This World's JoyA Poem by Michael R. BurchThis World's Joy Winter awakens all my care Elegy for a little girl, lost . . . qui laetificat juventutem meam . . .
How Long the Night
Fowles in the Frith anonymous Middle English lyric
Sounds like an early animal rights activist! The use of "and" is intriguing ... is the poet saying that his walks in the wood drive him mad because he is also a "beast of bone and blood," facing a similar fate? I am of Ireland
Whan the turuf is thy tour
anonymous Middle English lyric
Ich have y-don al myn youth
Wulf and Eadwacer (ancient Anglo-Saxon poem) My clan’s curs pursue him like crippled game; Wulf's on one island; we’re on another. My hopes pursued Wulf like panting hounds, Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you Now skruketh rose and lylie flour (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 11th century AD) loose translation by Michael R. Burch Now the rose and the lily skyward flower, That will bear for awhile that sweet savor: In summer, that sweet tide; There is no queen so stark in her power Nor any lady so bright in her bower That dead shall not summon and guide; But whoever forgoes lust, in heavenly bliss will abide With his thoughts on Jesus anon, thralled at his side. A Proverb from Winfred's Time anonymous Old English poem, circa 757-786 loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 1. The procrastinator puts off purpose, never initiates anything marvelous, never succeeds, and dies alone. 2. The late-deed-doer delays glory-striving, never indulges daring dreams, never succeeds, and dies alone. 3. Often the deed-dodger avoids ventures, never succeeds, and dies alone. Winfrid or Wynfrith is better known as Saint Boniface. He lived circa 675-754. This may be the second-oldest English poem, after 'Caedmon's Hymn.' Franks Casket Runes anonymous Old English poems, circa 700 loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch 1. The fish flooded the shore-cliffs; the sea-king wept when he swam onto the shingle: whale's bone. 2. Romulus and Remus, twin brothers weaned in Rome by a she-wolf, far from their native land. Led By Christ and Mary by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led that the earth never felt my bare foot's tread! In the next poem, Godric puns on his name: godes riche means 'God's kingdom' and sounds like 'God is rich'... A Cry to Mary by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I. Saintë Marië Virginë, Mother of Jesus Christ the Nazarenë, Welcome, shield and help thin Godric, Fly him off to God's kingdom rich! II. Saintë Marië, Christ's bower, Virgin among Maidens, Motherhood's flower, Blot out my sin, fix where I'm flawed, Elevate me to Bliss with God! Prayer to St. Nicholas by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Saint Nicholas, beloved of God, Build us a house that's bright and fair; Watch over us from birth to bier, Then, Saint Nicholas, bring us safely there! 'The Leiden Riddle' is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle 'Lorica' or 'Corselet.' The Leiden Riddle anonymous Old English riddle poem, circa 700 loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb. I know I was not fashioned from woolen fleeces; nor was I skillfully spun from skeins; I have neither warp nor weft; no thread thrums through me in the thrashing loom; nor do whirring shuttles rattle me; nor does the weaver's rod assail me; nor did silkworms spin me like skillfull fates into curious golden embroidery. And yet heroes still call me an excellent coat. Nor do I fear the dread arrows' flights, however eagerly they leap from their quivers. Solution: a coat of mail. He sits with his harp at his thane's feet, Earning his hire, his rewards of rings, Sweeping the strings with his skillful nail; Hall-thanes smile at the sweet song he sings. ―'Fortunes of Men' loose translation by Michael R. Burch Fairest Between Lincoln and Lindsey (anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When the nightingale sings, the woods turn green; Leaf and grass again blossom in April, I know, Yet love pierces my heart with its spear so keen! Night and day it drinks my blood. The painful rivulets flow. I've loved all this year. Now I can love no more; I've sighed many a sigh, sweetheart, and yet all seems wrong. For love is no nearer and that leaves me poor. Sweet lover, think of me―I've loved you so long! A cleric courts his lady (anonymous Middle English poem, circa late 13th century) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch My death I love, my life I hate, because of a lovely lady; She's as bright as the broad daylight, and shines on me so purely. I fade before her like a leaf in summer when it's green. If thinking of her does no good, to whom shall I complain? The Rhymed Poem / The Rhyming Poem / The Riming Poem anonymous Old English poem circa 990 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch He who granted me life created this sun and graciously provided its radiant engine. I was gladdened with glees, bathed in bright hues, deluged with joy's blossoms, sunshine-infused. Men admired me, feted me with banquet-courses; we rejoiced in the good life. Gaily bedecked horses carried me swiftly across plains on joyful rides, delighting me with their long limbs' thunderous strides. That world was quickened by earth's fruits and their flavors! I cantered under pleasant skies, attended by troops of advisers. Guests came and went, amusing me with their chatter as I listened with delight to their witty palaver. Well-appointed ships glided by in the distance; when I sailed myself, I was never without guidance. I was of the highest rank; I lacked for nothing in the hall; nor did I lack for brave companions; warriors, all, we strode through castle halls weighed down with gold won from our service to thanes. We were proud men, and bold. Wise men praised me; I was omnipotent in battle; Fate smiled on and protected me; foes fled before me like cattle. Thus I lived with joy indwelling; faithful retainers surrounded me; I possessed vast estates; I commanded all my eyes could see; the earth lay subdued before me; I sat on a princely throne; the words I sang were charmed; old friendships did not wane... Those were years rich in gifts and the sounds of happy harp-strings, when a lasting peace dammed shut the rivers' sorrowings. My servants were keen, their harps resonant; their songs pealed, the sound loud but pleasant; the music they made melodious, a continual delight; the castle hall trembled and towered bright. Courage increased, wealth waxed with my talent; I gave wise counsel to great lords and enriched the valiant. My spirit enlarged; my heart rejoiced; good faith flourished; glory abounded; abundance increased. I was lavishly supplied with gold; bright gems were circulated... Till treasure led to treachery and the bonds of friendship constricted. I was bold in my bright array, noble in my equipage, my joy princely, my home a happy hermitage. I protected and led my people; for many years my life among them was regal; I was devoted to them and they to me. But now my heart is troubled, fearful of the fates I see; disaster seems unavoidable. Someone dear departs in flight by night who once before was bold. His soul has lost its light. A secret disease in full growth blooms within his breast, spreads in different directions. Hostility blossoms in his chest, in his mind. Bottomless grief assaults the mind's nature and when penned in, erupts in rupture, burns eagerly for calamity, runs bitterly about. The weary man suffers, begins a journey into doubt; his pain is ceaseless; pain increases his sorrows, destroys his bliss; his glory ceases; he loses his happiness; he loses his craft; he no longer burns with desires. Thus joys here perish, lordships expire; men lose faith and descend into vice; infirm faith degenerates into evil's curse; faith feebly abandons its high seat and every hour grows worse. So now the world changes; Fate leaves men lame; Death pursues hatred and brings men to shame. The happy clan perishes; the spear rends the marrow; the evildoer brawls and poisons the arrow; sorrow devours the city; old age castrates courage; misery flourishes; wrath desecrates the peerage; the abyss of sin widens; the treacherous path snakes; resentment burrows, digs in, wrinkles, engraves; artificial beauty grows foul; the summer heat cools; earthly wealth fails; enmity rages, cruel, bold; the might of the world ages, courage grows cold. Fate wove itself for me and my sentence was given: that I should dig a grave and seek that grim cavern men cannot avoid when death comes, arrow-swift, to seize their lives in his inevitable grasp. Now night comes at last, and the way stand clear for Death to dispossesses me of my my abode here. When my corpse lies interred and the worms eat my limbs, whom will Death delight then, with his dark feast and hymns? Let men's bones become one, and then finally, none, till there's nothing left here of the evil ones. But men of good faith will not be destroyed; the good man will rise, far beyond the Void, who chastened himself, more often than not, to avoid bitter sins and that final black Blot. The good man has hope of a far better end and remembers the promise of Heaven, where he'll experience the mercies of God for his saints, freed from all sins, dark and depraved, defended from vices, gloriously saved, where, happy at last before their cheerful Lord, men may rejoice in his love forevermore. The Wife's Lament loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I draw these dark words from deep wells of wild grief, dredged up from my heart, regretful & sad. I recount wrenching seizures I've suffered since birth, both ancient and recent, that drove me mad. I have reaped, from my exile-paths, only pain here on earth. First, my Lord forsook his kinfolk―left, crossed the seas' shining expanse, deserted our tribe. Since then, I've known only loneliness: wrenching dawn-griefs, despair in wild tides ... Where, oh where can he be? Then I, too, left―a lonely, lordless refugee, full of unaccountable desires! But the man's kinsmen schemed to estrange us, divide us, keep us apart. Divorced from hope, unable to embrace him, how my helpless heart broke! ... Then my Lord spoke: "Take up residence here." I had few acquaintances in this alien land, none close. I was penniless, friendless; Christ, I felt lost! Eventually I believed I'd met a well-matched man―one meant for me, but unfortunately he was ill-starred, unkind, with a devious mind, full of malicious intentions, plotting some crime! Before God we vowed never to part, not till kingdom come, never! But now that's all changed, forever― our marriage is done, severed. Thus now I must hear, far and near, early and late, contempt for my mate. Then naysayers bade me, "Go, seek repentance in the sacred grove, beneath the great oak trees, in some root-entangled grotto, alone." Now in this ancient earth-hall I huddle, hurt and oppressed― the dales are dark, the hills wild & immense, and this cruel-briared enclosure―a hellish abode! How the injustice assails me―my Lord's absence! Elsewhere on earth lovers share the same bed while I pass through life, half dead, in this dark abscess where I wilt with the heat, unable to rest or forget the tribulations of my life's hard lot. A young woman must always be stern, hard-of-heart, unmoved, full of belief, enduring breast-cares, suppressing her own feelings. She must always appear cheerful, even in a tumult of grief. Now, like a criminal exiled to a distant land, groaning beneath insurmountable cliffs, my weary-minded lover, drenched by wild storms and caught in the clutches of anguish, moans and mourns, reminded constantly of our former happiness. Woe be it to them who abide in longing! 'The Husband's Message' is an Old English (Anglo-Saxon) poem from the Exeter Book, the oldest extant English poetry anthology. The poem may or may not be a reply to 'The Wife's Lament, ' another poem in the same collection. The poem is generally considered to be an Anglo-Saxon riddle (I will provide the solution) , but its primary focus is persuading a wife or fiancé to join her husband or betrothed and fulfill her promises to him. The Exeter Book has been dated to 960-990 AD, so the poem was written by then or earlier. The version below is my modern English translation of one of the oldest extant English poems. The Husband's Message anonymous Old English poem, circa 960-990 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch See, I unseal myself for your eyes only! I sprang from a seed to a sapling, waxed great in a wood, was given knowledge, was ordered across saltstreams in ships where I stiffened my spine, standing tall, till, entering the halls of heroes, I honored my manly Lord. Now I stand here on this ship's deck, an emissary ordered to inform you of the love my Lord feels for you. I have no fear forecasting his heart steadfast, his honor bright, his word true. He who bade me come carved this letter and entreats you to recall, clad in your finery, what you promised each other many years before, mindful of his treasure-laden promises. He reminds you how, in those distant days, witty words were pledged by you both in the mead-halls and homesteads: how he would be Lord of the lands you would inhabit together while forging a lasting love. Alas, a vendetta drove him far from his feuding tribe, but now he instructs me to gladly give you notice that when you hear the returning cuckoo's cry cascading down warming coastal cliffs, come over the sea! Let no man hinder your course. He earnestly urges you: Out! To sea! Away to the sea, when the circling gulls hover over the ship that conveys you to him! Board the ship that you meet there: sail away seaward to seek your husband, over the seagulls' range, over the paths of foam. For over the water, he awaits you. He cannot conceive, he told me, how any keener joy could comfort his heart, nor any greater happiness gladden his soul, than that a generous God should grant you both to exchange rings, then give gifts to trusty liege-men, golden armbands inlaid with gems to faithful followers. The lands are his, his estates among strangers, his new abode fair and his followers true, all hardy heroes, since hence he was driven, shoved off in his ship from these shore in distress, steered straightway over the saltstreams, sped over the ocean, a wave-tossed wanderer winging away. But now the man has overcome his woes, outpitted his perils, lives in plenty, lacks no luxury, has a hoard and horses and friends in the mead-halls. All the wealth of the earth's great earls now belongs to my Lord... He only lacks you. He would have everything within an earl's having, if only my Lady will come home to him now, if only she will do as she swore and honor her vow. Through the fields of solitude Peacefully, I rest in the tall green grass And the lovely white clouds floating across I Sing of a Maiden
Rondel: Merciles Beaute ("Merciless Beauty") by Geoffrey Chaucer Your eyes slay me suddenly; Unless your words heal me hastily, By all truth, I tell you faithfully Rondel: Rejection Your beauty from your heart has so erased I'm guiltless, yet my sentence has been cast. Alas, that Nature in your face compassed Rondel: Escape Since I’m escaped from Love and yet still fat, He may question me and counter this and that; Love strikes me from his roster, short and flat, Rondel: Your Smiling Mouth Your smiling mouth and laughing eyes, bright gray, It is my fetish when you’re far away So would I beg you, if I only may, Oft in My Thought So often in my busy mind I sought, For me to keep my manner and my thought Now earthly profits fail, since all is lost When I praise her, or hear her praises raised, Wulf and Eadwacer anonymous Anglo-Saxon poem, circa 960 AD loose translation by Michael R. Burch My clan's curs pursue him like crippled game. They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack. It is otherwise with us. Wulf's on one island; we're on another. His island's a fortress fastened by fens. Here, bloodthirsty curs howl for carnage. They'll rip him apart if he approaches their pack. It is otherwise with us. My thoughts pursued Wulf like panting hounds. Whenever it rained, while I wept, the boldest cur grasped me in its paws. Good feelings for him, but for me, loathsome! Wulf, O, my Wulf, my ache for you has made me sick; your seldom-comings have left me famished, deprived of real meat! Do you hear, Eadwacer? Watchdog! A wolf has borne our wretched whelp to the woods. One can easily sever what never was one: our song together. Originally published by Measure Keywords/Tags: Old English, translation, wolf, nature, human nature, human condition, game, games, island, wood, woods Deor's Lament Old English/Anglo-Saxon poem circa the 10th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Weland endured the agony of exile: an indomitable smith wracked by grief. He suffered countless sorrows; indeed, such sorrows were his bosom companions in that frozen island dungeon where Nithad fettered him: so many strong-but-supple sinew-bands binding the better man. That passed away; this also may. Beadohild mourned her brothers' deaths, bemoaning also her own sad state once she discovered herself with child. She knew nothing good could ever come of it. That passed away; this also may. We have heard the Geat's moans for Matilda, his lovely lady, waxed limitless, that his sorrowful love for her robbed him of regretless sleep. That passed away; this also may. For thirty winters Theodric ruled the Mæring stronghold with an iron hand; many acknowledged his mastery and moaned. That passed away; this also may. We have heard too of Ermanaric's wolfish ways, of how he cruelly ruled the Goths' realms. That was a grim king! Many a warrior sat, full of cares and maladies of the mind, wishing constantly that his crown might be overthrown. That passed away; this also may. If a man sits long enough, sorrowful and anxious, bereft of joy, his mind constantly darkening, soon it seems to him that his troubles are limitless. Then he must consider that the wise Lord often moves through the earth granting some men honor, glory and fame, but others only shame and hardship. This I can say for myself: that for awhile I was the Heodeninga's scop, dear to my lord. My name was Deor. For many winters I held a fine office, faithfully serving a just king. But now Heorrenda a man skilful in songs, has received the estate the protector of warriors had promised me. That passed away; this also may. Cædmon's Hymn Anglo-Saxon/Old English poem circa 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 Primeval Poet, created heaven as a roof for the sons of men, Holy Creator, Maker of mankind. Then he, the eternal Lord, afterwards made men middle-earth: Master almighty! "Cædmon's Hymn" was composed sometime before 680 AD and may be the oldest extant poem in the English language. According to the Venerable Bede (673-735), Cædmon was an illiterate herdsman who was given the gift of poetic composition by an angel. Bede's Death Song (Anglo-Saxon/Old English lyric circa 735 AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Facing Death, that inescapable journey, who can be wiser than he who reflects, while breath yet remains, on whether his life brought others happiness, or pains, since his soul may yet win delight's or night's way after his death-day. This is a poem I wrote in tribute to Caedmon and Bede after visiting the grave of Caedmon in Whitby, North Yorkshire, England. At Cædmon’s Grave by Michael R. Burch At the monastery of Whitby, on a day when the sun sank through the sea, and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free, while the wind and time blew all around, I paced those dusk-enamored grounds and thought I heard the steps resound of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede who walked there, too, their spirits freed ―perhaps by God, perhaps by need― to write, and with each line, remember the glorious light of Cædmon’s ember, scorched tongues of flame words still engender. Here, as darkness falls, at last we meet. I lay this pale garland of words at his feet. This is another version of my tribute poem to Caedmon and Bede: Cædmon’s Face by Michael R. Burch At the monastery of Whitby, on a day when the sun sank through the sea, and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free, while the wind and Time blew all around, I paced that dusk-enamored ground and thought I heard the steps resound of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede who walked here too, their spirits freed ―perhaps by God, perhaps by need― to write, and with each line, remember the glorious light of Cædmon’s ember: scorched tongues of flame words still engender. * He wrote here in an English tongue, a language so unlike our own, unlike―as father unto son. But when at last a child is grown. his heritage is made well-known: his father’s face becomes his own. * He wrote here of the Middle-Earth, the Maker’s might, man’s lowly birth, of every thing that God gave worth suspended under heaven’s roof. He forged with simple words His truth and nine lines left remain the proof: his face was Poetry’s, from youth. Are these the oldest rhyming poems in the English language? Reginald of Durham recorded four Anglo-Saxon/Old English verses of Saint Godric's: they are the oldest songs in English for which the original musical settings survive. Led By Christ and Mary by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led that the earth never felt my bare foot’s tread! In the second poem, Godric puns on his name: godes riche means “God’s kingdom” and sounds like “God is rich” ... A Cry to Mary by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I. Saintë Marië Virginë, Mother of Jesus Christ the Nazarenë, Welcome, shield and help thin Godric, Fly him off to God’s kingdom rich! II. Saintë Marië, Christ’s bower, Virgin among Maidens, Motherhood’s flower, Blot out my sin, fix where I’m flawed, Elevate me to Bliss with God! Godric also wrote a prayer to St. Nicholas: Prayer to St. Nicholas by Saint Godric of Finchale (1065-1170) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Saint Nicholas, beloved of God, Build us a house that’s bright and fair; Watch over us from birth to bier, Then, Saint Nicholas, bring us safely there! THE RUIN loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch well-hewn was this wall-stone, till Wyrdes wrecked it and the Colossus sagged inward ... broad battlements broken; the Builders' work battered; the high ramparts ransacked; tall towers collapsed; the great roof-beams shattered; gates groaning, agape ... mortar mottled and marred by scarring hoar-frosts ... the Giants’ dauntless strongholds decaying with age ... shattered, the shieldwalls, the turrets in tatters ... where now are those mighty Masons, those Wielders and Wrights, those Samson-like Stonesmiths? the grasp of the earth, the firm grip of the ground holds fast those fearless Fathers men might have forgotten except that this slow-rotting siege-wall still stands after countless generations! for always this edifice, grey-lichened, blood-stained, stands facing fierce storms with their wild-whipping winds because those master Builders bound its wall-base together so cunningly with iron! it outlasted mighty kings and their clans! how high rose those regal rooftops! how kingly their castle-keeps! how homely their homesteads! how boisterous their bath-houses and their merry mead-halls! how heavenward flew their high-flung pinnacles! how tremendous the tumult of those famous War-Wagers ... till mighty Fate overturned it all, and with it, them. then the wide walls fell; then the bulwarks buckled; then the dark days of disease descended ... as death swept the battlements of brave Brawlers; as their palaces became waste places; as ruin rained down on their grand Acropolis; as their great cities and castles collapsed while those who might have rebuilt them lay gelded in the ground― those marvelous Men, those mighty master Builders! therefore these once-decorous courts court decay; therefore these once-lofty gates gape open; therefore these roofs' curved arches lie stripped of their shingles; therefore these streets have sunk into ruin and corroded rubble ... when in times past light-hearted Titans flushed with wine strode strutting in gleaming armor, adorned with splendid ladies’ favors, through this brilliant city of the audacious famous Builders to compete for bright treasure: gold, silver, amber, gemstones. here the cobblestoned courts clattered; here the streams gushed forth their abundant waters; here the baths steamed, hot at their fiery hearts; here this wondrous wall embraced it all, with its broad bosom. ... that was spacious ... The Seafarer loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I. Mæg ic be me sylfum / This is my self's soðgied wrecan, / true song, siþas secgan, / my sea-lay's-saga― hu ic geswincdagum / of how I endured earfoðhwile / life's hardships, oft þrowade, / wrenching anguish, bitre breostceare / bitter breast-cares gebiden hæbbe,[1a] / ... and still do! gecunnad in ceole / Tested at the keel cearselda fela,[1b] / of many a care-hold, atol yþa gewealc, / rocked by wild waves' þær mec oft bigeat / relentless poundings nearo nihtwaco / each anxious night-watch, æt nacan stefnan, / soaked at the stern þonne he be clifum cnossað. / when tossed close to cliffs! Calde geþrungen / Ice-enmassed wæron mine fet, / my fettered feet forste gebunden / became frost-bound caldum clommum, / cold clumps! þær þa ceare seofedun / There cares seethed hat ymb heortan; / hot in my heart; hungor innan slat / hunger's pangs pierced merewerges mod. / my sea-weary soul! Þæt se mon ne wat / How can land-locked men understand, þe him on foldan / for whom Fortune fægrost limpeð, / smiles more favorably? hu ic earmcearig / How I, care-wracked and wretched, iscealdne sæ / borne on the ice-cold sea, winter wunade / weathered winter's wræccan lastum, / exile-ways, winemægum bidroren,[2a] / bereft of wine-brothers, bihongen hrimgicelum;[3a] / my beard hung with icicles, hægl scurum fleag. / my body hail-pelted! þær ic ne gehyrde / How I heard nothing butan hlimman sæ, / but the sea's savage roars, iscaldne wæg. / its icy-cold rages. Hwilum ylfete song / Sometimes the swan's song dyde ic me to gomene, / gave me pleasure― ganotes hleoþor / the gannet's cries; ond huilpan sweg / the curlew's clamor fore hleahtor wera, / rather than men's laughter; mæw singende / the seagull's shrieks fore medodrince. / better than mead-drinking. Stormas þær stanclifu beotan, / Storms slammed the stone-cliffs; þær him stearn oncwæð, / there the tern answered isigfeþera; / icy-feathered; ful oft þæt earn bigeal, / ever the eagle screeched urigfeþra; / sea-spray-slathered; nænig hleomæga / but no consoling kinsmen feasceaftig ferð / came to comfort frefran meahte. / my destitute soul. Forþon him gelyfeð lyt, / Therefore he takes it lightly, se þe ah lifes wyn / the one who lives easy, gebiden in burgum, / who abides happily in a burgh bealosiþa hwon, / except for a few trifling pains, wlonc ond wingal,[4a] / worldly, wine-flushed. hu ic werig oft / While often I, bone-weary, in brimlade / had to endure bidan sceolde. / scalding sea-paths, Nap nihtscua, / shadows of night deepening, norþan sniwde, / fierce northern-snows, hrim hrusan bond, / frost binding the ground, hægl feol on eorþan, / hail flailing the earth, corna caldast.[5a] / the coldest of crops. II. Forþon cnyssað nu / Indeed, how crushing, heortan geþohtas / my heart-cares, þæt ic hean streamas, / that I should strive alone with sealtyþa gelac / miserable salt streams' tumults sylf cunnige[5b] / while exploring monað modes lust / my moody mind's lusts. mæla gehwylce / While always my spirit ferð to feran, / longs to fly forth, þæt ic feor heonan / to find, far from here, elþeodigra / a foreign residence eard gesece / beyond earth-desires. Forþon nis þæs modwlonc / There is none so mood-proud, mon ofer eorþan, / not a man on earth, ne his gifena þæs god,[6a] / none so generous with gifts, ne in geoguþe to þæs hwæt, / none so bold in his youth, ne in his dædum to þæs deor, / none so brave in his deeds, ne him his dryhten to þæs hold, / none so beholden to his Master þæt he a his sæfore / that he in his seafaring sorge næbbe, / never has to worry to hwon hine Dryhten / about what his Lord gedon wille. / will lay upon him. Ne biþ him to hearpan hyge / Not for him the harp-song ne to hringþege / nor ring-bringing ne to wife wyn / nor wife-winning ne to worulde hyht / nor world-glory ne ymbe owiht elles / nor anything else nefne ymb yða gewealc; / except the numbing wave-motions; ac a hafað longunge / but he always has longings se þe on lagu fundað. / who strives with the sea. Bearwas blostmum nimað, / Woodlands blossom, byrig fægriað, / burgs grow fair, wongas wlitigað, / meadowlands flower, woruld onetteð: / the world hastens forward: ealle þa gemoniað / all these things urge on modes fusne[7a] / the doom-eager spirit― sefan to siþe / the one with a mind to travel, þam þe swa þenceð / the one who imagines on flodwegas / venturing far afield feor gewitan. / over earth's sea-paths. Swylce geac monað / Now the cuckoo warns geomran reorde; / with her mournful voice; singeð sumeres weard, / the guardian of summer sings, sorge beodeð / boding sorrows bitter in breosthord. / bitter to the breast-hoard. Þæt se beorn ne wat, / This the normal man knows not, sefteadig secg, / the warrior lucky in worldly things, hwæt þa sume dreogað / unaware of what others endure, þe þa wræclastas / those who brave most extensively widost lecgað. / earth's exile-paths. Forþon nu min hyge hweorfeð / Now my spirit soars ofer hreþerlocan, / out of my breast, min modsefa / my mind floods mid mereflode, / amid the waterways ofer hwæles eþel / over the whale-path; hweorfeð wide, / it soars widely eorþan sceatas / over all the earth's far reaches― cymeð eft to me / it comes back to me gifre ond grædig; / eager and unsated; gielleð anfloga, / the lone-flier screams, hweteð on hwælweg / urges the helpless heart hreþer unwearnum / onto the whale-way ofer holma gelagu. / over the sea-waves. III. Forþon me hatran sind / Deeper, hotter for me are Dryhtnes dreamas / Lord-dreams þonne þis deade lif / than this dead life læne on londe. / loaned on land. Ic gelyfe no / I do not believe þæt him eorðwelan / that earth-riches ece stondað. / will last forever. Simle þreora sum / Invariably, þinga gehwylce / three things ær his tiddege / threaten a man's existence to tweon weorþeð: / before his final hour: adl oþþe yldo / either illness, old age oþþe ecghete[8a] / or sword's-edge-malice fægum fromweardum / ripping out life feorh oðþringeð. / from the doom-endangered. Forþon biþ eorla gehwam / And so for each man æftercweþendra / the praise of the living, lof lifgendra / of those who mention him after life ends, lastworda betst, / remains his best epitaph; þæt he gewyrce, / such words he must earn ær he on weg scyle, / before he departs ... fremum on foldan / Bravery in the world wið feonda niþ, / against the enmity of fiends, deorum dædum / daring deeds deofle togeanes, / done against devils, þæt hine ælda bearn / thus the sons of men æfter hergen, / will praise him afterwards, ond his lof siþþan / and his fame will eternally lifge mid englum / live with the angels. Translation Notes by Michael R. Burch [1a] Here, gebiden hæbbe suggests that the negative experiences continue. [1b] Here, cearselda means something like "care-place," "care-hold" or "care-abode." [2a] Here, winemægum means something like "wine-friend," "wine-brothers" or "dear kinsmen." [3a] Here, hrimgicelum means something like "rime crystals" or "icicles." [4a] Here, wlonc ond wingal means something like "haughty/proud and flushed with wine." The phrase also appears in "The Ruin." [5a] Here, corna means "grain" as maize had yet to be discovered by Europeans. [5b] Here, sylf cunnige means something like "self-exploration" or "self-discovery." [6a] Here, his gifena þæs god may mean something like "so good in his gifts" or "so generous in his gifts." [7a] Here, modes fusne seems to mean something like "a doom-eager mind" or a "death wish." [8a] Here, ecghete seems to mean "edge hate" or the hatred of a sword's edge or blade. This an early Middle English poem that is a "bridge" of sorts between Anglo-Saxon poetry and later Middle English poetry ... Brut loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Now he stands on a hill overlooking the Avon, seeing steel fishes girded with swords in the stream, their swimming days done, their scales a-gleam like gold-plated shields, their fish-spines floating like shattered spears. Layamon's Brut is a 32,000-line poem composed in Middle English that shows a strong Anglo-Saxon influence and contains the first known reference to King Arthur in English. ANGLO-SAXON RIDDLES AND KENNINGS Riddle: Water Become Bone loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Wonder-wrought waves: water become bone! (Solution: Ice on a frozen lake or seashore.) Riddle: A Female Brooding loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I saw a female, solitary, brooding. (Solution: A hen, and perhaps a human woman left to bear and raise her children alone, because some cocky rooster refused to accept his responsibility as their father.) Kenning: A Moth Devoured Words loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A moth devoured words! When I heard about this horrific theft, I thought it passing strange that an insect can feast on a man's finest song, gorge on his grandiloquence, riddle his most righteous rhetoric. But then I realized: the wee bookworm wandered away not one whit the wiser! (Kenning: A moth is not fooled or impressed by man's rhetoric. Nor is there anything to be learned in foppish nonsense, even by the smallest of bookworms.) Some of these poems may be described as "gnomic verses," "maxims" and "metrical proverbs" or "alliterative proverbs." Anglo-Saxon Gnomic Verses loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Frost shall freeze, fire feast on firs, earth breed blizzards, brazen ice bridge, water wear shields, oxen axe frost's fetters, freeing the grain from ice-imprisonment ... Winter shall wane, warm winds return: spring sunned into summer! Kings shall win wise queens with largesse, with beakers and bracelets; both must be generous with their gifts. Courage must create war-lust in a lord while his woman shows kindness to her people, delightful in dress, interpreter of rune-words, roomy-hearted at hearth-sharing and horse-giving. Riddle: The Curious Creature loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I'm a curious creature; I satisfy women, and sometimes their neighbors! (After a brief period of anticipation, in which I offer them hope of pleasures to come.) No one suffers because of me, except my slayer. I grow erect in bed. I'm hairy underneath. Sometimes a beautiful girl, the brave daughter of some commoner who's not above my low station grabs me eagerly, manipulates my russet skin, holds me hard, cleanses my head, then keeps me handy, nearby. But the girl who keeps me confined will soon feel the effects: I make her wet. Riddle: A Curious Thing Hangs loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A curious thing hangs, dangles by a man's thigh, covered by his clothes. It has an eye in its head; it's stiff and hard; and because it's borne firmly it yields a reward. The man pulls his clothes above his knee, in order to poke the head of his hanging thing into that old familiar hole it fits so well, and has filled so many times before. (Solution: A key worn secretly inside a man's clothes, perhaps a priest's robe. If so, the poem could "poke" fun at the clergy, who were supposed to be celibate but often had mistresses.) Riddle: The Swollen Thing loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I heard there's something growing in its nook, swelling, rising, and expanding, pushing up against and lifting its covering. I heard a cocky-minded young woman kneaded that boneless thing with her hands, then covered its tumescence with a soft cloth. (Solution: Dough rising.) Riddle: I Watched Two Wondrous Creatures loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I watched a wondrous creature, a bright unicorn, bearing away treasure between her white horns, fetching it home from some distant adventure. I'm sure she intended to hide her loot in some lofty stronghold constructed with incredible cunning, her craft. But then climbing the sky-cliffs a far greater creature arose, her fiery face familiar to all earth's inhabitants. She seized all the spoils, driving the albescent creature with her wrecked dreams far to the west, spewing wild insults as she scurried home. Dust rose heavenward. Dew descended. Night fled, and afterward No man knew where the white creature went. (Solution: The sun and the moon.) Kenning: The Whale loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Now, I will sing about this strange fishes' kin, finned like no flounder, and no friend to men: The mighty Leviathan. He floats in the ocean like a regal rock; men mistake him for an island; some try to dock, seldom with any luck. But if they "make land," securing their ship with great, heavy ropes from which green seaweed drips, he soon dives to the bottom, taking them for a dip! The whale is a demon, the siren of the seas; he lures men and fish with his fragrant ambergris into his dark gullet, ignoring their pleas! His father, the Devil, does the same thing as well: offers "comfort" and "haven" when wild tempests swell, then drags dull men down to the darkest depths of hell. (Kenning: The Whale is like his father, the Devil, in tactics, and many unwitting men are their victims.) Riddle: The Sea Suckled Me loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The sea suckled me; the wild waves washed me; I was rocked by breakers in my restless cradle. Footless but fixed, I opened my wordless mouth to the life-giving floods. But soon some man will come to consume me, slip the point of his knife savagely into my side, slide it down, ripping the flesh from my bones, then slurp me in raw, smiling as he sucks me down. (Solution: An Oyster.) Here is a somewhat more modern English riddle-poem that may have been influenced by the older Anglo-Saxon scops and their riddle-poems: I Have a Yong Suster Medieval English Riddle-Poem, circa 1430 loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I have a yong suster / I have a young sister Fer biyonde the see; / Far beyond the sea; Manye be the druries / Many are the keepsakes That she sente me. / That she sent me. She sente me the cherye / She sent me the cherry Withouten any stoon, / Without any stone; And so she dide the dove / And also the dove Withouten any boon. / Without any bone. She sente me the brere / She sent me the briar Withouten any rinde; / Without any skin; She bad me love my lemman / She bade me love my lover Withoute longinge. / Without longing. How sholde any cherye / How should any cherry Be withoute stoon? / Be without a stone? And how sholde any dove / And how should any dove Be withoute boon? / Be without a bone? How sholde any brere / How should any briar Be withoute rinde? / Be without a skin? How sholde I love my lemman / And how should I love my lover Withoute longinge? / Without longing? Whan the cherye was a flowr, / When the cherry was a flower, Thanne hadde it no stoon; / Then it had no stone; Whan the dove was an ey, / When the dove was an egg, Thanne hadde it no boon. / Then it had no bone. Whan the brere was unbred, / When the briar was unborn, Thanne hadde it no rinde; / Then it had no skin; Whan the maiden hath that she loveth, / And when a maiden has her mate, She is withoute longinge. / She is without longing! That is a wickedly funny ending! I Have Labored Sore (anonymous medieval lyric circa the fifteenth century) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I have labored sore / and suffered death, so now I rest / and catch my breath. But I shall come / and call right soon heaven and earth / and hell to doom. Then all shall know / both devil and man just who I was / and what I am. Pity Mary (anonymous Middle English lyric, circa early 13th century AD) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Now the sun passes under the wood: I rue, Mary, thy face―fair, good. Now the sun passes under the tree: I rue, Mary, thy son and thee. Westron Wynde anonymous Middle English lyric, circa 1530 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Western wind, when will you blow, bringing the drizzling rain? Christ, that my love were in my arms, and I in my bed again! Sumer is icumen in anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1260 AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Sing now cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo! Sing, cuckoo! Sing now cuckoo! Summer is a-comin'! Sing loud, cuckoo! The seed grows, The meadow blows, The woods spring up anew. Sing, cuckoo! The ewe bleats for her lamb; The cows contentedly moo; The bullock roots; The billy-goat poots ... Sing merrily, cuckoo! Cuckoo, cuckoo, You sing so well, cuckoo! Never stop, until you're through! This is a lighthearted modern take on the ancient poem, for those of us who suffer with hay fever and other allergies: Sumer is icumen in a modern English translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Sumer is icumen in Lhude sing achu! Groweth sed And bloweth hed And buyeth med? Cuccu! Excerpt from “Ubi Sunt Qui Ante Nos Fuerunt?” (anonymous Middle English poem, circa 1275) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Where are the men who came before us, who led hounds and hawks to the hunt, who commanded fields and woods? Where are the elegant ladies in their boudoirs who braided gold through their hair and had such fair complexions? Once eating and drinking gladdened their hearts; they enjoyed their games; men bowed before them; they bore themselves loftily ... But then, in an eye’s twinkling, they were gone. Where now are their laughter and their songs, the trains of their dresses, the arrogance of their entrances and exits, their hawks and their hounds? All their joy has vanished; their “well” has come to “oh, well” and to many dark days ... A Lyke-Wake Dirge (anonymous medieval lyric circa the sixteenth century) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The Lie-Awake Dirge is “the night watch kept over a corpse.” This one night, this one night, every night and all; fire and sleet and candlelight, and Christ receive thy soul. When from this earthly life you pass every night and all, to confront your past you must come at last, and Christ receive thy soul. If you ever donated socks and shoes, every night and all, sit right down and slip yours on, and Christ receive thy soul. But if you never helped your brother, every night and all, walk barefoot through the flames of hell, and Christ receive thy soul. If ever you shared your food and drink, every night and all, the fire will never make you shrink, and Christ receive thy soul. But if you never helped your brother, every night and all, walk starving through the black abyss, and Christ receive thy soul. This one night, this one night, every night and all; fire and sleet and candlelight, and Christ receive thy soul. Adam Lay Ybounden anonymous Medieval English lyric, circa 15th century AD loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Adam lay bound, bound in a bond; Four thousand winters, he thought, were not too long. And all was for an apple, an apple that he took, As clerics now find written in their book. But had the apple not been taken, or had it never been, We'd never have had our Lady, heaven's queen and matron. So blesséd be the time the apple was taken thus; Therefore we sing, "God is gracious!" The poem has also been rendered as "Adam lay i-bounden" and "Adam lay i-bowndyn." The Song of Amergin (I) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I am the sea blast I am the tidal wave I am the thunderous surf I am the stag of the seven tines I am the cliff hawk I am the sunlit dewdrop I am the fairest of flowers I am the rampaging boar I am the swift-swimming salmon I am the placid lake I am the summit of art I am the vale echoing voices I am the battle-hardened spearhead I am the God who inflames desire Who gives you fire Who knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen Who announces the ages of the moon Who knows where the sunset settles The Song of Amergin (II) a more imaginative translation by Michael R. Burch, after Robert Bridges I am the stag of the seven tines; I am the bull of the seven battles; I am the boar of the seven bristles; I am the flood cresting plains; I am the wind sweeping tranquil waters; I am the swift-swimming salmon in the shallow pool; I am the sunlit dewdrop; I am the fairest of flowers; I am the crystalline fountain; I am the hawk harassing its prey; I am the demon ablaze in the campfire; I am the battle-hardened spearhead; I am the vale echoing voices; I am the sea's roar; I am the surging sea wave; I am the summit of art; I am the God who inflames desires; I am the giver of fire; Who knows the ages of the moon; Who knows where the sunset settles; Who knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen. The Song of Amergin an original poem by Michael R. Burch He was our first bard and we feel in his dim-remembered words the moment when Time blurs . . . and he and the Sons of Mil heave oars as the breakers mill till at last Ierne―green, brooding―nears, while Some implore seas cold, fell, dark to climb and swamp their flimsy bark . . . and Time here also spumes, careers . . . while the Ban Shee shriek in awed dismay to see him still the sea, this day, then seek the dolmen and the gloam. Keywords/Tags: Old English, translation, wolf, nature, human nature, human condition, game, games, island, wood, woods 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! It was my honor to have been able to publish the poetry of Dr. Alfred Dorn and his wife Anita Dorn. Nothing Returns A wave implodes, this evening you are leaving telling me here where you have left no mark The Leveler
Red State Religion Rejection Slip Red State Reject I once was a pessimist The Red State Reaction Where the hell are they hidin’ And how the hell can the bleep
The sea was not salt the first tide ... the brighter for longing, an object denied― The sea was not salt the first tide ... The bride of their longing―forever astray, her shield a cold beacon across the Divide, The sea was not salt the first tide ... The silver fish flash there, the manatees gray. The moon, a pale beacon across the Divide, The sea was not salt the first tide ... "The Divide" is essentially a formal villanelle despite the non-formal line breaks. Villanelle: Ordinary Love Indescribable―our love―and still we say with eyes averted, turning out the light, and tug the coverlet where once we lay, Your hair's blonde thicket now is tangle-gray; we're older now, that "love" has had its day. "Ordinary Love" was the winner of the 2001 Algernon Charles Swinburne poetry contest. It was originally published by Romantics Quarterly and nominated by the journal for the Pushcart Prize. It is missing a tercet but seemed complete enough without it.―MRB Villanelle: Because Her Heart Is Tender by Michael R. Burch for Beth She scrawled soft words in soap: "Never Forget," She wrote in sidewalk chalk: "Never Forget," Because her heart is tender with regret, The wren might tilt its head and sing along She writes in adamant: "NEVER FORGET" Villanelle: Hangovers We forget that, before we were born, Yes, our parents had lives of their own and finding gray hairs of their own would certainly get them). Half-stoned, for their curious habits to bloom when, punch-drunk in the streets or half-stoned, Clandestine But Gentle Variations on the villanelle. A play in four acts. The heroine wears a trench coat and her every action drips nonchalance. The “hero” is pallid, nerdish and nervous. But more than anything, he is palpably desperate with longing. Props are optional, but a streetlamp, a glowing cigarette and lots of eerie shadows should suffice. Clandestine but gentle, wrapped in night, The blue spurt of her match, our signal light, Her cigarette was waved, a casual sleight, like Ingrid Bergman in a trench coat, white II. Clandestine but gentle, veiled in night, III. She was the secret agent of delight; IV. For clandestine but gentle, wrapped in night, Marsh Song by Michael R. Burch Here there is only the great sad song of the reeds and the silent herons, wraithlike in the mist, and a few drab sunken stones, unblessed by the sunlight these late sixteen thousand years, and the beaded dews that drench strange ferns, like tears collected against an overwhelming sadness. Here the marsh exposes its dejectedness, its gutted rotting belly, and its roots rise out of the earth’s distended heaviness, to claw hard at existence, till the scars remind us that we all have wounds, and I ... I have learned again that living is despair as the herons cleave the placid, dreamless air. Originally published by The Lyric Hang Together, or Separately “The first shall be last, and the last first.” Be careful whom you don’t befriend Some “deplorables” may yet ascend When pallid elitists condescend Since the LORD advised us to attend But He was deserted. Friends, comprehend! Now infidels have loot to spend: This poem portrays a certain worldview. The poet does not share it and suspects from reading the gospels that the “real” Jesus would have sided with the, not Trump and his ilk. The Sad Refrain O, let us not repeat the sad refrain There’d be no growth without the hammering rain but separate burnt chaff from bountiful grain. A God who’s perfect cannot bear the blame or think to shame or stain His awesome name! An eternal hell cannot be justified. Nothing can be learned from eternal suffering except that the creation of life was the ultimate evil. The creator of an eternal hell would be infinitely cruel and should never have created any creature that might possibly end up there. That so many Christians do not understand this suggests they lack the knowledge of good and evil and were rooked by their "god" in the Garden of Eden or have been bamboozled by theologians. Enigma
Who are you, Grieving angel, Floating
Memories of revenant blue eyes and wild lips Memories of ghostly white limbs ... We meet in the scarred, fissured caves of old dreams, Suspended there, Your love is a sea, Unanchored, I drift through the hours before morning, And I rise sometimes bright waves throw back your reflection at me.
by Michael R. Burch
You came to me as riches to a miser You gave your heart too soon, too dear, too vastly; I dreamed you gave me water of your lips, Righteous by Michael R. Burch Come to me tonight Gather your hair We are not one, but the swarms
by Michael R. Burch When I am lain to rest and when at last await to feast then let me go, and do not weep
by Michael R. Burch “Burn Ovid” ― Austin Clarke
I found her unaccountably beautiful, What did those lustrous folds foretell “Come unto me, cheek to breast, my hands all night long, This poem is set at Faith Christian Academy, which I attended for a year during the ninth grade, in 1972-1973. While the poem definitely had its genesis there, I believe I revised it more than once and didn't finish it till 2001, nearly 28 years later, according to my notes. Another poem, "Sex 101," was also written about my experiences at FCA that year. Sex 101 That day the late spring heat Where we sat exhausted Giggly first graders sat two abreast The most unlikely coupling: Lambert, 18, the only college prospect Beside him, Wanda, 13, And as the bus filled with the improbable musk of her, that love is a forlorn enterprise, This companion poem to "Burn, Ovid" is set at Faith Christian Academy, in 1972-1973. Heat Lightening The Shape of Mourning the bolt of cold steel the monthly penance the face in the photograph the useless mower rings and crosses and Regret Regret, once starlight a shining there Regret . . . unleash and show me by Michael R. Burch Love, the heart bets,
by Michael R. Burch If I regret If I forget If I should yearn If I should burn―one moment less brightly,
by Michael R. Burch A black ringlet now that I cannot forget. And tonight, our soft cries, like regret, ... the enameled white clips now that I have forgotten her face. in-flight convergence serene, almost angelic, over lumbering behemoths here the streetlights that flicker so that nothing is one and man seems the afterthought of his own Brilliance Originally published by The Aurorean and subsequently nominated for the Pushcart Prize Recursion In a dream I saw boys lying For I saw their sons essaying From their playfields, boys returning In a dream I saw boys dying Absence Christ, how I miss you!, Now the floor is not strewn with your stockings and slips You left me today ... At the Natchez Trace Ebb Tide by Michael R. Burch Massive, gray, these leaden waves bear their unchanging burden― the sameness of each day to day while the wind seems to struggle to say something half-submerged planks at the mouth of the bay might nuzzle limp seaweed to understand. Now collapsing dull waves drain away from the unenticing land; shrieking gulls shadow fish through salt spray― whitish streaks on a fogged silver mirror. Sizzling lightning impresses its brand. Unseen fingers scribble something in the wet sand. 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. Lady’s Favor May
by Michael R. Burch I have not come for the harvest of roses― Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer―
by Michael R. Burch Love has a Southern flavor: honeydew, Love’s Dixieland-rambunctious: tangled vines, Love cannot be contained, like Southern nights: Love also is as wild, as sprawling-sweet, The Shrinking Season With every wearying year These are my translations of Holocaust poems by Ber Horvitz (also known as Ber Horowitz); his bio follows the poems. Der Himmel "The Heavens" by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch These skies are leaden, heavy, gray ... I long for a pair of deep blue eyes. The birds have fled far overseas; "Tomorrow I’ll migrate too," I said ... These gloomy autumn days it rains and rains. Woe to the bird Who remains ... Doctorn "Doctors" by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Early this morning I bandaged the lilac tree outside my house; I took thin branches that had broken away and patched their wounds with clay. My mother stood there watering her window-level flower bed; The morning sun, quite motherly, kissed us both on our heads! What a joy, my child, to heal! Finished doctoring, or not? The eggs are nicely poached And the milk's a-boil in the pot. Broit “Bread” by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness. Why? On the hard uncomfortable floor the exhausted people lie. Flung everywhere, scattered over the broken theater floor, the exhausted people sleep. Night. Late. Too tired to snore. At midnight a little boy cries wildly into the gloom: "Mommy, I’m afraid! Let’s go home!” His mother, reawakened into this frightful place, presses her frightened child even closer to her breast … "If you cry, I’ll leave you here, all alone! A little boy must sleep ... this, now, is our new home.” Night. Exhaustion. Heavy stillness all around, exhausted people sleeping on the hard ground. "My Lament" by Ber Horvitz loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Nothingness enveloped me as tender green toadstools lie blanketed by snow with its thick, heavy prayer shawl … After that, nothing could hurt me … Ber Horvitz aka Ber Horowitz (1895-1942): Born to village people in the woods of Maidan in the West Carpathians, Horowitz showed art talent early on. He went to gymnazie in Stanislavov, then served in the Austrian army during WWI, where he was a medic to Italian prisoners of war. He studied medicine in Vienna and was published in many Yiddish newspapers. Fluent in several languages, he translated Polish and Ukrainian to Yiddish. He also wrote poetry in Yiddish. A victim of the Holocaust, he was murdered in 1942 by the Nazis. u-turn: another way to look at religion ... u were borne orphaned from Ecstasy Bikini Undersea, by the shale and the coral forming, Something old when the world was forming I AM! I am not one of ten billion―I― sunblackened Icarus, chary fly, I am not one of ten billion, I. I am not one life has left unsquashed― I am not one life has left unsquashed. I am not one without spots of disease, I am not one without spots of disease. I am not one of ten billion―I― scion of Daedalus, blackwinged fly I am not one of ten billion, I Annual Silence hearing the desiccate whispers of voices’ Curled here, through thin adhesive gloss Come! by Michael R. Burch Will you come to visit my grave, I wonder, in the season of lightning, the season of thunder, when I have lain so long in the indifferent earth that I have no girth? When my womb has conformed to the chastity your anemic Messiah envisioned for me, will you finally be pleased that my sex was thus rendered unpalatable, disengendered? And when those strange loathsome organs that troubled you so have been eaten by worms, will the heavens still glow with the approval of God that I ended a maid― thanks to a spade? And will you come to visit my grave, I wonder, in the season of lightning, the season of thunder? Vacuum Sea Dreams I. With restless waves In thoughtless flight, I've climbed the sun-cleft clouds And I've grown and grown and grown But sometimes late at night II. Then small waves broke light, Christ, those nights were fine, Then desire was a fire It's almost nine Tonight I'd like to play old games ― Oh, tonight I'd like to sing old songs ― Then the sun shone bright Oh, tonight I'd like to dream old dreams, Son An island is bathed in blues and greens Here where the hours pass almost unnoticed, [etc., see handwritten version, the father laments abandoning his son] So there where the skylarks sing to the sun Virginal For an hour But she is mine; Medusa Friends, beware Many suitors drowned there―
for mothers battling addiction
or rise up, resist To a Daughter More Precious than Gems by Otomo no Sakanoue no Iratsume (c. 700-750), a Japanese poet loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Heaven's cold dew has fallen and thus another season arrives. Oh, my child living so far away, do you pine for me as I do for you? I have trusted my jewel to the gem-guard; now there's nothing to do, my pillow, but for the two of us to sleep together! I cherished you, my darling, as the Sea God his treasury's pearls. But you are pledged to your husband (such is the way of the world) and torn from me like a blossom. I left you for faraway Koshi; since then your lovely eyebrows curving like distant waves ever linger in my eyes. My heart is as unsteady as a rocking boat; besieged by such longing I weaken with age and come close to breaking. If I could have prophesied such longing, I would have stayed with you, gazing on you constantly as into a shining mirror. I gaze out over the fields of Tadaka seeing the cranes that cry there incessantly: such is my longing for you. Oh my child, who loved me so helplessly like bird hovering over shallow river rapids! Dear child, my daughter, who stood sadly pensive by the gate, even though I was leaving for a friendly estate, I think of you day and night and my body has become thin, my sleeves tear-stained with weeping. If I must long for you so wretchedly, how can I remain these many months here at this dismal old farm? Because you ache for me so intently, your sad thoughts all confused like the disheveled tangles of your morning hair, I see you, dear child, in my dreams. Chinese Poets: English Translations These are modern English translations of poems by some of the greatest Chinese poets of all time, including Du Fu, Huang O, Li Bai/Li Po, Li Ching-jau, Li Qingzhao, Po Chu-I, Tzu Yeh, Yau Ywe-Hwa and Xu Zhimo.
by Li Bai aka Li Po loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Moonlight illuminates my bed as frost brightens the ground. Lifting my eyes, the moon allures. Lowering my eyes, I long for home. Lines from Laolao Ting Pavilion by Li Bai aka Li Po loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The spring breeze knows partings are bitter; The willow twig knows it will never be green again. A Toast to Uncle Yun by Li Bai aka Li Po loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Water reforms, though we slice it with our swords; Sorrow returns, though we drown it with our wine. Li Bai (701-762) was a romantic figure who has been called the Lord Byron of Chinese poetry. He and his friend Du Fu (712-770) were the leading poets of the Tang Dynasty era, which has been called the "Golden Age of Chinese poetry." Li Bai is also known as Li Po, Li Bo, Li Pai, Li T’ai-po, and Li T’ai-pai. Moonlit Night by Du Fu (712-770) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Alone in your bedchamber you gaze out at the Fu-Chou moon. Here, so distant, I think of our children, too young to understand what keeps me away or to remember Ch'ang-an ... A perfumed mist, your hair's damp ringlets! In the moonlight, your arms' exquisite jade! Oh, when can we meet again within your bed's drawn curtains, and let the heat dry our tears? Moonlit Night by Du Fu (712-770) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Tonight the Fu-Chou moon watches your lonely bedroom. Here, so distant, I think of our children, too young to understand what keeps me away or to remember Ch'ang-an ... By now your hair will be damp from your bath and fall in perfumed ringlets; your jade-white arms so exquisite in the moonlight! Oh, when can we meet again within those drawn curtains, and let the heat dry our tears? Lone Wild Goose by Du Fu (712-770) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The abandoned goose refuses food and drink; he cries querulously for his companions. Who feels kinship for that strange wraith as he vanishes eerily into the heavens? You watch it as it disappears; its plaintive calls cut through you. The indignant crows ignore you both: the bickering, bantering multitudes. Du Fu (712-770) is also known as Tu Fu. The first poem is addressed to the poet's wife, who had fled war with their children. Ch'ang-an is an ironic pun because it means "Long-peace." The Red Cockatoo by Po Chu-I (772-846) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch A marvelous gift from Annam: a red cockatoo, bright as peach blossom, fluent in men's language. So they did what they always do to the erudite and eloquent: they created a thick-barred cage and shut it up. Po Chu-I (772-846) is best known today for his ballads and satirical poems. Po Chu-I believed poetry should be accessible to commoners and is noted for his simple diction and natural style. His name has been rendered various ways in English: Po Chu-I, Po Chü-i, Bo Juyi and Bai Juyi. The Migrant Songbird Li Qingzhao aka Li Ching-chao (c. 1084-1155) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The migrant songbird on the nearby yew brings tears to my eyes with her melodious trills; this fresh downpour reminds me of similar spills: another spring gone, and still no word from you ... The Plum Blossoms Li Qingzhao aka Li Ching-chao (c. 1084-1155) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch This year with the end of autumn I find my reflection graying at the edges. Now evening gales hammer these ledges ... what shall become of the plum blossoms? Li Qingzhao was a poet and essayist during the Song dynasty. She is generally considered to be one of the greatest Chinese poets. In English she is known as Li Qingzhao, Li Ching-chao and The Householder of Yi’an. Star Gauge Sui Hui (c. 351-394 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch So much lost so far away on that distant rutted road. That distant rutted road wounds me to the heart. Grief coupled with longing, so much lost so far away. Grief coupled with longing wounds me to the heart. This house without its master; the bed curtains shimmer, gossamer veils. The bed curtains shimmer, gossamer veils, and you are not here. Such loneliness! My adorned face lacks the mirror's clarity. I see by the mirror's clarity my Lord is not here. Such loneliness! Sui Hui, also known as Su Hui and Lady Su, appears to be the first female Chinese poet of note. Reflection Xu Hui (627-650) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Confronting the morning she faces her mirror; Her makeup done at last, she paces back and forth awhile. It would take vast mountains of gold to earn one contemptuous smile, So why would she answer a man's summons? Due to the similarities in names, it seems possible that Sui Hui and Xu Hui were the same poet, with some of her poems being discovered later, or that poems written later by other poets were attributed to her. Waves Zhai Yongming (1955-) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The waves manhandle me like a midwife pounding my back relentlessly, and so the world abuses my body― accosting me, bewildering me, according me a certain ecstasy ... Monologue Zhai Yongming (1955-) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I am a wild thought, born of the abyss and―only incidentally―of you. The earth and sky combine in me―their concubine―they consolidate in my body. I am an ordinary embryo, encased in pale, watery flesh, and yet in the sunlight I dazzle and amaze you. I am the gentlest, the most understanding of women. Yet I long for winter, the interminable black night, drawn out to my heart's bleakest limit. When you leave, my pain makes me want to vomit my heart up through my mouth― to destroy you through love―where's the taboo in that? The sun rises for the rest of the world, but only for you do I focus the hostile tenderness of my body. I have my ways. A chorus of cries rises. The sea screams in my blood but who remembers me? What is life? Zhai Yongming is a contemporary Chinese poet, born in Chengdu in 1955. Pyre Guan Daosheng (1262-1319) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You and I share so much desire: this love―like a fire― that ends in a pyre's charred coffin. "Married Love" or "You and I" or "The Song of You and Me" Guan Daosheng (1262-1319) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You and I shared a love that burned like fire: two lumps of clay in the shape of Desire molded into twin figures. We two. Me and you. In life we slept beneath a single quilt, so in death, why any guilt? Let the skeptics keep scoffing: it's best to share a single coffin. Guan Daosheng (1262-1319) is also known as Kuan Tao-Sheng, Guan Zhongji and Lady Zhongji. Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I heard my love was going to Yang-chou So I accompanied him as far as Ch'u-shan. For just a moment as he held me in his arms I thought the swirling river ceased flowing and time stood still. Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Will I ever hike up my dress for you again? Will my pillow ever caress your arresting face? Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Night descends ... I let my silken hair spill down my shoulders as I part my thighs over my lover. Tell me, is there any part of me not worthy of being loved? Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I will wear my robe loose, not bothering with a belt; I will stand with my unpainted face at the reckless window; If my petticoat insists on fluttering about, shamelessly, I'll blame it on the unruly wind! Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When he returns to my embrace, I’ll make him feel what no one has ever felt before: Me absorbing him like water Poured into a wet clay jar. Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Bare branches tremble in a sudden breeze. Night deepens. My lover loves me, And I am pleased that my body's beauty pleases him. Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Do you not see that we have become like branches of a single tree? Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I could not sleep with the full moon haunting my bed! I thought I heard―here, there, everywhere disembodied voices calling my name! Helplessly I cried "Yes!" to the phantom air! Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I have brought my pillow to the windowsill so come play with me, tease me, as in the past ... Or, with so much resentment and so few kisses, how much longer can love last? Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch When she approached you on the bustling street, how could you say no? But your disdain for me is nothing new. Squeaking hinges grow silent on an unused door where no one enters anymore. Tzu Yeh (circa 400 BC) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I remain constant as the Northern Star while you rush about like the fickle sun: rising in the East, drooping in the West. Tzŭ-Yeh (or Tzu Yeh) was a courtesan of the Jin dynasty era (c. 400 BC) also known as Lady Night or Lady Midnight. The Day after the Rain Lin Huiyin (1904-1955) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I love the day after the rain and the meadow's green expanses! My heart endlessly rises with wind, gusts with wind ... away the new-mown grasses and the fallen leaves ... away the clouds like smoke ... vanishing like smoke ... Music Heard Late at Night Lin Huiyin (1904-1955) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch for Xu Zhimo I blushed, hearing the lovely nocturnal tune. The music touched my heart; I embraced its sadness, but how to respond? The pattern of life was established eons ago: so pale are the people's imaginations! Perhaps one day You and I can play the chords of hope together. It must be your fingers gently playing late at night, matching my sorrow. Lin Huiyin (1904-1955), also known as Phyllis Lin and Lin Whei-yin, was a Chinese architect, historian, novelist and poet. Xu Zhimo died in a plane crash in 1931, allegedly flying to meet Lin Huiyin. Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again Xu Zhimo (1897-1931) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Quietly I take my leave, as quietly as I came; quietly I wave good-bye to the sky's dying flame. The riverside's willows like lithe, sunlit brides reflected in the waves move my heart's tides. Weeds moored in dark sludge sway here, free of need, in the Cam's gentle wake ... O, to be a waterweed! Beneath shady elms a nebulous rainbow crumples and reforms in the soft ebb and flow. Seek a dream? Pole upstream to where grass is greener; rig the boat with starlight; sing aloud of love's splendor! But how can I sing when my song is farewell? Even the crickets are silent. And who should I tell? So quietly I take my leave, as quietly as I came; gently I flick my sleeves ... not a wisp will remain. (6 November 1928) Xu Zhimo's most famous poem is this one about leaving Cambridge. English titles for the poem include "On Leaving Cambridge," "Second Farewell to Cambridge," "Saying Goodbye to Cambridge Again," and "Taking Leave of Cambridge Again." DANTE TRANSLATIONSThese are my modern English translations of poems by Dante Alighieri.
Her sweetness left me intoxicated.
You, who wear a modest countenance, Have you seen in my lady's face, perchance, And if, indeed, you match her heartfelt sighs Love knows how you have wept, seeing your eyes, Paradiso, Canto III:1-33, The Revelation of Love and Truth That sun, which had inflamed my breast with love, The gentle and confounding face of Truth. Thus I, by her sweet grace and love reproved, To speak, as true admonishment required, As the outlines of men’s faces may amass (Even so our eyes may easily be fooled All poised to speak; but when I glanced around But then I turned my eyes to my sweet Guide. Sonnet: A Vision of Love from LA VITA NUOVA To every gentle heart which Love may move, Through night’s last watch, as winking stars, above, Excerpts from LA VITA NUOVA Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi. Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra. Heu miser! quia frequenter impeditus ero deinceps. Fili mi, tempus est ut prætermittantur simulata nostra. Ego tanquam centrum circuli, cui simili modo se habent circumferentiæ partes: tu autem non sic. Sonnet: “Love’s Thoroughfare” from LA VITA NUOVA “O voi che par la via”
Love, not because I played a part, But now that easy gait is gone And thus I have become as one Sonnet: “Cry for Pity” from LA VITA NUOVA These thoughts lie shattered in my memory: My face reflects my heart's blood-red dammed tide, ’Twould be a grievous sin, if one should not Excerpt from Paradiso Virgin Mother, daughter of your Son, You are the Pinnacle of human nature, Love was rekindled in your perfect womb Now unto us you are a Torch held high Our wellspring of all Hope, a living sea. Madonna, so pure, high and all-availing, Your mercy does not fail, but, Ever-Blessed, You are our Mercy; you are our Compassion; THE MUSE by Anna Akhmatova My being hangs by a thread tonight now depend on the Maid with the flute in her hand. Look! Now she arrives; she flings back her veil; “Temptress, confess! She answers, “Yes.” I have also translated this poem written by Marina Tsvetaeva for Anna Akhmatova: Excerpt from “Poems for Akhmatova” You outshine everything, even the sun Dante Criticism by Michael R. Burch Dante’s was a defensive reflex Dante, you Dunce! The earth is hell, Dante, you Dunce! God is no Beatrice, gentle and clever. Dante damned the brightest and the fairest agreed with his Accuser in the spell His only savior, Beatrice, was Love, Once freed from Yahweh, in the arms of Love, The Christian gospel is strangely lacking in Milton’s and Dante’s epics. Milton gave the “atonement” one embarrassed enjambed line. Dante damned the Earth’s star-crossed lovers to his grotesque hell, while doing exactly what they did: pursing at all costs his vision of love, Beatrice. Blake made more sense to me, since he called the biblical god Nobodaddy and denied any need to be “saved” by third parties. Dante’s Antes There’s something glorious about man, No god can reign him in: He likes to eat too much. He’s sold his soul to Mammon I wonder―can hell hold him? His chances seem quite dim And yet like Evel Knievel some God might show him mercy Of Seabound Saints and Promised Lands Judas sat on a wretched rock, I’m on parole from Hell today!
O, behoove yourself, if ever your can, In Dante’s Inferno, Satan gnaws on Judas Iscariot’s head. A curragh is a boat fashioned from wood and ox hides. Saint Brendan of Ireland is the patron saint of sailors and whales. According to legend, he sailed in search of the Promised Land and discovered America centuries before Columbus. RE: Paradiso, Canto III for the most “Christian” of poets What did Dante do, How conventionally “Christian” ― Poet! ― to damn your fellow man And what of the lovely Piccarda, Intimations V We had not meditated upon sound Trapped between Nature And what is Nature Endgame The honey has lost all its sweetness, Now ambient dust, the drones lie dead. The queen has flown, O, Love has fled, has fled, has fled ... The Final Revelation of a Departed God’s Divine Plan Here I am, talking to myself again . . . pissed off at God and bored with humanity. Still, I remember when . . . planting odd notions, dark inklings of vanity, worth a chuckle or two. Philosophers, poets . . . how they all made me laugh! Plato’s Republic; Dante’s strange crew; Shakespeare’s Othello, mad Hamlet, Macbeth; Blake’s shimmering visions. Those days, though, are through . . . for, puling and tedious, their “poets” now seem and they fill the world with their pale derision of things they completely fail to understand. reading this crap. Earth is Hell. We’re all damned. The Not-So-Heroic Stoic, or, A la Cartesian i think, i think, i think, i think, i think, i think, i thunk The greatest philosophers are better known for their questions, doubts and mistakes than for what they actually knew. Thus lesser thinkers may want to avoid the hubris of certainty. ― Michael R. Burch This Dog by Rabindranath Tagore loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Each morning this dog, who has become quite attached to me, sits silently at my feet until, gently caressing his head, I acknowledge his company. This simple recognition gives my companion such joy he shudders with sheer delight. Among all languageless creatures he alone has seen through man entire― has seen beyond what is good or bad in him to such a depth he can lay down his life for the sake of love alone. Now it is he who shows me the way through this unfathomable world throbbing with life. When I see his deep devotion, his offer of his whole being, I fail to comprehend ... How, through sheer instinct, has he discovered whatever it is that he knows? With his anxious piteous looks he cannot communicate his understanding and yet somehow has succeeded in conveying to me out of the entire creation the true loveworthiness of man. “This Dog” appeared in the poetry collection Arogya by Rabindranath Tagore. Whose Woods by Michael R. Burch apologies to Robert Frost Whose woods these are, I think I know. Dick Cheney’s in the White House, though. He will not see me stopping here To watch his chip mills overflow. My sterile horse must think it queer To stop without a ’skeeter near Beside this softly glowing “lake” Of six-limbed frogs gone nuclear. He gives his hairless tail a shake; I fear he’s made his last mistake: He took a sip of water blue (Blue-slicked with oil and HazMat waste). Get out your wallets; Dick’s not through! Enron’s defunct, the bill comes due . . . Which he will send to me, and you. Which he will send to me, and you. chrysalis by Michael R. Burch these are the days of doom u seldom leave ur room u live in perpetual gloom yet also the days of hope how to cope? u pray and u grope toward self illumination ... becoming an angel (pure love) and yet You must love Your Self If you know someone who is very caring and loving, but struggles with self worth, this may be a poem to consider. The Quickening by Michael R. Burch for Beth I never meant to love you when I held you in my arms promising you sagely wise, noncommittal charms. And I never meant to need you when I touched your tender lips with kisses that intrigued my own: such kisses I had never known, nor a heartbeat in my fingertips! Our English Rose by Michael R. Burch for 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. This is my loose translation/interpretation of a Sappho epigram. Final Lullaby for my mother, Christine Ena Burch
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. Hugh MacDiarmid wrote "The Watergaw" in a Scots dialect. I have translated the poem into modern English to make it easier to read and understand. A watergaw is a fragmentary rainbow. The Watergaw One wet forenight in the sheep-shearing season There was no light in the skylark's nest Ah! Sunflower by Michael R. Burch after William Blake
Almost
You almost ran your fingers through my hair. You almost contemplated using Nair I almost found the words to say, “I care.” You almost called me suave and debonair I almost asked you where you kept your lair We almost danced like Rogers and Astaire I almost was strange Sonny to your Cher. Survivors by Michael R. Burch Tea Party Madness by Michael R. Burch for Connor Kelly Since we agree, let’s have a nice tea with our bats in the belfry. 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, take it up with the LORD!” the wise owl replied as the tasty snack died. Well, Almost by Michael R. Burch All Christians say “Never again!” to the inhumanity of men (except when the object of phlegm is a Palestinian). Twice by Michael R. Burch Now twice she has left me and twice I have listened and taken her back, remembering days when love lay upon us and sparkled and glistened with the brightness of dew through a gathering haze. But twice she has left me to start my life over, and twice I have gathered up embers, to learn: rekindle a fire from ash, soot and cinder and softly it sputters, refusing to burn. This is my translation of one of my favorite Dimash Kudaibergen songs, the
French song "S.O.S." ... S.O.S. by Michel Berger loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Why do I live, why do I die? Why do I laugh, why do I cry? Voicing the S.O.S. of an earthling in distress ... I have never felt at home on the ground. I'd rather be a bird; this skin feels weird. I'd like to see the world turned upside down. It ever was more beautiful seen from up above, seen from up above. I've always confused life with cartoons, wishing to transform. I feel something that draws me, that draws me, that draws me UP! In the great lotto of the universe I didn't draw the right numbers. I feel unwell in my own skin, I don't want to be a machine eating, working, sleeping. Why do I live, why do I die? Why do I laugh, why do I cry? I feel I'm catching waves from another world. I've never had both feet on the ground. This skin feels weird. I'd like to see the world turned upside down. I'd rather be a bird. Sleep, child, sleep ... "Late Autumn" aka "Autumn Strong" loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch based on the version sung by Dimash Kudaibergen Autumn ... The feeling of late autumn ... It feels like golden leaves falling to those who are parting ... A glass of wine has stirred so many emotions swirling in my mind ... Such sad farewells ... With the season's falling leaves, so many sad farewells. To see you so dispirited pains me more than I can say. Holding your hands so tightly to my heart ... ... Remembering ... I implore you to remember our unspoken vows ... I dare bear this bitterness, but not to see you broken-hearted! All contentment vanishes like leaves in an autumn wind. Meeting or parting, that's not up to me. We can blame the wind for our destiny. I do not fear my own despair but your sorrow haunts me. No one will know of our desolation. Spring Was Delayed Winter came early: all we forget Spring was delayed: all we omit Originally published by Borderless Journal Evil Cabal those who do Evil Be very careful what you pray for! Now that his T’s been depleted The Heimlich Limerick for T. M. The sanest of poets once wrote: There’s a Stirring and Awakening in the World by Michael R. Burch There’s a stirring and awakening in the world, The grape grows wild-entangled on the vine, And so it is with spirits’ fruitful yield: The world somehow must give the spirit room And then at last the earth receives its store Swiftly the years mount by T'ao Ch'ien (365-427) loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Swiftly the years mount, exceeding remembrance. Solemn the stillness of this spring morning. I will clothe myself in my spring attire then revisit the slopes of the Eastern Hill where over a mountain stream a mist hovers, hovers an instant, then scatters. Scatters with a wind blowing in from the South as it nuzzles the fields of new corn. Late Frost by Michael R. Burch The matters of the world like sighs intrude; out of the darkness, windswept winter light too frail to solve the puzzle of night’s terror resolves the distant stars to salts: not white, but gray, dissolving in the frigid darkness. I stoke cooled flames and stand, perhaps revealed as equally as gray, a faded hardness too malleable with time to be annealed. Light sprinkles through dull flakes, devoid of color; which matters not. I did not think to find a star like Bethlehem’s. I turn my collar to trudge outside for cordwood. There, outlined within the doorway’s arch, I see the tree that holds its boughs aloft, as if to show they harbor neither love, nor enmity, but only stars: insignias I know: false ornaments that flash, overt and bright, but do not warm and do not really glow, and yet somehow bring comfort, soft delight: a rainbow glistens on new-fallen snow. The Poet-Midwife by Michael R. Burch A poet births words, brings them into the world like a midwife then wet-nurses them from infancy to adolescence. POEMS ABOUT POOL SHARKS These are poems about pool sharks, gamblers, con artists and other sharks. I used to hustle pool on bar tables around Nashville, where I ran into many colorful characters, and a few unsavory ones, before I hung up my cue for good. Shark by Michael R. Burch They are all unknowable, these rough pale men― haunting dim pool rooms like shadows, propped up on bar stools like scarecrows, nodding and sagging in the fraying light . . . I am not of them, as I glide among them― eliding the amorphous camaraderie they are as unlikely to spell as to feel, camouflaged in my own pale dichotomy . . . That there are women who love them defies belief― with their missing teeth, their hair in thin shocks where here and there a gap of scalp gleams like bizarre chrome, their smell rank as wet sawdust or mildewed laundry . . . And yet― and yet there is someone who loves me: She sits by the telephone in the lengthening shadows and pregnant grief . . . They appreciate skill at pool, not words. They frown at massés, at the cue ball’s contortions across green felt. They hand me their hard-earned money with reluctant smiles. A heart might melt at the thought of their children lying in squalor . . . At night I dream of them in bed, toothless, kissing. With me, it’s harder to say what is missing . . . Fair Game by Michael R. Burch At the Tennessee State Fair, the largest stuffed animals hang tilt-a-whirl over the pool tables with mocking button eyes, knowing the playing field is unlevel, that the rails slant, ever so slightly, north or south, so that gravity is always on their side, conspiring to save their plush, extravagant hides year after year. “Come hither, come hither . . .” they whisper; they leer in collusion with the carnival barkers, like a bevy of improbably-clad hookers setting a “fair” price. “Only five dollars a game, and it’s so much Fun! And it’s not really gambling. Skill is involved! You can make us come: really, you can. Here are your balls. Just smack them around.” But there’s a trick, and it usually works. If you break softly so that no ball reaches a rail, you can pick them off: One. Two. Three. Four. Causing a small commotion, a stir of whispering, like fear, among the hippos and ostriches. Con Artistry by Michael R. Burch The trick of life is like the sleight of hand of gamblers holding deuces by the glow of veiled back rooms, or aces; soon we’ll know who folds, who stands . . . The trick of life is like the pool shark’s shot: the wild massé across green velvet felt that leaves the winner loser. No, it’s not the rack, the hand that’s dealt . . . The trick of life is knowing that the odds are never in one’s favor, that to win is only to delay the acts of gods who’d ante death for sin . . . and death for goodness, death for in-between. The rules have never changed; the artist knows the oldest con is life; the chips he blows can’t be redeemed. Pool's Prince Charming by Michael R. Burch this is my tribute poem, written on the behalf of his fellow pool sharks, for the legendary Saint Louie Louie Roberts Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool, making all the ladies drool ... Take the “nuts”? I'd be a fool! Louie, Louie, Prince of Pool. Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis, owner of (ahem) a similar pelvis ... Compared to you, the books will shelve us. Louie, Louie, pretty as Elvis. Louie, Louie, fearless gambler, ladies' man and constant rambler, but such a sweet, loquacious ambler! Louie, Louie, fearless gambler. Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic, pool's charming hero, but tragic, Byronic, winning the Open drinking gin and tonic? Louie, Louie, angelic, chthonic. My wife and I were having a drink at a neighborhood bar which has a pool table. A “money” game was about to start; a spectator got up to whisper something to a friend of ours who was about to play someone we hadn’t seen before. We couldn’t hear what was said. Then the newcomer broke with such force that his stick flew straight up in the air and shattered the light dangling overhead. There was a moment of stunned silence, then our friend turned around and remarked: “He really does shoot the lights out, doesn’t he?” - Michael R. Burch Rounds by Michael R. Burch Solitude surrounds me though nearby laughter sounds; around me mingle men who think to drink their demons down, in rounds. Now agony still hounds me though elsewhere mirth abounds; hidebound I stand and try to think, not sink still further down, spellbound. Their ecstasy astounds me, though drunkenness compounds resounding laughter into joy; alloy such glee with beer and see bliss found. Originally published by Borderless Journal Sun Poem by Michael R. Burch I have suffused myself in poetry as a lizard basks, soaking up sun, scales nakedly glinting; its glorious light he understands: when it comes, it comes. A flood of light leaches down to his bones, his feral eye blinks: bold, curious, bright. Now night and soon winter lie brooding, damp, chilling; here shadows foretell the great darkness ahead. Yet he stretches in rapture, his hot blood thrilling, simple yet fierce on his hard stone bed, his tongue flicking rhythms, the sun: throbbing, spilling.
Double Dactyls Sniggledy-Wriggledy ITALIAN POETRY TRANSLATIONS These are my modern English translations of the Roman, Latin and Italian poets Anonymous, Marcus Aurelius, Catullus, Guido Cavalcanti, Cicero, Dante Alighieri, Veronica Franco, Guido Guinizelli, Hadrian, Primo Levi, Martial, Michelangelo, Seneca, Seneca the Younger and Leonardo da Vinci. I also have translations of Latin poems by the English poets Aldhelm, Thomas Campion and Saint Godric of Finchale. Wall, I'm astonished that you haven't collapsed, My objective is not to side with the majority, but to avoid the ranks of the insane.�"Marcus Aurelius, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Little sparks ignite great Infernos.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation Michael R. Burch MARTIAL I must admit I'm partial You ask me why I've sent you no new verses? You ask me to recite my poems to you? You ask me why I choose to live elsewhere? You ask me why I love fresh country air? You ask me why I love fresh country air? 1. 2. He undertook to be a doctor but turned out to be an undertaker.
Recite my epigrams? I decline, for then they’d be yours, not mine.
I do not love you: no reason, no lie. You’re young and lovely, wealthy too, but that changes nothing: you're a shrew. You never wrote a poem, He starts everything but finishes nothing; You dine in great magnificence You alone own prime land, dandy! To you, my departed parents, dear mother and father, To you, my departed parents, with much emotion, CATULLUS Catullus LXXXV: 'Odi et Amo' 1. 2. 3. Catullus CVI: 'That Boy' See that young boy, by the auctioneer? Catullus LI: 'That Man' I'd call that man the equal of the gods, Meanwhile, in my misery, Lesbia, there's nothing left of me My limbs tingle, my ears ring, my eyes water Call it leisure, Catullus, or call it idleness, Catullus 1 ('cui dono lepidum novum libellum') To whom do I dedicate this novel book Catullus XLIX: 'A Toast to Cicero' Cicero, please confess: Catullus CI: 'His Brother's Burial' 1. 2. [Here 'offered in the time-honored manner of our fathers' is from another translation by an unknown translator.] [What do the gods know, with their superior airs, Catullus IIA: 'Lesbia's Sparrow' Sparrow, my sweetheart's pet, Catullus V: 'Let us live, Lesbia, let us love' Let us live, Lesbia, let us love, Suns may set then rise again, Give me a thousand kisses, a hundred more, Then, once we've tallied the many thousands, Catullus VII: 'How Many Kisses' You ask, Lesbia, how many kisses As many as the Libyan sands Or as many as the stars observing amorous men As many of your kisses are enough, Catullus VIII: 'Advice to Himself' Snap out of it Catullus, stop this foolishness! Catullus LX: 'Lioness' Did an African mountain lioness Catullus LXX: 'Marriage Vows' My sweetheart says she'd marry no one else but me, CICERO The famous Roman orator Cicero employed 'tail rhyme' in this pun: O Fortunatam natam me consule Romam. MICHELANGELO Michelangelo Buonarroti (1475-1564) is considered by many experts to be the greatest artist and sculptor of all time. He was also a great poet. Michelangelo Epigram Translations I saw the angel in the marble and freed him. SONNET: RAVISHED Ravished, by all our eyes find fine and fair, SONNET: TO LUIGI DEL RICCIO, AFTER THE DEATH OF CECCHINO BRACCI A pena prima. I had barely seen the beauty of his eyes In my tardiness, I wept, too late made wise, Therefore, Luigi, since the task is mine And since the artist cannot work alone, BEAUTY AND THE ARTIST Al cor di zolfo. A heart aflame; alas, the flesh not so; A witless mind that - halt, lame, weak - must go Add beauteous Art, which, Heaven-Promethean, SONNET XVI: LOVE AND ART Sì come nella penna. Just as with pen and ink, SONNET XXXI: LOVE'S LORDSHIP, TO TOMMASO DE' CAVALIERI A che più debb' io. Am I to confess my heart's desire Why should my aching heart aspire Therefore, because I cannot dodge the blow, LEONARDO DA VINCI Once we have flown, we will forever walk the earth with our eyes turned heavenward, for there we were and will always long to return.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The great achievers rarely relaxed and let things happen to them. They set out and kick-started whatever happened.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Nothing enables authority like silence.�"Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch The greatest deceptions spring from men's own opinions.�"Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch There are three classes of people: Those who see by themselves. Those who see only when they are shown. Those who refuse to see.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Blinding ignorance misleads us. Myopic mortals, open your eyes! �"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch It is easier to oppose evil from the beginning than at the end.�"Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch Small minds continue to shrink, but those whose hearts are firm and whose consciences endorse their conduct, will persevere until death.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch I am impressed with the urgency of doing. Knowledge is not enough; we must apply ourselves. Wanting and being willing are insufficient; we must act.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Time is sufficient for anyone who uses it wisely.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Where the spirit does not aid and abet the hand there is no art.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Necessity is the mistress of mother nature's inventions.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Nature has no effect without cause, no invention without necessity.�"Leonardo da Vinci, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Did Leonardo da Vinci anticipate Darwin with his comments about Nature and necessity being the mistress of her inventions? Yes, and his studies of comparative anatomy, including the intestines, led da Vinci to say explicitly that 'apes, monkeys and the like' are not merely related to humans but are 'almost of the same species.' He was, indeed, a man ahead of his time, by at least 350 years. Excerpts from 'Paragone of Poetry and Painting' and Other Writings Sculpture requires light, received from above, Painting is the more beautiful, the more imaginative, the more copious, Painting encompasses infinite possibilities While as soon as the Poet abandons nature, he ceases to resemble the Painter; Painting is poetry seen but not heard, And if the Poet calls painting dumb poetry, Yet poor is the pupil who fails to surpass his master! Because I find no subject especially useful or pleasing Thus, I will load my humble cart full of despised and rejected merchandise, And what can I do when a woman plucks my heart? The Point Here forms, colors, the character of the entire universe, contract to a point, VERONICA FRANCO Veronica Franco (1546-1591) was a Venetian courtesan who wrote literary-quality poetry and prose. A Courtesan's Love Lyric (I) My rewards will be commensurate with your gifts Here is a second version of the same poem... I Resolved to Make a Virtue of My Desire (II) My rewards will match your gifts Capitolo 24 (written by Franco to a man who had insulted a woman) Please try to see with sensible eyes When I bed a man We danced a youthful jig through that fair city�" I wish it were not a sin to have liked it so. ANONYMOUS The poem below is based on my teenage misinterpretation of a Latin prayer... Elegy for a little girl, lost for my mother, Christine Ena Burch, who was always a little girl at heart ... qui laetificat juventutem meam... 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. The Latin hymn 'Dies Irae' employs end rhyme: Dies irae, dies illa The day of wrath, that day
Hadrian's Elegy My delicate soul, THOMAS CAMPION NOVELTIES Booksellers laud authors for novel editions PRIMO LEVI These are my translations of poems by the Italian Jewish Holocaust survivor Primo Levi. Shema You who live secure Buna Wasted feet, cursed earth, Note: Buna was the largest Auschwitz sub-camp. ALDHELM 'The Leiden Riddle' is an Old English translation of Aldhelm's Latin riddle 'Lorica' or 'Corselet.' The Leiden Riddle The dank earth birthed me from her icy womb. Solution: a coat of mail. SAINT GODRIC OF FINCHALE The song below is said in the 'Life of Saint Godric' to have come to Godric when he had a vision of his sister Burhcwen, like him a solitary at Finchale, being received into heaven. She was singing a song of thanksgiving, in Latin, and Godric renders her song in English bracketed by a Kyrie eleison. Led By Christ and Mary By Christ and Saint Mary I was so graciously led DANTE Translations of Dante Epigrams and Quotes by Michael R. Burch Little sparks may ignite great Infernos.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch In Beatrice I beheld the outer boundaries of blessedness.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch She made my veins and even the pulses within them tremble.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Her sweetness left me intoxicated.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Love commands me by determining my desires.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Follow your own path and let the bystanders gossip.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch The devil is not as dark as depicted.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch There is no greater sorrow than to recall how we delighted in our own wretchedness.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch As he, who with heaving lungs escaped the suffocating sea, turns to regard its perilous waters.�"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you nosedive in the mildest breeze? �"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you quail at the least breath of wind? �"Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Midway through my life's journey INSCRIPTION ON THE GATE OF HELL Before me nothing existed, to fear. Excerpts from LA VITA NUOVA Ecce deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi. Apparuit iam beatitudo vestra. Heu miser! quia frequenter impeditus ero deinceps. Fili mi, tempus est ut prætermittantur simulata nostra. Ego tanquam centrum circuli, cui simili modo se habent circumferentiæ partes: tu autem non sic. Translations of Dante Cantos by Michael R. Burch Paradiso, Canto III: 1-33, The Revelation of Love and Truth That sun, which had inflamed my breast with love, Excerpt from 'Paradiso' O Virgin Mother, daughter of your Son, Translations of Dante Sonnets by Michael R. Burch Sonnet: 'A Vision of Love' or 'Love's Faithful Ones' from LA VITA NUOVA To every gentle heart true Love may move, Sonnet: 'Love's Thoroughfare' from LA VITA NUOVA 'O voi che par la via' All those who travel Love's worn tracks, Sonnet: 'Cry for Pity' from LA VITA NUOVA These thoughts lie shattered in my memory: Sonnet: 'Ladies of Modest Countenance' from LA VITA NUOVA You who wear a modest countenance Translations of Poems by Other Italian Poets Sonnet IV: ‘S'io prego questa donna che Pietate' If I should ask this lady, in her grace, Guido Guinizelli, also known as Guido di Guinizzello di Magnano, was born in Bologna. He became an esteemed Italian love poet and is considered to be the father of the 'dolce stil nuovo' or 'sweet new style.' Dante called him 'il saggio' or 'the sage.' Sonetto In truth I sing her honor and her praise: This is a poem of mine that has been translated into Italian by Comasia Aquaro. Her Grace Flows Freely July 7,2007 Her love is always chaste, and pure. Her Grace Flows Freely La sua grazia vola libera 7 luglio 2007 Il suo amore è sempre casto, e puro. A risqué Latin epigram: C-nt, while you weep and seep neediness all night, References to Dante in other Translations by Michael R. Burch THE MUSE My being hangs by a thread tonight I have also translated this tribute poem written by Marina Tsvetaeva for Anna Akhmatova: Excerpt from 'Poems for Akhmatova' You outshine everything, even the sun Dante-Related Poems and Dante Criticism by Michael R. Burch Of Seabound Saints and Promised Lands Judas sat on a wretched rock, Saint Brendan, full of mercy, stood O, behoove yourself, if ever your can, In Dante's 'Inferno' Satan gnaws on Judas Iscariot's head. A curragh is a boat fashioned from wood and ox hides. Saint Brendan of Ireland is the patron saint of sailors and whales. According to legend, he sailed in search of the Promised Land and discovered America centuries before Columbus. Dante's was a defensive reflex Dante, you Dunce! The earth is hell, Dante, you Dunce! How Dante Forgot Christ Dante damned the brightest and the fairest
There's something glorious about man, RE: Paradiso, Canto III for the most 'Christian' of poets What did Dante do, Intimations V We had not meditated upon sound Endgame The honey has lost all its sweetness, The drones are those who drone on about the love of God in a world full of suffering and death: dead prophets, dead pontiffs, dead preachers. Spewers of dead words and false promises. The queen is disenthroned, as in Dis-enthroned. In Dante's Inferno, the lower regions of hell are enclosed within the walls of Dis, a city surrounded by the Stygian marshes. The river Styx symbolizes death and the journey from life to the afterlife. But in Norse mythology, Dis was a goddess, the sun, and the consort of Heimdal, himself a god of light. DIS is also the stock ticker designation for Disney, creator of the Magic Kingdom. The 'promised white stone' appears in Revelation, which turns Jesus and the Angels into serial killers.
Here I am, talking to myself again... Brief Encounters: Other Roman, Italian and Greek Epigrams No wind is favorable to the man who lacks direction.�"Seneca the Younger, translation by Michael R. Burch Little sparks ignite great Infernos.�"Dante, translation by Michael R. Burch The danger is not aiming too high and missing, but aiming too low and hitting the mark.�"Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch He who follows will never surpass.�"Michelangelo, translation by Michael R. Burch Nothing enables authority like silence.�"Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch My objective is not to side with the majority, but to avoid the ranks of the insane.�"Marcus Aurelius, translation by Michael R. Burch Time is sufficient for anyone who uses it wisely.�"Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch Blinding ignorance misleads us. Myopic mortals, open your eyes! �"Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch It is easier to oppose evil from the beginning than at the end.�"Leonardo da Vinci, translation by Michael R. Burch Fools call wisdom foolishness.�"Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch One true friend is worth ten thousand kin.�"Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch Not to speak one's mind is slavery.�"Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch I would rather die standing than kneel, a slave.�"Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch Fresh tears are wasted on old griefs.�"Euripides, translation by Michael R. Burch Improve yourself by other men's writings, attaining less painfully what they gained through great difficulty.�"Socrates, translation by Michael R. Burch Just as I select a ship when it's time to travel, or a house when it's time to change residences, even so I will choose when it's time to depart from life.―Seneca, speaking about the right to euthanasia in the first century AD, translation by Michael R. Burch Booksellers laud authors for novel editions #POEMS #POETRY #LATIN #ROMAN #ITALIAN #TRANSLATION #MRB-POEMS #MRB-POETRY #MRBPOEMS #MRBPOETRY #MRBLATIN #MRBROMAN #MRBITALIAN #MRBTRANSLATION Lines for My Ascension I. If I should die, But if my body II. If I should die, or a timid sparrow and know that my Spirit, And if my body III. If I should die, Think of Me as One And if my body IV. And if I should “die,” If you look above, So divine, if you can, And if my body Published as the collection "This World's Joy" © 2023 Michael R. Burch |
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Added on November 10, 2019 Last Updated on December 1, 2023 Tags: Translation, Middle English, Medieval English, Old English, World, Joy, Winter Author
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