing me of any hope of peace.
In this tragic plot, I am the one who dies,
Love’s only victim,
And I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, my Love, in fire and blood.
Love Sonnet XVII
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
I do not love you like coral or topaz,
or the blazing hearth’s incandescent white flame:
I love you as obscure things are embraced in the dark,
secretly, in shadows, unrevealed & unnamed.
I love you like shrubs that refuse to bloom
while pregnant with the radiance of mysterious flowers;
now thanks to your love an earthy fragrance
lives dimly in my body’s odors.
I love you without knowing how, when, why or where;
I love you forthrightly, without complications or care:
I love you this way because I know no other.
Here, where “I” no longer exists, nor “you” ...
so close that your hand on my chest is my own,
so close that your eyes close gently on my dreams.
Every Day You Play
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Every day you play with Infinity’s rays.
Exquisite visitor, you arrive with the flowers and the water.
You are vastly more than this immaculate head I clasp tightly
like a cornucopia, every day, between my hands ...
Love Sonnet XI
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
I stalk the streets, silent and starving.
Bread does not satisfy me; dawn does not divert me
from my relentless pursuit of your fluid spoor.
I long for your liquid laughter,
for your sunburned hands like savage harvests.
I lust for your fingernails' pale marbles.
I want to devour your breasts like almonds, whole.
I want to ingest the sunbeams singed by your beauty,
to eat the aquiline nose from your aloof face,
to lick your eyelashes' flickering shade.
I pursue you, snuffing the shadows,
seeking your heart's scorching heat
like a puma prowling the heights of Quitratue.
You can crop all the flowers but you cannot detain spring.-Pablo Neruda, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
The Book of Questions
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Is the rose nude
or is that just how she dresses?
Why do trees conceal
their spectacular roots?
Who hears the confession
of the getaway car?
Is there anything sadder
than a train standing motionless in the rain?
While nothing can save us from death,
still love can redeem each breath.
?Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In El Salvador, Death
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Death still surveils El Salvador.
The blood of murdered peasants has never clotted;
time cannot congeal it,
nor does the rain erase it from the roads.
Fifteen thousand were machine-gunned dead
by Martinez, the murderer.
To this day the coppery taste of blood still flavors
the land, bread and wine of El Salvador.
If You Forget Me
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I need you to know one thing ...
You know
how it goes:
if I gaze up at the glowing moon,
if observe the blazing autumn’s reddening branches from my window,
if I touch the impalpable ash of the charred log’s wrinkled body ...
everything returns me to you,
as if everything that exists
?all aromas, sights, solids?
were small boats
sailing toward those isles of yours that await me.
However ...
if little by little you stop loving me
then I shall stop loving you, little by little.
And if you suddenly
forget me,
do not bother to investigate,
for I shall have immediately
forgotten you
also.
If you think my love strange and mad?
this whirlwind of streaming banners
gusting through me,
so that you elect to leave me at the shore
where my heart lacks roots,
just remember that, on that very day,
at that very hour,
I shall raise my arms
and my roots will sail off
to find some more favorable land.
But
if each day
and every hour,
you feel destined to be with me,
if you greet me with implacable sweetness,
and if each day
and every hour
flowers blossom on your lips to entice me, ...
then ah my love,
oh my only, my own,
all that fire will be reinfernoed in me
and nothing within me will be extinguished or forgotten;
my love will feed on your love, my beloved,
and as long as you live it will be me in your arms ...
as long as you never leave mine.
Please understand that when I wake up crying
it's because I dreamed I was a lost child
searching through night leaves for your hands.
?Pablo Neruda, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Sonnet XLV
by Pablo Neruda
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Don't wander far away, not even for a day, because?
how can I explain? A day is too long ...
and I’ll be waiting for you, like a man in an empty station
where the trains all stand motionless.
Don't leave me, my dear, not even for an hour, because?
then despair’s raindrops will all run blurrily together,
and the smoke that drifts lazily in search of a home
will descend hazily on me, suffocating my heart.
Darling, may your lovely silhouette never dissolve in the surf;
may your lashes never flutter at an indecipherable distance.
Please don't leave me for a second, my dearest,
because then you'll have gone far too far
and I'll wander aimlessly, amazed, asking all the earth:
Will she ever return? Will she spurn me, dying?
Keywords/Tags: Spanish, Translation, Sonnet, Women, Romance, Romantic, Romantic Love, Heart, Desire, Passion
Copyright © Michael Burch | Year Posted 2019
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Michael Burch Poem
Merciles Beaute ("Merciless Beauty")
by Geoffrey Chaucer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.
Unless your words heal me hastily,
my heart's wound will remain green;
for your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain.
By all truth, I tell you faithfully
that you are of life and death my queen;
for at my death this truth shall be seen:
your eyes slay me suddenly;
their beauty I cannot sustain,
they wound me so, through my heart keen.
Original text:
Your yën two wol sle me sodenly,
I may the beaute of hem not sustene,
So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.
And but your word wol helen hastily
My hertes wounde, whyl that hit is grene,
Your yën two wol sle me sodenly;
may the beaute of hem not sustene.
Upon my trouthe I sey yow feithfully,
That ye ben of my lyf and deth the quene;
For with my deth the trouthe shal be sene.
Your yën two wol sle me sodenly,
I may the beaute of hem not sustene,
So woundeth hit through-out my herte kene.
Geoffrey Chaucer (c. 1340-1400) is generally considered to be the first major English poet and the greatest English poet of the Medieval Period. He is best known for "The Canterbury Tales" but he was also a master of lyric forms such as the roundel. Chaucer has been called the "Father of English literature". He was the first writer buried in Poets' Corner of Westminster Abbey. Keywords/Tags: Chaucer, roundel, rondel, translation, medieval love poem, courtship, romance, romantic love, romanticism, interpretation, modernization, merciless, beauty, heart, wound, keen, eyes, slay, sustain, words, heal, queen, life, death, relationship
"The Husband's Message" is an Old English (Anglo-Saxon) poem from the Exeter Book, the oldest extant English poetry anthology. The poem may or may not be a reply to "The Wife's Lament," another poem in the same collection. The poem is generally considered to be an Anglo-Saxon riddle (I will provide the solution), but its primary focus is persuading a wife or fiancé to join her husband or betrothed and fulfill her promises to him. The Exeter Book has been dated to 960-990 AD, so the poem was written by then or earlier. The version below is my modern English translation of one of the oldest extant English poems.
The Husband's Message
anonymous Old English poem, circa 960-990 AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
See, I unseal myself for your eyes only!
I sprang from a seed to a sapling,
waxed great in a wood,
was given knowledge,
was ordered across saltstreams in ships
where I stiffened my spine, standing tall,
till, entering the halls of heroes,
I honored my manly Lord.
Now I stand here on this ship’s deck,
an emissary ordered to inform you
of the love my Lord feels for you.
I have no fear forecasting his heart steadfast,
his honor bright, his word true.
He who bade me come carved this letter
and entreats you to recall, clad in your finery,
what you promised each other many years before,
mindful of his treasure-laden promises.
He reminds you how, in those distant days,
witty words were pledged by you both
in the mead-halls and homesteads:
how he would be Lord of the lands
you would inhabit together
while forging a lasting love.
Alas, a vendetta drove him far from his feuding tribe,
but now he instructs me to gladly give you notice
that when you hear the returning cuckoo's cry
cascading down warming coastal cliffs,
come over the sea! Let no man hinder your course.
He earnestly urges you: Out! To sea!
Away to the sea, when the circling gulls
hover over the ship that conveys you to him!
Board the ship that you meet there:
sail away seaward to seek your husband,
over the seagulls' range,
over the paths of foam.
For over the water, he awaits you.
He cannot conceive, he told me,
how any keener joy could comfort his heart,
nor any greater happiness gladden his soul,
than that a generous God should grant you both
to exchange rings, then give gifts to trusty liege-men,
golden armbands inlaid with gems to faithful followers.
The lands are his, his estates among strangers,
his new abode fair and his followers true,
all hardy heroes, since hence he was driven,
shoved off in his ship from these shore in distress,
steered straightway over the saltstreams, sped over the ocean,
a wave-tossed wanderer winging away.
But now the man has overcome his woes,
outpitted his perils, lives in plenty, lacks no luxury,
has a hoard and horses and friends in the mead-halls.
All the wealth of the earth's great earls
now belongs to my Lord ...
He only lacks you.
He would have everything within an earl's having,
if only my Lady will come home to him now,
if only she will do as she swore and honor her vow.
1.
Led By Christ and Mary
by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led
that the earth never felt my bare foot’s tread!
In the second poem, Godric puns on his name: godes riche means “God’s kingdom” and sounds like “God is rich” ...
2.
A Cry to Mary
Saintë Marië Virginë,
Mother of Jesus Christ the Nazarenë,
Welcome, shield and help thin Godric,
Fly him off to God’s kingdom rich!
Saintë Marië, Christ’s bower,
Virgin among Maidens, Motherhood’s flower,
Blot out my sin, fix where I’m flawed,
Elevate me to Bliss with God!
3.
Prayer to St. Nicholas
Saint Nicholas, beloved of God,
Build us a house that’s bright and fair;
Watch over us from birth to bier,
Then, Saint Nicholas, bring us safely there!
Bede's Death Song
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Facing Death, that inescapable journey,
who can be wiser than he
who reflects, while breath yet remains,
on whether his life brought others happiness, or pains,
since his soul may yet win delight's or night's way
after his death-day.
Copyright © Michael Burch | Year Posted 2020
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Michael Burch Poem
The Moon as a Metaphor for Your Mouth
by Michael R. Burch
When I was closest to love, it did not seem
real at all, but a thing of such tenuous sweetness
it might dissolve in my mouth
like a lozenge of sugar.
When I held you in my arms, I did not feel
our lack of completeness,
knowing how easy it was
for us to cling to each other.
And there were nights when the clouds
sped across the moon’s face,
exposing such rarified brightness
we did not witness
so much as embrace
love’s human appearance.
Keywords/Tags: Moon, metaphor, love, sweet, sweets, sweetness, sweet love, kiss, sugar, honey, melt, melting, dissolve, dissolving, candy, lozenge, tarts, confection, tablet, pill, cough drop, capsule, confit, bonbon, honey, sweetie, chocolate, symbolic, symbolism, romantic love
I-Candy: Inconstant Temptress
by Michael R. Burch
Love, beautiful but fatal
to many bewildered hearts,
commands us to be faithful,
then tempts us with sweets and tarts.
(If I were younger, I would mention
you are such a temptation.)
The Love Song of Shu-Sin
Earth’s Oldest Love Song (circa 2,000 BC)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Darling of my heart, my belovéd,
your enticements are sweet, far sweeter than honey.
Darling of my heart, my belovéd,
your enticements are sweet, far sweeter than honey.
You have captivated me; I stand trembling before you.
Darling, lead me swiftly into the bedroom!
You have captivated me; I stand trembling before you.
Darling, lead me swiftly into the bedroom!
Sweetheart, let me do the sweetest things to you!
My precocious caress is far sweeter than honey!
In the bedchamber, dripping love’s honey,
let us enjoy life’s sweetest thing.
Sweetheart, let me do the sweetest things to you!
My precocious caress is far sweeter than honey!
Bridegroom, you will have your pleasure with me!
Speak to my mother and she will reward you;
speak to my father and he will give you gifts.
I know how to give your body pleasure—
then sleep, my darling, till the sun rises.
To prove that you love me,
give me your caresses,
my Lord God, my guardian Angel and protector,
my Shu-Sin, who gladdens Enlil’s heart,
give me your caresses!
My place like sticky honey, touch it with your hand!
Place your hand over it like a honey-pot lid!
Cup your hand over it like a honey cup!
This is a balbale-song of Inanna.
Published by Assyria News. NOTE: This may be earth’s oldest love poem, written around 2,000 BC, long before the Bible’s “Song of Solomon,” which had been considered to be the oldest extant love poem by some experts.
A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch
Santa Claus,
for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please,
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!
Will Jesus Christ cause or allow Albert Einstein and Mahatma Gandhi to be tortured in an "eternal hell" for guessing wrong about which earthly religion to believe?
The Endeavors of Lips
by Michael R. Burch
How sweet the endeavors of lips—to speak
of the heights of those pleasures which left us weak
in love’s strangely lit beds, where the cold springs creak:
for there is no illusion like love ...
Grown childlike, we wish for those storied days,
for those bright sprays of flowers, those primrosed ways
that curled to the towers of Yesterdays
where She braided illusions of love ...
“O, let down your hair!”—we might call and call,
to the dark-slatted window, the moonlit wall ...
but our love is a shadow; we watch it crawl
like a spidery illusion. For love ...
was never as real as that first kiss seemed
when we read by the flashlight and dreamed.
Are You the Thief
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
When I touch you now,
O sweet lover,
full of fire,
melting like ice
in my embrace . . .
when I part the delicate white lace,
baring pale flesh,
and your face
is so close
that I breathe your breath
and your hair surrounds me like a wreath . . .
tell me now,
O sweet, sweet lover,
in good faith . . .
are you the thief
who has stolen my heart?
After the Deluge
by Michael R. Burch
She was kinder than light
to an up-reaching flower
and sweeter than rain
to the bees in their bower
where anemones blush
at the affections they shower,
and love’s shocking power.
She shocked me to life,
but soon left me to wither.
I was listless without her,
nor could I be with her.
I fell under the spell
of her absence’s power.
in that calamitous hour.
Like blithe showers that fled
repealing spring’s sweetness;
like suns’ warming rays sped
away, with such fleetness ...
she has taken my heart—
alas, our completeness!
I now wilt in pale beams
of her occult remembrance.
Published by The HyperTexts
Ah! Sunflower
by Michael R. Burch
after William Blake
O little yellow flower
like a star ...
how beautiful,
how wonderful
we are!
The People Loved What They Had Loved Before
by Michael R. Burch
We did not worship at the shrine of tears;
we knew not to believe, not to confess.
And so, ahemming victors, to false cheers,
we wrote off love, we gave a stern address
to things that we disapproved of, things of yore.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
We did not build stone monuments to stand
six hundred years and grow more strong and arch
like bridges from the people to the Land
beyond their reach. Instead, we played a march,
pale Neros, sparking flames from door to door.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
We could not pipe of cheer, or even woe.
We played a minor air of Ire (in E).
The sheep chose to ignore us, even though,
long destitute, we plied our songs for free.
We wrote, rewrote and warbled one same score.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
At last outlandish wailing, we confess,
ensued, because no listeners were left.
We built a shrine to tears: our goddess less
divine than man, and, like us, long bereft.
We stooped to love too late, too Learned to whore.
And the people loved what they had loved before.
Copyright © Michael Burch | Year Posted 2020
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Michael Burch Poem
Limericks VI - Religion
Pell-Mell for Hell Mel
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a Baptist named Mel
who condemned all non-Christians to hell.
When he stood before God
he felt like a clod
to discover His Love couldn’t fail!
Why I Left the Religious Right
by Michael R. Burch
He's got Jesus's name on a wallet insert
and "Hell is for Queers" on the back of his shirt
and he upholds the Law,
for grace has a flaw:
the Church must have someone to drag through the dirt.
Hell to Pay
by Michael R. Burch
A messiah named Jesus, returning
from heaven, found planet Earth burning
with children unfed,
so he suggested: “Instead
of war, why not consider cheek-turning?”
Indignant right-wingers retorted:
“Sir, your pacifist views are distorted!
Just pull the plug quickly
on someone who’s sickly!
Our pursuit of war can’t be aborted!”
The Heimlich Limerick
by Michael R. Burch
for T. M.
The sanest of poets once wrote:
"Friend, why be a sheep or a goat?
Why follow the leader
or be a blind breeder?"
But almost no one took note.
The Trouble with Elephants
by Michael R. Burch
An elephant never forgets
which is why they don’t make the best pets:
Jumbo may well out-live you,
but he’ll never forgive you
so you may as well save your regrets!
The Beat Goes On
by Michael R. Burch
Bored stiff by his board-stiff attempts
at “meter,” I crossly concluded
I’d use each iamb
in lieu of a lamb,
bedtimes when I’m under-quaaluded.
Shady Sadie
by Michael R. Burch
A randy young dandy named Sadie
loves sex, but in forms fancied shady.
(I cannot, of course,
involve her poor horse,
but it’s safe to infer she’s no lady!)
Less Heroic Couplets: Just Desserts
by Michael R. Burch
“The West Antarctic ice sheet
might not need a huge nudge
to budge.”
And if it does budge,
denialist fudge
may force us to trudge
neck-deep in sludge!
Marvell-Less (I)
by Michael R. Burch
Mr. Marvell was ill-named? Inform us!
Alas, his crude writings deform us:
for when trying to bed
chaste virgins, he led
off with his iron balls ginormous!
Marvell-Less (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Andrew Marvell was far less than Marvellous;
indeed, he was cold, bold, unchivalrous:
for when trying to bed
chased/chaste virgins, he led
off with his iron balls ginormous!
I Learned Too Late
by Michael R. Burch
“Show, don’t tell!”
I learned too late that poetry has rules,
although they may be rules for greater fools.
In any case, by dodging rules and schools,
I avoided useless duels.
I learned too late that sentiment is bad—
that Blake and Keats and Plath had all been had.
In any case, by following my heart,
I learned to walk apart.
I learned too late that “telling” is a crime.
Did Shakespeare know? Is Milton doing time?
In any case, by telling, I admit:
I think such rules are .
Limericks
There once was a poet from Tennessee
who was known to indulge in straight Hennessey
for his heart had been broken
and cruelly ripped open
by an ice-hoarding Dame of Paree.
—Michael R. Burch
A coquettish young lady of France
longed to have lusty men in her pants,
but in lieu of real joys
she settled for boys,
then berated her lack of romance.
—Michael R. Burch
A virginal lady of France
longed to have a ménage in her pants
but in lieu of real boys
she settled for toys
& painted pinkies to make her bits dance.
—Michael R. Burch
There was a young lady of France
Who’d let cute boys root in her pants:
Where they'd give her the finger
And she'd let them linger
because that's the point of romance!
—Michael R. Burch
A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
gave me a kiss;
I lectured her, "Miss,
we haven't been intro'd, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch
A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
Frenched me a kiss;
I admonished her, "Miss,
you’ve left me twice tongue-tied, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch
A germane young German, a dame
with a quite unpronounceable name,
French-kissed me and left my lips lame.
I lectured her, "Miss,
That's a premature kiss!
We haven't been intro'd, for shame!"
—Michael R. Burch
Although I prefer
onions
to bunions,
I still primarily defer
to legal reefer.
—Michael R. Burch
Cancun Cruz
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a senator, Cruz,
whose whole life was one pus-oozing schmooze.
When Trump called his wife ugly,
Cruz brown-nosed him smugly,
then went on a sweet Cancún cruise!
Anchors Aweigh!
by Michael R. Burch
There once was an anchor babe, Cruz,
whose deployment was Castro’s bold ruse.
Now the revenge of Fidel
has worked out quite well
as Cruz missiles launch from his caboose!
Canadian Cruz
by Michael R. Burch
There was a Canadian, Cruz,
an anchor babe with a bold ruse:
he’d take Texas first
and then do his worst
to infect the whole world with his views.
Keywords/Tags: light verse, nonsense verse, doggerel, limerick, humor, humorous verse, light poetry
A Passing Observation about Thinking Outside the Box
by Michael R. Burch
William Blake had no public, and yet he’s still read.
His critics are dead.
Blake Take
by Michael R. Burch
we became ashamed of our bodies;
we became ashamed of sweet sex;
we became ashamed of the LORD
with each terrible CURSE and HEX;
we became ashamed of the planet
(it’s such a slovenly hovel);
and we came to see, in the end,
that we really agreed with the devil.
tyger, lamb, free love, etc.
by michael r. burch
for and after william blake
the tiger’s a ferocious slayer.
he has no say in it.
hence, ur Creator’s a nit.
the lamb led to the slaughter
extends her neck to the block and bit.
she has no say in it.
so don’t be a nitwit:
drink, carouse and revel!
why obey the Devil?
Keywords/Tags: limerick, nonsense, light, humor, humorous, religion, Christian, Christianity, religious, right, Jesus, Christ, bible, moral, majority, hypocrisy, intolerance, faith, belief, creationism, flat earth, homophobia, sexism, chauvinism
Copyright © Michael Burch | Year Posted 2020
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Michael Burch Poem
Not-So-Heroic Couplets
by Donald Trump
care of Michael R. Burch
To outfox the pox:
kill yourself first, with Clorox!
And since death is the goal,
mainline Lysol!
No vaccine?
Just chug Mr. Clean!
Is a cure out of reach?
Fumigate your lungs, with bleach!
To immunize your thorax,
destroy it with Borax!
To immunize your bride,
drown her in Opti-cide!
To end all future gridlocks,
gargle with Vaprox!
Now, quick, down the Drain-o
with old Insane-o NoBrain-o!
Trump’s real goals are obvious
and yet millions of Americans remain oblivious.
—Michael R. Burch
Less Heroic Couplets: Just Desserts
by Michael R. Burch
“The West Antarctic ice sheet
might not need a huge nudge
to budge.”
And if it does budge,
denialist fudge
may force us to trudge
neck-deep in sludge!
NOTE: The first stanza is a quote by paleoclimatologist Jeremy Shakun in Science magazine.
Less Heroic Couplets: Miss Bliss
by Michael R. Burch
Domestic “bliss”?
Best to swing and miss!
Less Heroic Couplets: Then and Now
by Michael R. Burch
BEFORE: Thanks to Brexit, our lives will be plush! ...
AFTER: Crap, we’re going broke! What the hell is the rush?
Less Heroic Couplets: Dear Pleader
by Michael R. Burch
Is our Dear Pleader, as he claims, heroic?
I prefer my presidents a bit more stoic.
Less Heroic Couplets: Less than Impressed
by Michael R. Burch
for T. M., regarding certain dispensers of lukewarm air
Their volume’s impressive, it’s true ...
but somehow it all seems “much ado.”
Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry I
by Michael R. Burch
Poetry is the heart’s caged rhythm,
the soul’s frantic tappings at the panes of mortality.
Less Heroic Couplets: Poetry II
by Michael R. Burch
Poetry is the trapped soul’s frantic tappings
at the panes of mortality.
Less Heroic Couplets: Seesaw
by Michael R. Burch
A poem is the mind teetering between fact and fiction,
momentarily elevated.
Less Heroic Couplets: Passions
by Michael R. Burch
Passions are the heart’s qualms,
the soul’s squalls, the brain’s storms.
Keywords/Tags: Donald Trump, coronavirus, president, poet, poems, poetry, heroic couplets, couplet, humor, humorous, Clorox, Lysol, disinfectants, light verse, parody, satire, America, USA, giggle, political, natural disasters
Copyright © Michael Burch | Year Posted 2020
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Michael Burch Poem
PRINCESS DIANA POEMS
Fairest Diana: an Epitaph for Princess Diana
by Michael R. Burch
Fairest Diana, princess of dreams,
born to be loved and yet distant and lone,
why did you linger?so solemn, so lovely?
an orchid ablaze in a crevice of stone?
Was not your heart meant for tenderest passions?
Surely your lips?for wild kisses, not vows!
Why then did you languish, though lustrous, becoming
a pearl of enchantment cast before sows?
Fairest Diana, as fragile as lilac,
as willful as rainfall, as true as the rose;
how did a stanza of silver-bright verse
come to be bound in a book of dull prose?
Published by Tucumcari Literary Journal and Night Roses
Will There Be Starlight
for Princess Diana
by Michael R. Burch
Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
damask
and lilac
and sweet-scented heathers?
And will she find flowers,
or will she find thorns
guarding the petals
of roses unborn?
Will there be starlight
tonight
while she gathers
seashells
and mussels
and albatross feathers?
And will she find treasure
or will she find pain
at the end of this rainbow
of moonlight on rain?
She Was Very Strange, and Beautiful
for Princess Diana
by Michael R. Burch
She was very strange, and beautiful,
like a violet mist enshrouding hills
before night falls
when the hoot owl calls
and the cricket trills
and the envapored moon hangs low and full.
She was very strange, in a pleasant way,
as the hummingbird
flies madly still,
so I drank my fill
of her every word.
What she knew of love, she demurred to say.
She was meant to leave, as the wind must blow,
as the sun must set,
as the rain must fall.
Though she gave her all,
we had nothing left...
yet we smiled, bereft, in her receding glow.
The Peripheries of Love
for Princess Diana
by Michael R. Burch
Through waning afternoons we glide
the watery peripheries of love.
A silence, a quietude falls.
Above us?the sagging pavilions of clouds.
Below us?rough pebbles slowly worn smooth
grate in the gentle turbulence
of yesterday’s forgotten rains.
Later, the moon like a virgin
lifts her stricken white face
and the waters rise
toward some unfathomable shore.
We sway gently in the wake
of what stirs beneath us,
yet leaves us unmoved...
curiously motionless,
as though twilight might blur
the effects of proximity and distance,
as though love might be near?
as near
as a single cupped tear of resilient dew
or a long-awaited face.
The Aery Faery Princess
for Princess Diana
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a princess lighter than fluff
made of such gossamer stuff?
the down of a thistle, butterflies’ wings,
the faintest high note the hummingbird sings,
moonbeams on garlands, stands of bright hair...
I think she’s just you when you’re floating on air.
I Pray Tonight
for Princess Diana
by Michael R. Burch
I pray tonight
the starry light
might
surround you.
I pray
by day
that, come what may,
no dark thing confound you.
I pray ere tomorrow
an end to your sorrow.
May angels' white chorales
sing, and astound you.
Sweet Rose of Virtue
by William Dunbar 1460-1525
loose translation by Michael R. Burch
Sweet rose of virtue and of gentleness,
delightful lily of youthful wantonness,
richest in bounty and in beauty clear
and in every virtue that is held most dear?
except only that death is merciless.
Into your garden, today, I followed you;
there I saw flowers of freshest hue,
both white and red, delightful to see,
and wholesome herbs, waving resplendently?
yet everywhere, no odor but rue.
I fear that March with his last arctic blast
has slain my fair rose of pallid and gentle cast,
whose piteous death does my heart such pain
that, if I could, I would compose her roots again?
so comforting her bowering leaves have been.
Keywords/Tags: Princess, England, Rose, English, royalty, royal, royals, noble, nobility, beauty, beautiful, grace, class, crown, sonnet, sonnets, woman, women, angel of compassion, epitaph
Copyright © Michael Burch | Year Posted 2020
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Michael Burch Poem
Neglect
by Michael R. Burch
What good are your tears?
They will not spare the dying their anguish.
What good is your concern
to a child sick of living, waiting to perish?
What good, the warm benevolence of tears
without action?
What help, the eloquence of prayers,
or a pleasant benediction?
Before this day is gone,
how many more will die
with bellies swollen, wasted limbs,
and eyes too parched to cry?
I fear for our souls
as I hear the faint lament
of their souls departing ...
mournful, and distant.
How pitiful our "effort,"
yet how fatal its effect.
If they died, then surely we killed them,
if only with neglect.
Copyright © Michael Burch | Year Posted 2019
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Michael Burch Poem
Mayflies
by Michael R. Burch
These standing stones have stood the test of time
but who are you
and what are you
and why?
As brief as mist, as transient, as pale ...
Inconsequential mayfly!
Perhaps the thought of love inspired hope?
Do midges love? Do stars bend down to see?
Do gods commend the kindnesses of ants
to aphids? Does one eel impress the sea?
Are mayflies missed by mountains? Do the stars
regret the glowworm’s stellar mimicry
the day it dies? Does not the world go on
as if it’s no great matter, not to be?
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose.
And yet somehow you’re everything to me.
Originally published by Clementine Unbound. Keywords/Tags: May, mayfly, mayflies, spring, time, daffodils, absence, missing you, mist, transient, transience, pale, inconsequential, stars, sea, everything, universe, A. E. Housman quote
Copyright © Michael Burch | Year Posted 2020
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