Hushed yet melodic, the hills and the valleys sleep unaware of the nightingale's call while the pale calla 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.
NOTE: The calla lily symbolizes beauty, purity, innocence, faithfulness and true devotion. According to Greek mythology, when the Milky Way was formed by the goddess Hera’s breast milk, the drops that fell to earth became calla lilies.
for Jeremy (written from his mother’s perspective)
Oh, let me sing you a lullaby of a love that shall come to you by and by.
Oh, let me sing you a lullaby of a love that shall come to you by and by.
Oh, my dear son, how you’re growing up! You’re taller than me, now I’m looking up! You’re a long tall drink and I’m half a cup! And so let me sing you this lullaby.
Oh, my sweet son, as I watch you grow, there are so many things that I want you to know. Most importantly this: that I love you so. And so let me sing you this lullaby.
Soon a tender bud will thrust forth and grow after the winter’s long virgin snow; and because there are things that you have to know ... Oh, let me sing you this lullaby.
Soon, in a green garden a new rose will bloom and fill all the world with its wild perfume. And though it’s hard for me, I must give it room. And so let me sing you this lullaby.
The hardest thing in this life is letting go of the ones we love the most. These are poems I wrote for my angel, my mother, Christine Ena Burch.
Final Lullaby by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
Sleep peacefully, for now your suffering’s over.
Sleep peacefully, immune to all distress, like pebbles unaware of raging waves.
Sleep peacefully, like fields of fragrant clover unmoved by any motion of the wind.
Sleep peacefully, like clouds untouched by earthquakes.
Sleep peacefully, like stars that never blink and have no thoughts at all, nor need to think.
Sleep peacefully, in your eternal vault, immaculate, past perfect, without fault.
Amen
Elegy for a little girl, lost by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena 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, around age 16 or 17, and chose to incorporate into a poem. 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 Vulgate Latin Bible (circa 385 AD).
I Pray Tonight by Michael R. Burch
for everyone
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 the morrow an end to your sorrow. May angels' white chorales sing, and astound you.
Arisen by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
Mother, I love you! Mother, delightful, articulate, insightful!
Angels in training, watching, would hover, learning to love from the Master: a Mother.
You learned all there was for this planet to teach, then extended your wings to Love’s ultimate reach ...
And now you have soared beyond eagles and condors into distant elevations only Phoenixes can conquer.
Love has a gentle grace; you have not seen her unless you’ve looked into your mother’s eyes and seen her faith ―serene, composed and wise― that you’re the center of her very being (as once, indeed, she carried you inside.)
Love has no wilder beauty than the thought that you’re the best of all she ever sought.
(And if, perhaps, you don’t believe my song, can your mother be wrong?)
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.
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!
All that’s left of Ireland is her hair― bright carrot―and her milkmaid-pallid skin, her brilliant air of cavalier despair, her train of children―some conceived in sin, the others to avoid it. For nowhere is evidence of thought. Devout, pale, thin, gay, nonchalant, all radiance. So fair!
How can men look upon her and not spin like wobbly buoys churned by her skirt’s brisk air? They buy. They grope to pat her nyloned shin, to share her elevated, pale Despair ... to find at last two spirits ease no one’s. All that’s left of Ireland is the Care, her impish grin, green eyes like leprechauns’.
Deliver Us ... by Michael R. Burch
The night is dark and scary― under your bed, or upon it.
That blazing light might be a star ... or maybe the Final Comet.
But two things are sure: your mother’s love and your puppy’s kisses, doggonit!
Love’s Extreme Unction by Michael R. Burch
Lines composed during Jeremy’s first Nashville Christian football game (he played tuba), while I watched Beth watch him.
Within the intimate chapels of her eyes― devotions, meditations, reverence. I find in them Love’s very residence and hearing the ardent rapture of her sighs I prophesy beatitudes to come, when Love like hers commands us, “All be One!”
don’t forget ... by Michael R. Burch
for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
don’t forget to remember that Space is curved (like your Heart) and that even Light is bent by your Gravity.
Our English Rose by Michael R. Burch for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
The rose is― the ornament of the earth, the glory of nature, the archetype of the flowers, the blush of the meadows, a lightning flash of beauty.
The poem above is my translation of a Sappho epigram.
Delicacy by Michael R. Burch for all good mothers Your love is as delicate as a butterfly cleaning its wings, as soft as the predicate the hummingbird sings to itself, gently murmuring―“Fly! Fly! Fly!” Your love is the string soaring kites untie.
Dawn by Michael R. Burch
for Beth, Laura and all good mothers
Bring your peculiar strength to the strange nightmarish fray: wrap up your cherished ones in the golden light of day.
Amen
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.
Such Tenderness by Michael R. Burch
for loving, compassionate, courageous mothers everywhere
There was, in your touch, such tenderness, as only the dove on her mildest day has, when she shelters downed fledglings beneath a warm wing and coos to them softly, unable to sing.
What songs long forgotten occur to you now― a babe at each breast? What terrible vow ripped from your throat like the thunder that day can never hold severing lightnings at bay?
Time taught you tenderness―time, oh, and love. But love in the end is seldom enough ... and time?―insufficient to life’s brief task. I can only admire, unable to ask― what is the source, whence comes the desire of a woman to love as no God may require?
Childless by Michael R. Burch How can she bear her grief? Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight Of one fallen star.
I Cannot Remember My Mother by Rabindranath Tagore loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I cannot remember my mother, yet sometimes in the middle of my playing a melody seemed to hover over my playthings: some forgotten tune she loved to sing while rocking my cradle.
I cannot remember my mother, yet sometimes on an early autumn morning the smell of the shiuli flowers fills my room as the scent of the temple’s morning service wafts over me like my mother’s perfume.
I cannot remember my mother, yet sometimes still, from my bedroom window, when I lift my eyes to the heavens’ vast blue canopy and sense on my face her serene gaze, I feel her grace has encompassed the sky.
Frail Envelope of Flesh by Michael R. Burch
for the mothers and children of the Holocaust and Gaza
Frail envelope of flesh, lying cold on the surgeon’s table with anguished eyes like your mother’s eyes and a heartbeat weak, unstable ...
Frail crucible of dust, brief flower come to this― your tiny hand in your mother’s hand for a last bewildered kiss ...
Brief mayfly of a child, to live two artless years! Now your mother’s lips seal up your lips from the Deluge of her tears ...
The Greatest of These ... by Michael R. Burch
for my mother Christine Ena Burch
The hands that held me tremble. The arms that lifted fall.
Angelic flesh, now parchment, is held together with gauze.
But her undimmed eyes still embrace me; there infinity can be found.
I can almost believe such love will reach me, underground.
SAPPHO'S POEMS FOR ATTIS AND ANACTORIA
Most of Sappho's poems are fragments but the first poem below, variously titled "The Anactoria Poem, " "Helen's Eidolon" and "Some People Say" is largely intact. Was Sappho the author of the world's first 'make love, not war' poem?
Some People Say Sappho, fragment 16 (Lobel-Page 16 / Voigt 16) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Warriors on rearing chargers, columns of infantry, fleets of warships: some call these the dark earth's redeeming visions. But I say�" the one I desire.
Nor am I unique, since she who so vastly surpassed all mortals in beauty �"Helen�" seduced by Aphrodite, led astray by desire, departed for distant Troy, abandoned her celebrated husband, turned her back on her parents and child!
Her story reminds me of Anactoria, who has also departed, and whose lively dancing and lovely face I would rather see than all the horsemen and war-chariots of the Lydians, or their columns of infantry parading in flashing armor.
Ode to Anactoria or Ode to Attis Sappho, fragment 94 (Lobel-Page 94 / Voigt 94) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
So my Attis has not returned and thus, let the truth be said, I wish I were dead...
'Honestly, I just want to die! ' Attis sighed, shedding heartfelt tears, inconsolably sad when she left me.
'How deeply we have loved, we two, Sappho! Oh, I really don't want to go! '
I answered her tenderly, 'Go as you must and be happy, trust- ing your remembrance of me, for you know how much I loved you.
And if you begin to forget, please try to recall all the heavenly emotions we felt as with many wreathes of violets, roses and crocuses you sat beside me adorning your delicate neck.
Once garlands had been fashioned of many woven flowers, with much expensive myrrh we anointed our bodies like royalty on soft couches, then my tender caresses fulfilled your desire...'
Unfortunately, fragment 94 has several gaps and I have tried to imagine what Sappho might have been saying.
The following are Sappho's poems for Attis or Atthis...
Sappho, fragment 49 (Lobel-Page 49 / Voigt 49) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1. I loved you, Attis, long ago... even when you seemed a graceless child.
2. I fell in love with you, Attis, long ago... You seemed immature to me then, and not all that graceful.
(Source: Hephaestion, Plutarch and others.)
Sappho, fragment 131 (Lobel-Page 131 / Voigt 130) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You reject me, Attis, as if you find me distasteful, flitting off to Andrómeda...
Sappho, fragment 96 (Lobel-Page 96.1-22 / Voigt 96 / Diehl 98) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Attis, our beloved, dwells in distant Sardis, but her thoughts often return here, to our island, and how we honored her like a goddess, and how she loved to hear us singing her praises. Now she surpasses all Sardinian women, as, after sunset the rosy-fingered moon outshines the surrounding stars, illuminating salt seas and meadows alike. Thus the dew sparkles, the rose revives, and the tender chervil and sweetclover blossom. Now oftentimes when our beloved goes wandering abroad, she is reminded of our gentle Attis; then her heart assaults her tender breast with its painful pangs and she cries aloud for us to console her. Truly, we understand all too well the distress she feels, because Night, the many-eared, calls to us from across the dividing sea. But to go there is not easy, nor to rival a goddess in her loveliness.
Ode to Anactoria Sappho, fragment 31 (Lobel-Page 31 / Voigt 31) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
How can I compete with that damned man who fancies himself one of the gods, impressing you with his 'eloquence' … when just the thought of sitting in your radiant presence, of hearing your lovely voice and lively laughter, sets my heart hammering at my breast? Hell, when I catch just a quick glimpse of you, I'm left speechless, tongue-tied, and immediately a blush like a delicate flame reddens my skin. Then my vision dims with tears, my ears ring, I sweat profusely, and every muscle in my body trembles. When the blood finally settles, I grow paler than summer grass, till in my exhausted madness, I'm as limp as the dead. And yet I must risk all, being bereft without you...
Ode to Anactoria Sappho, fragment 31 (Lobel-Page 31 / Voigt 31) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
To me that boy seems blessed by the gods because he sits beside you, basking in your brilliant presence. My heart races at the sound of your voice! Your laughter? ―bright water, dislodging pebbles in a chaotic vortex. I can't catch my breath! My heart bucks in my ribs. I can't breathe. I can't speak. My breasts glow with intense heat; desire's blush-inducing fires redden my flesh. My ears seem hollow; they ring emptily. My tongue is broken and cleaves to its roof. I sweat profusely. I shiver. Suddenly, I grow pale and feel only a second short of dying. And yet I must endure, somehow, despite my poverty.
The following poems by Sappho may have been addressed to Attis or Anactoria, or written with them in mind…
Sappho, fragment 22 (Lobel-Page 22 / Diehl 33,36) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
That enticing girl's clinging dresses leave me trembling, overcome by happiness, as once, when I saw the Goddess in my prayers eclipsing Cyprus.
Sappho, fragment 34 (Lobel-Page 34 / Voigt 34) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Awed by the Moon's splendor, the stars covered their undistinguished faces. Even so, we.
Sappho, fragment 39 loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
We're merely mortal women, it's true; the Goddesses have no rivals but You.
Sappho, fragment 5 loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
We're eclipsed here by your presence�" you outshine all the ladies of Lydia as the bright-haloed moon outsplendors the stars.
I suspect the fragment above is about Anactoria, since Sappho associates Anactoria with Lydia in fragment 16.
Sappho, fragment 2 (Lobel-Page 2.1A) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Leaving your heavenly summit, I submit to the mountain, then plummet.
Sappho associates her lovers with higher elevations: the moon, stars, mountain peaks.
Sappho, fragment 130 loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
May the gods prolong the night �"yes, let it last forever! �" as long as you sleep in my sight.
Sappho, fragment 102 (Lobel-Page 102 / Voigt 102) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Mother, how can I weave, so overwhelmed by love?
Sappho, fragment 147 (Lobel-Page 147 / Cox 30) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Someone, somewhere will remember us, I swear!
'From Dio Chrysostom, who, writing about A.D.100, remarks that this is said 'with perfect beauty.''―Edwin Marion Cox
Sappho, fragment 10 loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I lust! I crave! F**k me!
Sappho, fragment 11 (Cox 109) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
You inflame me!
Sappho, fragment 36 (Lobel-Page 36 / Cox 24 & 25) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1. I yearn for―I burn for―the one I miss!
2. While you learn, I burn.
3. While you discern your will, I burn still.
According to Edwin Marion Cox, this fragment is from the Etymologicum Magnum.
Sappho, fragment 155 loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A short revealing frock? It's just my luck your lips were made to mock!
Pollux wrote: 'Sappho used the word beudos for a woman's dress, a kimbericon, a kind of short transparent frock.'
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.
Phrynichus wrote: 'Sappho calls a woman's dressing-case, where she keeps her scents and such things, grute.'
Sappho, fragment 47 (Lobel-Page 47 / Voigt 47) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Eros harrows my heart: wild winds whipping desolate mountains, uprooting oaks.
The poem above is my favorite Sappho epigram. The metaphor of Eros (sexual desire) harrowing mountain slopes, leveling oaks and leaving them desolate, is really something―truly powerful and evocative. According to Edwin Marion Cox, this Sapphic epigram was 'Quoted by Maximus Tyrius about 150 B.C. He speaks of Socrates exciting Phaedus to madness, when he speaks of love.'
Sappho, fragment 130 (Lobel-Page 130 / Voigt 130) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Eros, the limb-shatterer, rattles me, an irresistible constrictor.
Sappho, unnumbered fragment loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
What cannot be swept aside must be wept.
Sappho, fragment 138 (Lobel-Page 138) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
1. Darling, let me see your face; unleash your eyes' grace.
2. Turn to me, favor me with your eyes' indulgence.
3. Look me in the face, smile, reveal your eyes' grace...
4. Turn to me, favor me with your eyes' acceptance.
5. Darling, let me see your smiling face; favor me again with your eyes' grace.
Sappho, fragment 38 (Incertum 25, Cox 36) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I flutter after you like a chick after its mother...
From the 'Etymologicum Magnum' according to Edwin Marion Cox.
In the following poem Sappho asks Aphrodite to "persuade" someone to fall in love with her. The poem strikes me as a sort of love charm or enchantment…
Hymn to Aphrodite (Lobel-Page 1) by Sappho loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Immortal Aphrodite, throned in splendor! Wile-weaving daughter of Zeus, enchantress and beguiler! I implore you, dread mistress, discipline me no longer with such vigor!
But come to me once again in kindness, heeding my prayers, as you did so graciously before; O, come Divine One, descend once more from heaven's golden dominions!
Then with your chariot yoked to love's white consecrated doves, their multitudinous pinions aflutter, you came gliding from heaven's shining heights, to this dark gutter.
Swiftly they came and vanished, leaving you, O my Goddess, smiling, your face eternally beautiful, asking me what unfathomable longing compelled me to cry out.
Asking me what I sought in my bewildered desire. Asking, 'Who has harmed you, why are you so alarmed, my poor Sappho? Whom should Persuasion summon here? '
'Although today she flees love, soon she will pursue you; spurning love's gifts, soon she shall give them; tomorrow she will woo you, however unwillingly! '
Come to me now, O most Holy Aphrodite! Free me now from my heavy heartache and anguish! Graciously grant me all I request! Be once again my ally and protector!
'Hymn to Aphrodite' is the only poem by Sappho of Lesbos to survive in its entirety. The poem survived intact because it was quoted in full by Dionysus, a Roman orator, in his 'On Literary Composition, ' published around 30 B.C. A number of Sappho's poems mention or are addressed to Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love. It is believed that Sappho may have belonged to a cult that worshiped Aphrodite with songs and poetry. If so, 'Hymn to Aphrodite' may have been composed for performance within the cult. However, we have few verifiable details about the 'real' Sappho, and much conjecture based on fragments of her poetry and what other people said about her, in many cases centuries after her death. We do know, however, that she was held in very high regard. For instance, when Sappho visited Syracuse the residents were so honored they erected a statue to commemorate the occasion! During Sappho's lifetime, coins of Lesbos were minted with her image. Furthermore, Sappho was called 'the Tenth Muse' and the other nine were goddesses. Here is another translation of the same poem...
Hymn to Aphrodite by Sappho loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Rainbow-appareled, immortal-throned Aphrodite, daughter of Zeus, wile-weaver, I beseech you: Hail! Spare me your reproaches and chastisements. Do not punish, dire Lady, my penitent soul! But come now, descend, favor me with your presence. Please hear my voice now beseeching, however unclear or afar, your own dear voice, which is Olympus's essence �" golden, wherever you are... Begging you to harness your sun-chariot's chargers �" those swift doves now winging you above the black earth, till their white pinions whirring bring you down to me from heaven through earth's middle air... Suddenly they arrived, and you, O my Blessed One, smiling with your immortal countenance, asked what hurt me, and for what reason I cried out... And what did I want to happen most in my crazed heart? 'Whom then shall Persuasion bring to you, my dearest? Who, Sappho, hurts you? " "For if she flees, soon will she follow; and if she does not accept gifts, soon she will give them; and if she does not love, soon she will love despite herself! ' Come to me now, relieve my harsh worries, free me heart from its anguish, and once again be my battle-ally!
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