by Michael R. Burch
for Kevin N. Roberts
The sea at night seems
an alembic of dreams—
the moans of the gulls,
the foghorns’ bawlings.
A century late
to be melancholy,
I watch the last shrimp boat as it steams
to safe harbor again.
In the twilight she gleams
with a festive light,
done with her trawlings,
ready to sleep…
Deep, deep, in delight
glide the creatures of night,
elusive and bright
as the poet’s dreams.
This poem was written in 2001 after a discussion about Romanticism in the late 20th century. Kevin N. Roberts
was the founder and first editor of the literary journal Romantics Quarterly, and a talented and accomplished poet, writer and philosopher.
Stormfront
by Michael R. Burch
Our distance is frightening:
a distance like the abyss between heaven and earth
interrupted by bizarre and terrible lightning.
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.
I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a
teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem, which I started in high
school and revised as an adult. From what I now
understand, “ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam” means “to the God
who gives joy to my youth,” but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a
lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint
Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Latin Vulgate Bible (circa 385 AD). I
can’t remember exactly when I read the novel or wrote the poem, but I believe it
was around my junior year of high school, age 17 or thereabouts. This
was my first translation. I revised the poem slightly in 2001 after realizing I
had “misremembered” one of the words in the Latin prayer.
This poem once had 21K Google results.
Because You Came to Me
by Michael
R. Burch
for Beth
Because you came to me with sweet compassion
and kissed my furrowed brow and smoothed my hair,
I do not love you after any fashion,
but wildly, in despair.
Because you came to me in my black torment
and kissed me fiercely, blazing like the sun
upon parched desert dunes, till in dawn’s foment
they melt, I am undone.
Because I am undone, you have remade me
as suns bring life, as brilliant rains endow
the earth below with leaves, where you now shade me
and bower me, somehow.
I wrote the first version of this poem around age 18, then forgot about it for
30 years. Then something about my wife Beth made me remember the poem, so I
revised it and dedicated it to her. The last time I checked, this poem had
3.6K Google results and was still climbing.
The Whole of Wit
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
If brevity is the soul of wit
then brevity and levity
are the whole of it.
Eros harrows my heart:
wild winds whipping desolate mountains,
uprooting oaks.
―Sappho, fragment 42, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This translation at one time had 3.6K Google results.
This day of chrysanthemums
I shake and comb my wet hair,
as their petals shed rain
―
Hisajo Sugita, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ghost
by Michael R. Burch
White in the shadows
I see your face,
unbidden. Go, tell
Love it is commonplace;
Tell Regret it is not so rare.
Our love is not here
though you smile,
full of sedulous grace.
Lost in darkness, I fear
the past is our resting place.
A short revealing frock?
It's just my luck
your lips were made to mock!
―Sappho, fragment 155, loose
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This translation had 20K Google results at its peak and was still returning
5.6K results the last time I checked.
The moon has long since set;
The Pleiades are gone;
Now half the night is spent,
Yet here I lie … alone.
―Sappho, fragment 156, loose
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
She keeps her scents
in a dressing-case.
And her sense?
In some undiscoverable place.
―Sappho, fragment 156, loose
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pain
drains
me
to
the
last
drop
.
―Sappho, fragment 156, loose
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come Down
by Michael R. Burch
for Harold Bloom and the Ivory Towerists
Come down, O, come down
from your high mountain tower.
How coldly the wind blows,
how late this chill hour …
and I cannot wait
for a meteor shower
to show you the time
must be now, or not ever.
Come down, O, come down
from the high mountain heather
blown to the lees
as fierce northern gales sever.
Come down, or your heart
will grow cold as the weather
when winter devours
and spring returns never.
Besieged
by Michael R. Burch
Life—the disintegration of the flesh
before the fitful elevation of the soul
upon improbable wings?
Life—it is all we know,
the travail one bright season brings…
Now the fruit hangs,
impendent, pregnant with death,
as the hurricane builds and flings
its white columns and banners of snow
and the rout begins.
"Besieged" is one of my most popular poems at AllPoetry with a 9.59 rating.
In the Poetry Chat Room
by Michael R. Burch
WHY SHULD I LERN TO SPELL?
HELL,
NO ONE REEDS WHAT I SAY
ANYWAY!!! :(
Sing for the cool night,
whispers of constellations.
Sing for the supple grass,
the tall grass, gently whispering.
Sing of infinities, multitudes,
of all that lies beyond us now,
whispers begetting whispers.
And i am glad to also whisper …
I WUS HURT IN LUV I’M DYIN’
FER TH’ TEARS I BEEN A-CRYIN’!!!
i abide beyond serenities
and realms of grace,
above love’s misdirected earth,
i lift my face.
i am beyond finding now …
I WAS IN, LOVE, AND HE SCREWED ME!!!
THE JERK!!! TOTALLY!!!
i loved her once, before, when i
was mortal too, and sometimes i
would listen and distinctly hear
her laughter from the juniper,
but did not go …
I JUST DON’T GET POETRY, SOMETIMES.
IT’S OKAY, I GUESS.
I REALLY DON’T READ THAT MUCH AT ALL,
I MUST CONFESS!!! ;-)
Travail, inherent to all flesh,
i do not know, nor how to feel.
Although i sing them nighttimes still:
the bitter woes, that do not heal …
POETRY IS BORING.
SEE, IT SUCKS!!!, I’M SNORING!!! ZZZZZZZ!!!
The words like breath, i find them here,
among the fragrant juniper,
and conifers amid the snow,
old loves imagined long ago …
WHY DON’T YOU LIKE MY PERFICKT WORDS
YOU USELESS UN-AMERIC’N TURDS?!!!
What use is love, to me, or Thou?
O Words, my awe, to fly so smooth
above the anguished hearts of men
to heights unknown, Thy bare remove …
Dispensing Keys
by Hafiz
loose
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The imbecile
constructs cages
for everyone he knows,
while the sage
(who has to duck his head
whenever the moon glows)
keeps dispensing keys
all night long
to the beautiful, rowdy,
prison gang.
I love the wisdom and spirit of Hafiz in this subversive (pardon the pun)
little poem. I can see Trump putting refugees in cages, while Hafiz goes around
letting them out for a moondance!
For a Homeless Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch
Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails,
when thunder howls,
when hailstones scream,
when winter scowls,
when nights compound dark frosts with snow …
Where does the butterfly go?
Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief's a banked fire's glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?
This poem at one time had 1.3K Google results.
Dark-bosomed clouds
pregnant with heavy thunder …
the water breaks
―original haiku by Michael R. Burch
Observance
by Michael R. Burch
Here the hills are old and rolling
casually in their old age;
on the horizon youthful mountains
bathe themselves in windblown fountains …
By dying leaves and falling raindrops,
I have traced time's starts and stops,
and I have known the years to pass
almost unnoticed, whispering through treetops …
For here the valleys fill with sunlight
to the brim, then empty again,
and it seems that only I notice
how the years flood out, and in …
This is one of two early poems that made me feel like a real poet. I remember
writing it in the break room of the McDonald's where I worked as a high school
student. I believe that was in 1975, at age 17. This poem was
originally titled "Reckoning," a title I still like and may return to one day.
As a young poet with high aspirations, I felt that "Infinity" and "Reckoning/Observance"
were my two best poems, so I didn't publish them in my high school or college
literary journals. I decided to hang onto them and use them to get my foot in
the door elsewhere. And the plan worked pretty well. "Observance" was originally
published by Nebo as "Reckoning." It was later published by
Tucumcari Literary Review, Piedmont Literary Review, Verses, Romantics Quarterly,
the anthology There is Something in the Autumn and Poetry Life &
Times.
The butterfly
perfuming its wings
fans the orchid
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Roses for a Lover, Idealized
by Michael R. Burch
When you have become to me
as roses bloom, in memory,
exquisite, each sharp thorn forgot,
will I recall—yours made me bleed?
When winter makes me think of you—
whorls petrified in frozen dew,
bright promises blithe spring forsook,
will I recall your words—barbed, cruel?
Published by The Lyric, La Luce Che Non Moure (Italy), The Chained
Muse, Setu (India), Borderless Journal (Singapore), Glass
Facets of Poetry, Better Than Starbucks and Trinacria
Nun Fun Undone
by Michael R. Burch
Abbesses'
recesses
are not for excesses!
I suspect "Nun Fun Undone" is too naughty and heretical for some editors.
The poem was
published by Brief Poems, thanks to editor Connor Kelly, many years after it was originally written.
The title may be a poem in its own right.
Regret
by Michael R. Burch
1.
Regret,
a bitter
ache to bear …
once starlight
languished
in your hair …
a shining there
as brief
as rare.
2.
Regret …
a pain
I chose to bear …
unleash
the torrent
of your hair …
and show me
once again—
how rare.
I believe I wrote this poem around 1978 to 1980, in my late teens or early twenties. It's not based on a real experience, to my
recollection. I may have been thinking about Rapunzel.
Earthbound
by Michael R. Burch
Tashunka Witko, better known as Crazy Horse, had a vision of a red-tailed
hawk at Sylvan Lake, South Dakota. In his vision he saw himself riding a
floating and crazily-dancing spirit
horse through a storm as the hawk flew above him, shrieking. When he
awoke, a red-tailed hawk was perched near his horse.
Earthbound,
and yet I now fly
through the clouds that are aimlessly drifting …
so high
that no sound
echoing by
below where the mountains are lifting
the sky
can be heard.
Like a bird,
but not meek,
like a hawk from a distance regarding its prey,
I will shriek,
not a word,
but a screech,
and my terrible clamor will turn them to clay—
the sheep,
the earthbound.
I believe I wrote this poem as a college sophomore in 1978, or perhaps a bit
earlier, age 19 or 20. I did not know about the vision and naming of Crazy Horse
at the time. But when I learned about the vision that gave Crazy Horse his name,
it seemed to explain my poem and I changed the second line from "and yet I would
fly" to "and yet I now fly." I believe that is the only revision I ever made to
this poem.
The Leveler
by Michael R. Burch
The nature of Nature
is bitter survival
from Winter’s bleak fury
till Spring’s brief revival.
The weak implore Fate;
bold men ravish, dishevel her …
till both are cut down
by mere ticks of the Leveler.
I believe I wrote this poem in my late teens or perhaps around age 20. It has
since been published in The Lyric, Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly and
The Aurorean.
Child of 9-11
by Michael R. Burch
a poem for Christina-Taylor Green, who was born
on September 11, 2001 and died at the age of nine,
shot to death …
Child of 9-11, beloved,
I bring this lily, lay it down
here at your feet, and eiderdown,
and all soft things, for your gentle spirit.
I bring this psalm — I hope you hear it.
Much love I bring — I lay it down
here by your form, which is not you,
but what you left this shell-shocked world
to help us learn what we must do
to save another child like you.
Child of 9-11, I know
you are not here, but watch, afar
from distant stars, where angels rue
the vicious things some mortals do.
I also watch; I also rue.
And so I make this pledge and vow:
though I may weep, I will not rest
nor will my pen fail heaven's test
till guns and wars and hate are banned
from every shore, from every land.
Child of 9-11, I grieve
your tender life, cut short … bereaved,
what can I do, but pledge my life
to saving lives like yours? Belief
in your sweet worth has led me here …
I give my all: my pen, this tear,
this lily and this eiderdown,
and all soft things my heart can bear;
I bear them to your final bier,
and leave them with my promise, here.
"Child of 9-11" had 1.9K Google results early in 2024.
Oh, fallen camellias,
if I were you,
I'd leap into the torrent!
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come As You Are
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Come as you are, forget appearances!
Is your hair untamable, your part uneven, your bodice unfastened? Never mind.
Come as you are, forget appearances!
Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.
If your feet glisten with dew, if your anklets slip, if your beaded necklace
slides off? Never mind.
Skip with quicksilver steps across the grass.
Do you see the clouds enveloping the sky?
Flocks of cranes erupt from the riverbank, fitful gusts ruffle the fields,
anxious cattle tremble in their stalls.
Do you see the clouds enveloping the sky?
You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.
Who will care that your eyelids have not been painted with lamp-black, when your
pupils are darker than thunderstorms?
You loiter in vain over your toilet lamp; it flickers and dies in the wind.
Come as you are, forget appearances!
If the wreath lies unwoven, who cares? If the bracelet is unfastened, let it
fall. The sky grows dark; it is late.
Come as you are, forget appearances!
"Come As You Are" is my most popular translation at AllPoetry.
See
by Michael R. Burch
See how her hair has thinned: it doesn't seem
like hair at all, but like the airy moult
of emus who outraced the wind and left
soft plumage in their wake. See how her eyes
are gentler now; see how each wrinkle laughs,
and deepens on itself, as though mirth took
some comfort there and burrowed deeply in,
outlasting winter. See how very thin
her features are—that time has made more spare,
so that each bone shows, elegant and rare.
For loveliness remains in her grave eyes,
and courage in her still-delighted looks:
each face presented like a picture book's.
Bemused, she blows us undismayed goodbyes.
Originally published by Writer's Digest's—The Year's Best Writing 2003
Cædmon's Hymn (circa 658-680 AD)
― loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Now let us honour heaven-kingdom's Guardian,
the might of the Architect and his mind-plans,
the work of the Glory-Father. First he,
the eternal Lord,
established the foundation of wonders.
Then he, the first Poet, created heaven as a roof
for the sons of men, holy Creator,
Guardian of mankind. Then he,
the eternal Lord,
afterwards made men middle-earth: Master almighty!
Let us arrange
these lovely flowers in the bowl
since there's no rice
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Snapshots
by Michael R. Burch
Here I scrawl extravagant rainbows.
And there you go, skipping your way to school.
And here we are, drifting apart
like untethered balloons.
Here I am, creating "art,"
chanting in shadows,
pale as the crinoline moon,
ignoring your face.
There you go,
in diaphanous lace,
making another man’s heart swoon.
Suddenly, unthinkably, here he is,
taking my place.
An ancient pond,
the frog leaps:
the silver plop and gurgle of water
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Resemblance
by Michael R. Burch
Take this geode with its rough exterior—
crude-skinned, brilliant-hearted …
a diode of amethyst—wild, electric;
its sequined cavity—parted, revealing.
Find in its fire all brittle passion,
each jagged shard relentlessly aching.
Each spire inward—a fission startled;
in its shattered entrails—fractured light,
the heart ice breaking.
Originally published by Poet Lore
The first soft snow:
leaves of the awed jonquil
bow low
― Matsuo Basho, loose
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
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.
At its peak "After the Deluge" had 1.3K Google results.
Come, investigate loneliness!
a solitary leaf
clings to the Kiri tree
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Winter nears:
my neighbor,
how does he fare? …
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Willy Nilly
by Michael R. Burch
for the Demiurge aka Yahweh/Jehovah
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped—
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch
What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to kill and plunder?
For He’ll likely return
on Christmas day
to blow the bad
little boys away!
When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,
when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?
How Long the Night
(Anonymous Old English Lyric, circa early
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.
The first chill rain, so raw!
Poor monkey, you too could use
a woven cape of straw.
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
This snowy morning:
cries of the crow I despise
(ah, but so beautiful!)
― Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Redolence
by Michael R. Burch
Now darkness ponds upon the violet hills;
cicadas sing; the tall elms gently sway;
and night bends near, a deepening shade of gray;
the bass concerto of a bullfrog fills
what silence there once was; globed searchlights play.
Green hanging ferns adorn dark window sills,
all drooping fronds, awaiting morning’s flares;
mosquitoes whine; the lissome moth again
flits like a veiled oud-dancer, and endures
the fumblings of night’s enervate gray rain.
And now the pact of night is made complete;
the air is fresh and cool, washed of the grime
of the city’s ashen breath; and, for a time,
the fragrance of her clings, obscure and sweet.
Originally published by The Eclectic Muse and The Best of the Eclectic Muse 1989-2003
A kite floats
at the same place in the sky
where yesterday it floated …
―
Buson Yosa, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Locker
by Michael R. Burch
All the dull hollow clamor has died
and what was contained,
removed,
reproved
adulation or sentiment,
left with the pungent darkness
as remembered as the sudden light.
Wild geese pass
leaving the emptiness of heaven
revealed
―
Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Isolde's Song
by Michael R. Burch
Through our long years of dreaming to be one
we grew toward an enigmatic light
that gently warmed our tendrils. Was it sun?
We had no eyes to tell; we loved despite
the lack of all sensation—all but one:
we felt the night's deep chill, the air so bright
at dawn we quivered limply, overcome.
To touch was all we knew, and how to bask.
We knew to touch; we grew to touch; we felt
spring's urgency, midsummer's heat, fall's lash,
wild winter's ice and thaw and fervent melt.
We felt returning light and could not ask
its meaning, or if something was withheld
more glorious. To touch seemed life's great task.
At last the petal of me learned: unfold.
And you were there, surrounding me. We touched.
The curious golden pollens! Ah, we touched,
and learned to cling and, finally, to hold.
Originally published by The Raintown Review, where it was
nominated for the Pushcart Prize, then later published by Ancient Heart
Magazine (UK), The Eclectic Muse (Canada), Boston Poetry
Magazine, The Orchards, Strange Road, On the Road with Judy, Complete Classics,
FreeXpression (Australia), Better Than Starbucks, Fullosia Press, Glass
Facets of Poetry, Sonnetto Poesia (Canada), The New Formalist, and
Trinacria
Cranes
flapping ceaselessly
test the sky's upper limits
―
Inahata Teiko, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The new calendar! …
as if tomorrow
is assured
―
Inahata Teiko, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Ah butterfly,
what dreams do you ply
with your beautiful wings?
―
Chiyo-ni, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Because morning glories
hold my well-bucket hostage
I go begging for water
―
Chiyo-ni, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The Watch
by Michael R. Burch
Moonlight spills down vacant sills,
illuminates an empty bed.
Dreams lie in crates. One hand creates
wan silver circles, left unread
by its companion—unmoved now
by anything that lies ahead.
I watch the minutes test the limits
of ornamental movement here,
where once another hand would hover.
Each circuit—incomplete. So dear,
so precious, so precise, the touch
of hands that wait, yet ask so much.
Spring
stirs the clouds
in the sky's teabowl
―
Kikusha-ni, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Flight 93
by Michael R. Burch
I held the switch in trembling fingers, asked
why existence felt so small, so purposeless,
like a minnow wriggling feebly in my grasp …
vibrations of huge engines thrummed my arms
as, glistening with sweat, I nudged the switch
to OFF … I heard the klaxon-shrill alarms
like vultures’ shriekings … earthward, in a stall …
we floated … earthward … wings outstretched, aghast
like Icarus … as through the void we fell …
till nothing was so beautiful, so blue …
so vivid as that moment … and I held
an image of your face, and dreamed I flew
into your arms. The earth rushed up. I knew
such comfort, in that moment, loving you.
Death
loomed at the end of the hall
in the long shadows
―
Watanabe Hakusen, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch as "Sandy
Hook Hallways Haiku"
What the Poet Sees
by Michael R. Burch
What the poet sees,
he sees as a swimmer underwater,
watching the shoreline blur,
sees through his breath's weightless bubbles:
both worlds grow obscure.
American Eagle, Grounded
by Michael R. Burch
Her predatory eye,
the single feral iris,
scans.
Her raptor beak,
all jagged sharp-edged thrust,
juts.
Her hard talon,
clenched in pinched expectation,
waits.
Her clipped wings,
preened against reality,
tremble.
The King of Beasts in the Museum of the Extinct
by Michael R. Burch
The king of beasts, my child,
was terrible, and wild.
His roaring shook the earth
till the feeble cursed his birth.
For all things feared his might:
even the rhinos fled, in fright.
Now here these bones attest
to what the brute did best
and the pain he caused his prey
when he hunted in his day.
For he slew them just for sport
till his own pride was cut short
with a mushrooming cloud and wild thunder;
Exhibit "B" will reveal his blunder.
The bitter winter wind
ends here
with the frozen sea
―
Ikenishi Gonsui, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Oh, bitter winter wind,
why bellow so
when there's no leaves to fell?
―
Natsume Sôseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
At Wilfred Owen's Grave
by Michael R. Burch
A week before the Armistice, you died.
They did not keep your heart like Livingstone's,
then plant your bones near Shakespeare's. So you lie
between two privates, sacrificed like Christ
to politics, your poetry unknown
except for one brief flurry: thirteen months
with Gaukroger beside you in the trench,
dismembered, as you babbled, as the stench
of gangrene filled your nostrils, till you clenched
your broken heart together and the fist
began to pulse with life, so close to death.
Or was it at Craiglockhart, in the care
of "ergotherapists" that you sensed life
is only in the work, and made despair
a thing that Yeats despised, but also breath,
a mouthful's merest air, inspired less
than wrested from you, and which we confess
we only vaguely breathe: the troubled air
that even Sassoon failed to share, because
a man in pieces is not healed by gauze,
and breath's transparent, unless we believe
the words are true despite their lack of weight
and float to us like chlorine—scalding eyes,
and lungs, and hearts. Your words revealed the fate
of boys who retched up life here, gagged on lies.
Originally published by The Chariton Review
No sky,
no land:
just snow eternally falling …
―
Kajiwara Hashin, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Along with spring leaves
my child's teeth
take root, blossom
―
Nakamura Kusatao, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Stillness:
a single chestnut leaf glides
on brilliant water
―
Ryuin, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
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.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly and
The Eclectic Muse (Canada)
Fountainhead
by Michael R. Burch
I did not delight in love so much
as in a kiss like linnets' wings,
the flutterings of a pulse so soft
the heart remembers, as it sings:
to bathe there was its transport, brushed
by marble lips, or porcelain,—
one liquid kiss, one cool outburst
from pale rosettes. What did it mean …
to float awhirl on minute tides
within the compass of your eyes,
to feel your alabaster bust
grow cold within? Ecstatic sighs
seem hisses now; your eyes, serene,
reflect the sun's pale tourmaline.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly
I’ve got Jesus’s face on a wallet insert
by Michael R. Burch
for the Religious Right
I’ve got Jesus’s face on a wallet insert
and "Hell is for Queers" on the back of my shirt.
And I uphold the Law,
for Grace has a Flaw:
the Church must have someone to drag through the dirt.
I’ve got ten thousand reasons why Hell must exist,
and you’re at the top of my fast-swelling list!
You’re nothing like me,
so God must agree
and slam down the Hammer with His Loving Fist!
For what are the chances that God has a plan
to save everyone: even Boy George and Wham!?
Eternal fell torture
in Hell’s pressure scorcher
will separate homo from Man.
I’m glad I’m redeemed, ecstatic you’re not.
Did Christ die for sinners? Perish the thought!
The "good news" is this:
soon my Vengeance is His!,
for you’re not the lost sheep He sought.
Mare Clausum
by Michael R. Burch
These are the narrows of my soul—
dark waters pierced by eerie, haunting screams.
And these uncharted islands bleakly home
wild nightmares and deep, strange, forbidding dreams.
Please don’t think to find pearls’ pale, unearthly glow
within its shoals, nor corals in its reefs.
For, though you seek to salvage Love, I know
that vessel lists, and night brings no relief.
Pause here, and look, and know that all is lost;
then turn, and go; let salt consume, and rust.
This sea is not for sailors, but the damned
who lingered long past morning, till they learned
why it is named:
Mare Clausum.
Originally published by
Penny Dreadful
Mare Clausum is Latin for "Closed Sea." I wrote the first version
of this poem as a teenager. It has been revised here and there. However, the
poem remains essentially the same in meaning and the ending lines have survived
unchanged. I seem to remember the poem being inspired by merely reading the term
Mare Clausum somewhere and finding it eerie, haunting and a bit
chilling. Over the years, I tried to find words and images with a similar eerie,
haunting, chilling feel.
The Heimlich Limerick
by Michael
R. Burch
for Tom Merrill
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.
Absence
by
Michael R. Burch
Christ, how I miss you!,
though your parting kiss is still warm on my lips.
Now the floor is not strewn with your stockings and slips
and the dishes are all stacked away.
You left me today …
and each word left unspoken now whispers regrets.
US Verse, after Auden
by Michael R. Burch
“Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful.”
Verse has small value in our Unisphere,
nor is it fit for windy revelation.
It cannot legislate less taxing fears;
it cannot make us, several, a nation.
Enumerator of our sins and dreams,
it pens its cryptic numbers, and it sings,
a little quaintly, of the ways of love.
(It seems of little use for lesser things.)
The Unisphere mentioned is a large stainless steel representation of the
earth; it was commissioned to celebrate the beginning of the space age for the
1964 New York World's Fair.
honeybee
by Michael R. Burch
love was a little treble thing—
prone to sing
and sometimes to sting
The Lingering and the Unconsoled Heart
by Michael R. Burch
There is a silence—
the last unspoken moment
before death,
when the moon,
cratered and broken,
is all madness and light,
when the breath comes low and complaining,
and the heart is a ruin
of emptiness and night.
There is a grief—
the grief of a lover's embrace
while faith still shimmers in a mother’s tears …
There is no emptier time, nor place,
while the faint glimmer of life is ours
that the lingering and the unconsoled heart fears
beyond this: seeing its own stricken face
in eyes that drift toward some incomprehensible place.
Privilege
by Michael R. Burch
This poem is dedicated to Harvey Stanbrough, an ex-marine who was
nominated for the 1999 Pulitzer Prize and has written passionately and
eloquently about the horror and absurdity of war in “Lessons for a Barren
Population.”
No, I will never know
what you saw or what you felt,
thrust into the maw of Eternity,
watching the mortars nightly
greedily making their rounds,
hearing the soft damp hiss
of men’s souls like helium escaping
their collapsing torn bodies,
or lying alone, feeling the great roar
of your own heart.
But I know:
there is a bitter knowledge
of death I have not achieved.
Thus in thankful ignorance,
and especially for my son
and for all who benefit so easily
at so unthinkable a price,
I thank you.
Mirror
by Kajal Ahmad, a Kurdish poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The obscuring mirror of my era
broke
because it magnified the small
and made the great seem insignificant.
Dictators and monsters monopolized its maze.
Now when I breathe
its jagged shards pierce my heart
and instead of sweat
I exude glass.
Pan
by Michael R. Burch
… Among the shadows of the groaning elms,
amid the darkening oaks, we fled ourselves …
… Once there were paths that led to coracles
that clung to piers like loosening barnacles …
… where we cannot return, because we lost
the pebbles and the playthings, and the moss …
… hangs weeping gently downward, maidens’ hair
who never were enchanted, and the stairs …
… that led up to the Fortress in the trees
will not support our weight, but on our knees …
… we still might fit inside those splendid hours
of damsels in distress, of rustic towers …
… of voices heard in wolves’ tormented howls
that died, and live in dreams’ soft, windy vowels …
Originally published by Sonnet Scroll
The City Is a Garment
by Michael R. Burch
A rhinestone skein, a jeweled brocade of light,—
the city is a garment stretched so thin
her festive colors bleed into the night,
and everywhere bright seams, unraveling,
cascade their brilliant contents out like coins
on motorways and esplanades; bead cars
come tumbling down long highways; at her groin
a railtrack like a zipper flashes sparks;
her hills are haired with brush like cashmere wool
and from their cleavage winking lights enlarge
and travel, slender fingers … softly pull
themselves into the semblance of a barge.
When night becomes too chill, she softly dons
great overcoats of warmest-colored dawn.
Originally published by The Lyric
The Forge
by Michael R. Burch
To at last be indestructible, a poem
must first glow, almost flammable, upon
a thing inert, as gray, as dull as stone,
then bend this way and that, and slowly cool
at arms-length, something irreducible
drawn out with caution, toughened in a pool
of water so contrary just a hiss
escapes it—water instantly a mist.
It writhes, a thing of senseless shapelessness …
And then the driven hammer falls and falls.
The horses prick their ears in nearby stalls.
A soldier on his cot leans back and smiles.
A sound of ancient import, with the ring
of honest labor, sings of fashioning.
Originally published by The Chariton Review
Goddess
by Michael R. Burch
"What will you conceive in me?"
I asked her. But she
only smiled.
"Naked, I bore your child
when the wolf wind howled,
when the cold moon scowled …
naked, and gladly."
"What will become of me?"
I asked her, as she
absently stroked my hand.
Centuries later, I understand;
she whispered, "I Am."
Originally published by Unlikely Stories then by
Romantics Quarterly where it was the first poem in the first issue
Kin
by Michael R. Burch
for Richard Thomas Moore
1.
Shrill gulls,
how like my thoughts
you, struggling, rise
to distant bliss—
the weightless blue of skies
that are not blue
in any atmosphere,
but closest here …
2.
You seek an air
so clear,
so rarified
the effort leaves you famished;
earthly tides
soon call you back—
one long, descending glide …
3.
Disgruntledly you grope dirt shores for orts
you pull like mucous ropes
from shells’ bright forts …
You eye the teeming world
with nervous darts—
this way and that …
Contentious, shrewd, you scan—
the sky, in hope,
the earth, distrusting man.
Originally published by Able Muse
Sinking
by Michael R. Burch
for Virginia Woolf
Weigh me down with stones …
fill all the pockets of my gown …
I’m going down,
mad as the world
that can’t
recover,
to where even mermaids drown.
Medusa
by Michael R. Burch
Friends, beware
of her iniquitous hair—
long, ravenblack & melancholy.
Many suitors drowned there—
lost, unaware
of the length & extent of their folly.
Originally published in Grand Little Things
Less Heroic Couplets: Murder Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch
“Murder most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.
“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner.
As you fall on my sword,
consult the Good Lord!”
the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.
Originally published by Lighten Up Online and in Potcake Chapbook
#7
In an attempt to demonstrate that not all couplets are heroic, I have
created a series of poems called “Less Heroic Couplets.” I believe even poets
should abide by truth-in-advertising laws! — Michael R. Burch
War is Obsolete
by Michael R. Burch
Trump’s war is on children and their mothers.
"If we are to carry out a real war against war, we will have to begin with the
children." — Gandhi
"An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind." — Gandhi
War is obsolete;
even
the strange machinery of dread
weeps for the child in the street
who cannot lift her head
to reprimand the Man
who failed to countermand
her soft defeat.
But war is obsolete;
even the cold robotic drone
that flies far overhead
has sense enough to moan
and shudder at her plight
(only men bereft of Light
with hearts indurate stone
embrace war’s Siberian night.)
For war is obsolete;
man’s tribal “gods,” long dead,
have fled his awakening sight
while the true Sun, overhead,
has pity on her plight.
O sweet, precipitate Light! —
embrace her, reject the night
that leaves gentle fledglings dead.
For each brute ancestor lies
with his totems and his “gods”
in the slavehold of premature night
that awaited him in his tomb;
while Love, the ancestral womb,
still longs to give birth to the Light.
So which child shall we murder tonight,
or which Ares condemn to the gloom?
Originally published by The Flea
While campaigning for president in 2016, Donald Trump insisted that, as
commander-in-chief of the American military, he would order American soldiers to
track down and murder women and children as "retribution" for acts of terrorism.
When disbelieving journalists asked Trump if he could possibly have meant what
he said, he verified several times that he did.
Excerpts from “Travels with Einstein”
by Michael R. Burch
for Trump
I went to Berlin to learn wisdom
from Adolph. The wild spittle flew
as he screamed at me, with great conviction:
“Please despise me! I look like a Jew!”
So I flew off to ’Nam to learn wisdom
from tall Yankees who cursed “yellow” foes.
“If we lose this small square,” they informed me,
earth’s nations will fall, dominoes!”
I then sat at Christ’s feet to learn wisdom,
but his Book, from its genesis to close,
said: “Men can enslave their own brothers!”
(I soon noticed he lacked any clothes.)
So I traveled to bright Tel Aviv
where great scholars with lofty IQs
informed me that (since I’m an Arab)
I’m unfit to lick dirt from their shoes.
At last, done with learning, I stumbled
to a well where the waters seemed sweet:
the mirage of American “justice.”
There I wept a real sea, in defeat.
Originally published by Café Dissensus (India)
Heroin or Heroine?
by Michael R. Burch
for mothers battling addiction
serve the Addiction;
worship the Beast;
feed the foul Pythons,
your flesh, their fair feast …
or rise up, resist
the huge many-headed hydra;
for the sake of your Loved Ones
decapitate medusa.
Please feel free to share this poem with anyone it might help …
Self Reflection
by Michael R. Burch
for anyone struggling with self-image
She has a comely form
and a smile that brightens her dorm …
but she’s grossly unthin
when seen from within;
soon a griefstricken campus will mourn.
Yet she’d never once criticize
a friend for the size of her thighs.
Do unto others—
sisters and brothers?
Yes, but also ourselves, likewise.
escape!
by michael r. burch
to live among the daffodil folk …
slip down the rainslickened drainpipe …
suddenly pop out
the GARGANTUAN SPOUT …
minuscule as alice, shout
yippee-yi-yee!
in wee exultant glee
to be leaving behind the
LARGE
THREE-DENALI GARAGE.
Escape!!
by Michael R. Burch
You are too beautiful,
too innocent,
too inherently lovely
to merely reflect the sun’s splendor …
too full of irrepressible candor
to remain silent,
too delicately fawnlike
for a world so violent …
Come, my beautiful Bambi
and I will protect you …
but of course you have already been lured away
by the dew-laden roses …
hey pete
by Michael R. Burch
for Pete Rose
hey pete,
it's baseball season
and the sun ascends the sky,
encouraging a schoolboy's dreams
of winter whizzing by;
go out, go out and catch it,
put it in a jar,
set it on a shelf
and then you'll be a Superstar.
When I was a boy,
Pete Rose was my favorite baseball player; this poem is not a slam
at him, but rather an ironic jab at the term "superstar."
I think the octopus is evidence of three things: that there are aliens, that
they live among us, and that they are infinitely wiser than we are …
The Octopi Jars
by Michael R. Burch
Long-vacant eyes
now lodged in clear glass,
a-swim with pale arms
as delicate as angels'…
you are beyond all hope
of salvage now…
and yet I would pause,
no, fear!,
to once touch
your arcane beaks…
I, more alien than you
to this imprismed world,
notice, most of all,
the scratches on the inside surfaces
of your hermetic cells …
and I remember documentaries
of albino Houdinis
slipping like wraiths through walls of shipboard aquariums,
slipping down decks'
brine-lubricated planks,
spilling jubilantly into the dark sea,
parachuting down down down through clouds of pallid ammonia …
and I now know this: you were unlike me …
your imprisonment was never voluntary.
Published by Triplopia and The Poetic Musings of Sam Hudson
Bikini
by Michael R. Burch
Undersea, by the shale and the coral forming,
by the shell’s pale rose and the pearl’s bright eye,
through the sea’s green bed of lank seaweed worming
like tangled hair where cold currents rise …
something lurks where the riptides sigh,
something old, and odd, and wise.
Something old when the world was forming
now lifts its beak, its snail-blind eye,
and, with tentacles like Medusa's squirming,
it feels the cloud blot out the skies' …
then shudders, settles with a sigh,
understanding man’s demise.
Radiance
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Dylan Thomas
The poet delves earth’s detritus—hard toil—
for raw-edged nouns, barbed verbs, vowels’ lush bouquet;
each syllable his pen excretes—dense soil,
dark images impacted, rooted clay.
The poet sees the sea but feels its meaning—
the teeming brine, the mirrored oval flame
that leashes and excites its turgid surface …
then squanders years imagining love’s the same.
Belatedly he turns to what lies broken—
the scarred and furrowed plot he fiercely sifts,
among death’s sicksweet dungs and composts seeking
one element whose scorching flame uplifts.
No One
by Michael R. Burch
No One hears the bells tonight;
they tell him something isn’t right.
But No One is not one to rush;
he smiles from beds soft, green and lush
as far away a startled thrush
escapes horned owls in sinking flight.
No One hears the cannon’s roar
and muses that its voice means war
comes knocking on men’s doors tonight.
He sleeps outside in awed delight
beneath the enigmatic stars
and shivers in their cooling light.
No One knows the world will end,
that he’ll be lonely, without friend
or foe to conquer. All will be
once more, celestial harmony.
He’ll miss men’s voices, now and then,
but worlds can be remade again.
Infatuate, or Sweet Centerless Sixteen
by Michael R. Burch
Inconsolable as “love” had left your heart,
you woke this morning eager to pursue
warm lips again, or something “really cool”
on which to press your lips and leave their mark.
As breath upon a windowpane at dawn
soon glows, a spreading halo full of sun,
your thought of love blinks wildly—on and on …
then fizzles at the center, and is gone.
Originally published by Shot Glass Journal
Charon 2001
by Michael R. Burch
I, too, have stood—paralyzed at the helm
watching onrushing, inevitable disaster.
I too have felt sweat (or ecstatic tears) plaster
damp hair to my eyes, as a slug’s dense film
becomes mucous-insulate. Always, thereafter
living in darkness, bright things overwhelm.
Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea
Davenport Tomorrow
by Michael R. Burch
Davenport tomorrow …
all the trees stand stark-naked in the sun.
Now it is always summer
and the bees buzz in cesspools,
adapted to a new life.
There are no flowers,
but the weeds, being hardier,
have survived.
The small town has become
a city of millions;
there is no longer a sea,
only a huge sewer,
but the children don't mind.
They still study
rocks and stars,
but biology is a forgotten science …
after all, what is life?
Davenport tomorrow …
all the children murmur through vein-streaked gills
whispered wonders of long-ago.
This is an early poem of mine, written in high school around age 17.
Happily Never After (the Second Curse of the Horny Toad)
by Michael R. Burch
He did not think of love of Her at all
frog-plangent nights, as moons engoldened roads
through crumbling stonewalled provinces, where toads
(nee princes) ruled in chinks and grew so small
at last to be invisible. He smiled
(the fables erred so curiously), and thought
bemusedly of being reconciled
to human flesh, because his heart was not
incapable of love, but, being cursed
a second time, could only love a toad’s …
and listened as inflated frogs rehearsed
cheekbulging tales of anguish from green moats …
and thought of her soft croak, her skin fine-warted,
his anemic flesh, and how true love was thwarted.
Enough!
by Michael R. Burch
It’s not that I don’t want to die;
I shall be glad to go.
Enough of diabetes pie,
and eating sickly crow!
Enough of win and place and show.
Enough of endless woe!
Enough of suffering and vice!
I’ve said it once;
I’ll say it twice:
I shall be glad to go.
But why the hell should I be nice
when no one asked for my advice?
So grumpily I’ll go …
although
(most probably) below.
Multiplication, Tabled
or Procreation Inflation
by Michael R. Burch
for the Religious Right
“Be fruitful and multiply”—
great advice, for a fruitfly!
But for women and men,
simple Simons, say, “WHEN!”
Polish
by Michael R. Burch
Your fingers end in talons—
the ones you trim to hide
the predator inside.
Ten thousand creatures sacrificed;
but really, what’s the loss?
Apply a splash of gloss.
You picked the perfect color
to mirror nature’s law:
red, like tooth and claw.
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 grind 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
R.I.P.
by Michael R. Burch
When I am lain to rest
and my soul is no longer intact,
but dissolving, like a sunset
diminishing to the west …
and when at last
before His throne my past
is put to test
and the demons and the Beast
await to feast
on any morsel downward cast,
while the vapors of impermanence
cling, smelling of damask …
then let me go, and do not weep
if I am left to sleep,
to sleep and never dream, or dream, perhaps,
only a little longer and more deep.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly.
This is a poem from my "Romantic Period" that was written in my
late teens.
The Wonder Boys
by Michael
R. Burch
for Leslie Mellichamp, longtime editor of The Lyric
The stars were always there, too-bright clichés:
scintillant truths the jaded world outgrew
as baffled poets winged keyed kites—amazed,
in dream of shocks that suddenly came true …
but came almost as static—background noise,
a song out of the cosmos no one hears,
or cares to hear. The poets, starstruck boys,
lay tuned in to their kite strings, saucer-eared.
They thought to feel the lightning’s brilliant sparks
electrify their nerves, their brains; the smoke
of words poured from their overheated hearts.
The kite string, knotted, made a nifty rope …
You will not find them here; they blew away—
in tumbling flight beyond nights’ stars. They clung
by fingertips to satellites. They strayed
too far to remain mortal. Elfin, young,
their words are with us still. Devout and fey,
they wink at us whenever skies are gray.
Originally published by The Lyric
More or Less
by Michael
R. Burch
for Richard Moore
Less is more —
in a dress, I suppose,
and in intimate clothes
like crotchless hose.
But now Moore is less
due to death’s subtraction
and I must confess:
I hate such redaction!
The Princess and the Pauper
by Michael
R. Burch
for Norman Kraeft in memory of his beloved wife June
Here was a woman bright, intent on life,
who did not flinch from Death, but caught his eye
and drew him, powerless, into her spell
of wanting her himself, so much the lie
that she was meant for him—obscene illusion! —
made him seem a monarch throned like God on high,
when he was less than nothing; when to die
meant many stultifying, pained embraces.
She shed her gown, undid the tangled laces
that tied her to the earth: then she was his.
Now all her erstwhile beauty he defaces
and yet she grows in hallowed loveliness—
her ghost beyond perfection—for to die
was to ascend. Now he begs, penniless.
Gallant Knight
by Michael R. Burch
for Alfred Dorn and Anita Dorn
Till you rest with your beautiful Anita,
rouse yourself, Poet; rouse and write.
The world is not ready for your departure,
Gallant Knight.
Teach us to sing in the ringing cathedrals
of your Verse, as you outduel the Night.
Give us new eyes to see Love's bright Vision
robed in Light.
Teach us to pray, that the true Word may conquer,
that the slaves may be freed, the blind have Sight.
Write the word LOVE with a burning finger.
I shall recite.
O, bless us again with your chivalrous pen,
Gallant Knight!
Hangovers
by Michael R. Burch
We forget that, before we were born,
our parents had “lives” of their own,
ran drunk in the streets, or half-stoned.
Yes, our parents had lives of their own
until we were born; then, undone,
they were buying their parents gravestones
and finding gray hairs of their own
(because we were born lacking some
of their curious habits, but soon
would certainly get them). Half-stoned,
we watched them dig graves of their own.
Their lives would be over too soon
for their curious habits to bloom
in us (though our children were born
nine months from that night on the town
when, punch-drunk in the streets or half-stoned,
we first proved we had lives of our own).
"Pale Though Her Eyes" is the #4 monster poem of all time, according to
Aesthetic Poems, after "The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe, "The Vampire" by
Conrad Aiken, and "Ghost" by Cynthia Huntingon. "Pale Though Her Eyes" is also
one of the eight best vampire poems, along with my poem "Vampires" and
poems by Charles Baudelaire, Ernest Dowson and William Butler Yeats, according
to Pick Me Up Poetry.
Pale Though Her Eyes
by
Michael R. Burch
Pale though her eyes,
her lips are scarlet
from drinking of blood,
this child, this harlot
born of the night
and her heart, of darkness,
evil incarnate
to dance so reckless,
dreaming of blood,
her fangs—white—baring,
revealing her lust,
and her eyes, pale, staring …
"Thin Kin" is the #11 monster poem of all time, according to Aesthetic
Poems.
Thin Kin
by
Michael R. Burch
Skeleton!
Tell us what you lack …
the ability to love,
your flesh so slack?
Will we frighten you,
grown as pale & unsound,
when we also haunt
the
unhallowed ground?
Solicitation
by
Michael R. Burch
He comes to me out of the shadows, acknowledging
my presence with a tip of his hat, always the gentleman,
and his eyes are on mine like a snake’s on a bird’s—
quizzical, mesmerizing.
He cocks his head as though something he heard intrigues him
(although I hear nothing) and he smiles, amusing himself at my expense;
his words are full of desire and loathing, and although I hear,
he says nothing that I understand.
The moon shines—maniacal, queer—as he takes my hand and whispers
Our time has come … and so we stroll together along the docks
where the sea sends things that wriggle and crawl
scurrying under rocks and boards.
Moonlight in great floods washes his pale face as he stares unseeing
into my eyes. He sighs, and the sound crawls slithering down my spine,
and my blood seems to pause at his touch as he caresses my face.
He unfastens my dress till the white lace shows, and my neck is bared.
His teeth are long, yellow and hard. His face is bearded and haggard.
A wolf howls in the distance. There are no wolves in New York. I gasp.
My blood is a trickle his wet tongue embraces. My heart races madly.
He likes it like that.
"Solicitation" is the #13 monster poem of all time, according to Aesthetic
Poems.
please do not think worsely of wee, ur elders
by
michael r. burch
when u are older and have grown, at last,
to acquire Wisdom,
finally able to stand steadfast
against the “hisdom”
of tyrants of the past,
such as putin, jong-un and trump,
all minor speed bumps in the progress of the Universe
towards Senescence,
please do not think worsely of wee,
ur elders,
who did things u will surely disdain,
keeping in mind ur descendants
will surely regard u with similar grimacing pain!
Shadows
by Michael R. Burch
Alone again as evening falls,
I join gaunt shadows and we crawl
up and down my room's dark walls.
Up and down and up and down,
against starlight—strange, mirthless clowns—
we merge, emerge, submerge…then drown.
We drown in shadows starker still,
shadows of the looming hills,
shadows of the souls we spill,
tumbling, to the ground below.
There, caked in grimy, clinging snow,
we flutter feebly, moaning low
for days dreamed once an age ago
when we weren't shadows, but were men…
when we were men, or almost so.
This poem was written either in high school or my first two years of college
because it appeared in the 1979 issue of my college literary journal, Homespun.
I believe I wrote it at age 18. "Shadows" has five stars at PoemHunter.
Playmates
by Michael R. Burch
WHEN you were my playmate and I was yours,
we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and the sorrows and cares of our indentured days
were uncomprehended … far, far away …
for the temptations and trials we had yet to face
were lost in the shadows of an unventured maze.
Then simple pleasures were easy to find
and if they cost us a little, we didn't mind;
for even a penny in a pocket back then
was one penny too many, a penny to spend.
Then feelings were feelings and love was just love,
not a strange, complex mystery to be understood;
while "sin" and "damnation" meant little to us,
since forbidden cookies were our only lusts!
Then we never worried about what we had,
and we were both sure—what was good, what was bad.
And we sometimes quarreled, but we didn't hate;
we seldom gave thought to the uncertainties of fate.
Hell, we seldom thought about the next day,
when tomorrow seemed hidden—adventures away.
Though sometimes we dreamed of adventures past,
and wondered, at times, why things couldn't last.
Still, we never worried about getting by,
and we didn't know that we were to die …
when we spent endless hours with simple toys,
and I was your playmate, and we were boys.
This is probably the poem that "made" me, because my high
school English teacher called it "beautiful" and I took that to mean I was
surely the Second Coming of Percy Bysshe Shelley! "Playmates" is the second poem
I remember writing; I believe I was around 13 or 14 at the time. It was
originally published by The Lyric.
Attention Span Gap
by Michael R. Burch
Better not to live, than live too long:
The world prefers a brief poem, a short song.
Ars Brevis
by Michael R. Burch
Better not to live, than live too long:
this is my theme, my purpose and desire.
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.
My will to live was never all that strong.
Eternal life? Find some poor fool to hire!
Better not to live, than live too long.
Granny panties or a flosslike thong?
The latter rock, the former feed the fire.
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.
Let briefs be brief: the short can do no wrong,
since David slew Goliath, who stood higher.
Better not to live, than live too long.
A long recital gets a sudden gong.
Quick death’s preferred to drowning in the mire.
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.
A wee bikini or a long sarong?
French Riviera or some dull old Shire?
Better not to live, than live too long:
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.
The next poem is the longest and most ambitious of my early poems, started
around age 14. "Jessamyn's Song" was inspired by Claude Monet’s oil painting
"The Walk, Woman with a Parasol," which I interpreted as a walk in a meadow or
heather. The woman’s dress and captivating loveliness made me think of an
impending wedding, with dances and festivities. The boy made me think of a
family. I gave the woman a name, Jessamyn, and wrote her story, thinking along
these lines, while in high school. The opening lines were influenced by "Fern
Hill" by the Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, one of my boyhood favorites and still a
favorite today. "Jessamyn's Song" was substantially complete by around age 16,
my first long poem, although I was not happy with the longer poem, overall, and
eventually published the closing stanza as an independent poem, "Leave Taking."
I have touched up the longer poem here and there over the last half century, but
it remains substantially the same as the original poem.
Jessamyn's Song
by Michael R. Burch
16
There are meadows heathered with thoughts of you,
where the honeysuckle winds
in fragrant, tangled vines
down to the water's edge.
Through the wind-bent grass I watch time pass
slow with the dying day
on its lolling, rolling way …
And I know you’ll soon be mine.
17
There are oak trees haggard and gnarled by Time
where the shrewd squirrel makes his lair,
sleeping through winters unaware
of the white commotion below.
By the waning sun I keep watch upon
the earth as she spins—so slow!—
and I know within
they're absolved from sin
who sleep beneath the snow.
They have no sin, and we sin not
although we sleep and dream in bliss
while others rage, and charge … and die,
and all our nights’ elations miss.
For life is ours, and through our veins
it pulses with a tranquil flow,
though in others’ it may surge and froth
and carry passions to and fro.
18
By murmuring streams I sometimes dream
of whirling reels, of taut bows lancing,
when my partner’s the prettiest dancing,
and she is always you.
So let the meadows rest in peace,
and let the woodlands lie …
Life’s the pulse in your heart and in mine—
let us not let it die.
19
By the windmill we have often kissed
as your clothing slipped,
exposing pale breasts and paler hips
to the naked glory of the sun.
Yes, my darling, I do love you
with all my wicked heart.
Promise that you'll be my bride
and these lips will never part
for any other’s.
20
There are daisies plaited through the fields
that make the valleys shine
(though the darker hawthorns wind
up to the highest ledge).
As the rising sun
blinks
lazily on
the horizon’s eastern edge,
I watch the tangerine dawn
congeal to a brighter lime.
Oh, the season I love best is fall—
the trees coyly shedding their leaves, and all
creation watching, in thrall.
And you in your wedding dress, so calm,
seem less of this earth than the sky.
I expect you at any moment to
ascend through the brightening dimensionless blue
to softly go floating by—
a cloud or a pure-white butterfly.
21
There are rivers sparkling bright as spring
and others somber as the Nile,
but whether they may frown or smile,
none can match this brilliant stream
beside whose banks I lie and dream;
her waters, flowing swift, yet mild,
lull to sleep my new-born child!
22
There are mountains purple and pocked with Time,
home to goats and misfit trees …
in lofty grandeur above vexed seas
they lift their haughty heads.
When the sun explodes over tonsured domes
and bright fountains splash in youthful ruin
against strange bizarre antediluvian runes
of tales to this day untold …
I taste with my eyes the dawn's harsh gold
and breathe the frigid mountain air,
drinking deeply, wondering where
the magic days of youth have flown.
23
There are forests aged and ripe with rain
that loom at the brink of the trout's blue home.
There deer go to feast of the frothy foam,
to lap the gurgling water.
In murky shallows, swamped with slime,
the largemouth bass now sleeps,
his muddy memories dark and deep,
safe 'neath the sodden loam.
And often I have wondered
how it must feel to sleep
for timeless ages, fathoms deep
within a winter dream.
26
By the window ledge where the candle begs
the night for light to live,
the deepening darkness gives
the heart good cause to shudder.
For there are curly, tousled heads
that know one use for bed
and not any other …
“Goodnight father.”
“Goodnight mother.”
“Goodnight sister.”
“Goodnight brother.”
“Tomorrow new adventures
we surely shall discover!”
30
Brilliant leaves abandon battered limbs
to waltz upon ecstatic winds
until they die.
But the barren and embittered trees,
lament the frolic of the leaves
and curse the bleak November sky.
Now, as I watch the leaves' high flight
before the fading autumn light,
I think that, perhaps, at last I may
have learned what it means to say
goodbye.
My Epitaph
by Michael R. Burch
Do not weep for me, when I am gone.
I lived, and ate my fill, and gorged on life.
You will not find beneath this glossy stone
the man who sowed and reaped and gathered days
like flowers, undismayed they would not keep.
Go lightly then, and leave me to my sleep.
The first line of my elegy was inspired by Christina Rossetti's famous elegy.
The poems that follow are dedicated to my wife Beth, my
son Jeremy, my mother, Christine Ena Burch,
and other members of our extended family. The final poems are
dedicated to my Muse.
She Gathered Lilacs
for Beth
She gathered lilacs
and arrayed them in her hair;
tonight, she taught the wind to be free.
She kept her secrets
in a silver locket;
her companions were starlight and mystery.
She danced all night
to the beat of her heart;
with her tears she imbued the sea.
She hid her despair
in a crystal jar,
and never revealed it to me.
She kept her distance
as though it were armor;
gauntlet thorns guard her heart like the rose.
Love!—awaken, awaken
to see what you’ve taken
is still less than the due my heart owes!
Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea
Warming Her Pearls
for Beth
Warming her pearls, her breasts
gleam like constellations.
Her belly is a bit rotund …
she might have stepped out of a Rubens.
Originally published by Erosha
Are You the Thief
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?
Originally published as "Baring Pale Flesh" by Poetic License/Monumental Moments
She Spoke
for Beth
She spoke
and her words
were like a ringing echo dying
or like smoke
rising and drifting
while the earth below is spinning.
She awoke
with a cry
from a dream that had no ending,
without hope
or strength to rise,
into hopelessness descending.
And an ache
in her heart
toward that dream, retreating,
left a wake
of small waves
in circles never completing.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly
At Once
for Beth
Though she was fair,
though she sent me the epistle of her love at once
and inscribed therein love’s antique prayer,
I did not love her at once.
Though she would dare
pain’s pale, clinging shadows, to approach me at once,
the dark, haggard keeper of the lair,
I did not love her at once.
Though she would share
the all of her being, to heal me at once,
yet more than her touch I was unable bear.
I did not love her at once.
And yet she would care,
and pour out her essence …
and yet—there was more!
I awoke from long darkness,
and yet—she was there.
I loved her the longer;
I loved her the more
because I did not love her at once.
Originally published by The Lyric
Mother’s Smile
for my mother,
Christine Ena Burch, and my wife, Elizabeth Harris Burch
There never was a fonder smile
than mother’s smile, no softer touch
than mother’s touch. So sleep awhile
and know she loves you more than “much.”
So more than “much,” much more than “all.”
Though tender words, these do not speak
of love at all, nor how we fall
and mother’s there, nor how we reach
from nightmares in the ticking night
and she is there to hold us tight.
There never was a stronger back
than father’s back, that held our weight
and lifted us, when we were small,
and bore us till we reached the gate,
then held our hands that first bright mile
till we could run, and did, and flew.
But, oh, a mother’s tender smile
will leap and follow after you!
Originally published by TALESetc
Mother, I’ve made a terrible mess of things …
Is there grace in the world, as the nightingale sings?
—Michael R. Burch
The Desk
for Jeremy
There is a child I used to know
who sat, perhaps, at this same desk
where you sit now, and made a mess
of things sometimes. I wonder how
he learned at all …
He saw T-Rexes down the hall
and dreamed of trains and cars and wrecks.
He dribbled phantom basketballs,
shot spitwads at his schoolmates’ necks.
He played with pasty Elmer’s glue
(and sometimes got the glue on you!).
He earned the nickname “teacher’s PEST.”
His mother had to come to school
because he broke the golden rule.
He dreaded each and every test.
But something happened in the fall—
he grew up big and straight and tall,
and now his desk is far too small;
so you can have it.
One thing, though—
one swirling autumn, one bright snow,
one gooey tube of Elmer’s glue …
and you’ll outgrow this old desk, too.
Originally published by TALESetc
A True Story
for Jeremy
Jeremy hit the ball today,
over the fence and far away.
So very, very far away
a neighbor had to toss it back.
(She thought it was an air attack!)
Jeremy hit the ball so hard
it flew across his neighbor’s yard.
So very hard across her yard
the bat that boomed a mighty “THWACK!”
now shows an eensy-teensy crack.
Originally published by TALESetc
Sappho’s Lullaby
for Jeremy
Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys
sleep unaware of the nightingale's call
while the dew-laden lilies lie
listening,
glistening,
…
this is their night, the first night of fall.
Son, tonight, a woman awaits you;
she is more vibrant, more lovely than spring.
She'll meet you in moonlight,
soft and warm,
all alone …
then you'll know why the nightingale sings.
Just yesterday the stars were afire;
then how desire flashed through my veins!
But now I am older;
night has come,
I’m alone …
for you I will sing as the nightingale sings.
Precipice
Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
They will teach you to scoff at love
from the highest, windiest precipice of reason.
Do not believe them.
There is no place safe for you to fall
save into the arms of love.
Picturebook Princess
for Keira
We had a special visitor.
Our world became suddenly brighter.
She was such a charmer!
Such a delighter!
With her sparkly diamond slippers
and the way her whole being glows,
Keira’s a picturebook princess
from the points of her crown to the tips of her toes!
The Aery Faery Princess
for Keira
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, strands of bright hair …
I think she’s just you when you’re floating on air!
Our Sweet Ecologist
by Michael
R. Burch
Our sweet ecologist —
what will she do with the ants
and the cockroaches, bedbugs and lice
when they want to live in her pants?
These Hallowed Halls
by Michael R. Burch
a young Romantic Poet mourns the passing of an age …
I.
A final stereo fades into silence
and now there is seldom a murmur
to trouble the slumber
of these ancient halls.
I stand by a window where others have watched
the passage of time—alone,
not untouched.
And I am as they were
… unsure …
for the days
stretch out ahead,
a bewildering maze.
II.
Ah, faithless lover—
that I had never touched your breast,
nor felt the stirrings of my heart,
which until that moment had peacefully slept.
For now I have known the exhilaration
of a heart that has vaulted the Pinnacle of Love,
and the result of each such infatuation—
the long freefall to earth, as the moon glides above.
III.
A solitary clock chimes the hour
from far above the campus,
but my peers,
returning from their dances,
heed it not.
And so it is
that we fail to gauge Time’s speed
because He moves so unobtrusively
about His task.
Still, when at last
we reckon His mark upon our lives,
we may well be surprised
at His thoroughness.
IV.
Ungentle maiden—
when Time has etched His little lines
so carelessly across your brow,
perhaps I will love you less than now.
And when cruel Time has stolen
your youth, as He certainly shall in course,
perhaps you will wish you had taken me
along with my broken heart,
even as He will take you with yours.
V.
A measureless rhythm rules the night—
few have heard it,
but I have shared it,
and its secret is mine.
To put it into words
is as to extract the sweetness from honey
and must be done as gently
as a butterfly cleans its wings.
But when it is captured, it is gone again;
its usefulness is only
that it lulls to sleep.
VI.
So sleep, my love, to the cadence of night,
to the moans of the moonlit hills'
bass chorus of frogs, while the deep valleys fill
with the nightjar’s shrill, cryptic trills.
But I will not sleep this night, nor any …
how can I—when my dreams
are always of your perfect face
ringed by soft whorls of fretted lace,
framed by your perfect pillowcase?
VII.
If I had been born when knights roamed the earth
and mad kings ruled savage lands,
I might have turned to the ministry,
to the solitude of a monastery.
But there are no monks or hermits today—
theirs is a lost occupation
carried on, if at all,
merely for sake of tradition.
For today man abhors solitude—
he craves companions, song and drink,
seldom seeking a quiet moment,
to sit alone, by himself, to think.
VIII.
And so I cannot shut myself
off from the rest of the world,
to spend my days in philosophy
and my nights in tears of self-sympathy.
No, I must continue as best I can,
and learn to keep my thoughts away
from those glorious, uproarious moments of youth,
centuries past though lost but a day.
IX.
Yes, I must discipline myself
and adjust to these lackluster days
when men display no chivalry
and romance is the "old-fashioned" way.
X.
A single stereo flares into song
and the first faint light of morning
has pierced the sky's black awning
once again.
XI.
This is a sacred place,
for those who leave,
leave better than they came.
But those who stay, while they are here,
add, with their sleepless nights and tears,
quaint sprigs of ivy to the walls
of these hallowed halls.
Finally to Burn
(the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus)
by Michael R. Burch
Athena takes me
sometimes by the hand
and we go levitating
through strange Dreamlands
where Apollo sleeps
in his dark forgetting
and Passion seems
like a wise bloodletting
and all I remember
,upon awaking,
is: to Love sometimes
is like forsaking
one’s Being—to glide
heroically beyond thought,
forsaking the here
for the There and the Not.
*
O, finally to Burn,
gravity beyond escaping!
To plummet is Bliss
when the blisters breaking
rain down red scabs
on the earth’s mudpuddle …
Feathers and wax
and the watchers huddle …
Flocculent sheep,
O, and innocent lambs!,
I will rock me to sleep
on the waves’ iambs.
*
To sleep's sweet relief
from Love’s exhausting Dream,
for the Night has Wings
gentler than Moonbeams—
they will flit me to Life
like a huge-eyed Phoenix
fluttering off
to quarry the Sphinx.
*
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,
Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.
Quixotic, I seek Love
amid the tarnished
rusted-out steel
when to live is varnish.
To Dream—that’s the thing!
Aye, that Genie I’ll rub,
soak by the candle,
aflame in the tub.
*
Riddlemethis,
riddlemethat,
Rynosseross,
throw out the Welcome Mat.
Somewhither, somewhither
aglitter and strange,
we must moult off all knowledge
or perish caged.
*
I am reconciled to Life
somewhere beyond thought—
I’ll Live the Elsewhere,
I’ll Dream of the Naught.
Methinks it no journey;
to tarry’s a waste,
so fatten the oxen;
make a nice baste.
I’m coming, Fool Tom,
we have Somewhere to Go,
though we injure noone,
ourselves wildaglow.
Poetry
by Michael R. Burch
Poetry, I found you
where at last they chained and bound you;
with devices all around you
to torture and confound you,
I found you—shivering, bare.
They had shorn your raven hair
and taken both your eyes
which, once cerulean as Gogh's skies,
had leapt at dawn to wild surmise
of what was waiting there.
Your back was bent with untold care;
there savage whips had left cruel scars
as though the wounds of countless wars;
your bones were broken with the force
with which they'd lashed your flesh so fair.
You once were loveliest of all.
So many nights you held in thrall
a scrawny lad who heard your call
from where dawn’s milling showers fall—
pale meteors through sapphire air.
I learned the eagerness of youth
to temper for a lover’s touch;
I felt you, tremulant, reprove
each time I fumbled over-much.
Your merest word became my prayer.
You took me gently by the hand
and led my steps from child to man;
now I look back, remember when
you shone, and cannot understand
why now, tonight, you bear their brand.
***
I will take and cradle you in my arms,
remindful of the gentle charms
you showed me once, of yore;
and I will lead you from your cell tonight
back into that incandescent light
which flows out of the core
of a sun whose robes you wore.
And I will wash your feet with tears
for all those blissful years …
my love, whom I adore.
Originally published by The Lyric
NOTE: I consider "Poetry" to be my Ars Poetica along with "In the
Whispering Night," "Finally to Burn" and "These
Hallowed Halls."
Viral Poems with Google results/viewable pages: "First
They Came for the Muslims" (823K/287), "Epitaph"
(92K/317), "Bible Libel" (78K/199), Einstein "Hazy/Crazy" epigram (34K/271),
"Elegy for a little girl, lost" (21K/315), Sappho "Your lips were made to mock"
translation (20K/135), "Survivors" (12.1K/75), Sappho "Eros harrows my heart" translation (3.6K/319),
"The Harvest of Roses" (3.6K), Bertolt Brecht "The
Burning of the Books" translation (1.5K/285), "In the
Whispering Night" (1.6K), "Something"
(1.5K/323), "The Greatest of These" (1.5K), "Frail Envelope of Flesh" (1.4K/311),
"Safe Harbor" (1.4K/304), "Piercing the Shell (1.4K), Robert Burns "To a Mouse" translation (1.4K/270),
"Mother's Smile" (1.3K/312), "Autumn Conundrum" (1.2K/322), "Haunted" (1.2K),
"How Long the Night" translation (1.2K/322), "I Pray Tonight" (1.1K), Yamaguchi
Seishi "Where Does the Butterfly Go?" (1.3K), "Grasses wilt" translation
(1.1K/200), Glaucus "Does my soul abide" translation
(1K/189), William
Dunbar "Sweet Rose of Virtue" translation (731/232), Sappho "That enticing
girl's clinging dresses" translation (685/90), Plato "A kinder sea" translation
(647/267), "Child of 9-11 (645/145), "Like Angels, Winged" (585/191), "Saving
Graces" (568/244), "Einstein the frizzy-haired" limerick (549/145), "Neglect"
(540/114), "How Long the Night" translation (529/227), Basho "Awed jonquil"
translation (495/176), "Auschwitz Rose"
(435/156), Matsuo Basho "Kiri tree" haiku translation (413/180), Takaha Shugyo
"Fallen camellias" translation (363/147), Matsuo Basho "Frog leaps" haiku
translation (346/183), "escape!" (336/192), Fukuda Chiyo-ni "Ah butterfly"
translation (292/136), "Pale Though Her Eyes" (276/117), Vera Pavlova
"Shattered" translation (253/103), Sappho "She keeps her scents" translation
(233/62), Miklos Radnoti "Postcard 4" translation (232/101), O no Yasumaro
"Plumegrass wilts" translation (206/123), "Ali's Song" (191/112), "Nun Fun Undone" (169/95),
Ko Un "Speechless" translation (149/79)
NOTE: Google results fluctuate and the figures above are merely "snapshots"
taken at random times. The second figure is the number of individual pages that
could be accessed and viewed directly via Google at the time of the search.
Michael R. Burch Related Pages:
Viral Poems,
Light Verse,
Children's Poems,
Doggerel,
Early Poems,
Epigrams and Quotes,
Epitaphs,
Erotic Poems,
Family Poems,
Free Verse,
Prose Poems,
Experimental Poems,
Haiku,
Limericks,
Less
Heroic Couplets,
Love Poems,
Nature and Animal Poems,
Parodies,
Satires,
Rejection Slips,
Romantic Poems,
Poems about EROS and CUPID,
Song Lyrics,
Sonnets,
Time and Death,
Villanelles,
Critical Writings,
Literary Criticism,
Poetry by Michael R. Burch,
Auschwitz Rose Preview,
Did Lord Bryon inspire the novel Frankenstein by Mary Shelley?,
Ancient Egyptian Harper's Songs
You can find Burch's self-analysis of his poems here: "Auschwitz Rose" Analysis,
"Epitaph" Analysis,
"Something" Analysis,
"Will There Be Starlight" Analysis,
"Davenport Tomorrow" Analysis,
"Neglect" Analysis,
"Passionate One" Analysis,
"Self Reflection" Analysis,
Understatement Examples from Shakespeare and Elsewhere
Michael R. Burch poems about:
Icarus,
Ireland,
Time, Aging, Loss and Death
The HyperTexts
