Her Preference

Her Preference
by Michael R. Burch

Not for her the pale incandescence of dreams,
the warm glow of imagination,
the hushed whispers of possibility,
or frail, blossoming hope.

No, she prefers the anguish and screams
of bitter condemnation,
the hissing of hostility,
damnation's rope.

Sunset

by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt

Between the prophecies of morning

and twilight’s revelations of wonder,

the sky is ripped asunder.

The moon lurks in the clouds,

waiting, as if to plunder

the dusk of its lilac iridescence,

and in the bright-tentacled sunset

we imagine a presence

full of the fury of lost innocence.

What we find within strange whorls of drifting flame,

brief patterns mauling winds deform and maim,

we recognize at once, but cannot name.

Moon Poem

by Michael R. Burch

after Linda Gregg

I climb the mountain 

to inquire of the moon ...

the advantages of loftiness, absence, distance.

Is it true that it feels no pain,

or will she contradict me?

Originally published by Borderless Journal (Singapore)

The apparent contradiction of it/she is intentional, since the speaker doesn’t know if the moon is an inanimate object or can feel pain.

Sinking

by Michael R. Burch

for Virginia Woolf 

Weigh me down with stones ...

     fill all the pockets of my gown ...

          I’m going down,

               mad as the world 

                    that can’t recover,

                         to where even mermaids drown ...

Salve

by Michael R. Burch

for the victims and survivors of 9-11

The world is unsalvageable ...

but as we lie here

in bed

stricken to the heart by love

despite war’s 

flickering images,

sometimes we still touch,

laughing, amazed,

that our flesh 

does not despair 

of love

as we do,

that our bodies are wise

in ways we refuse 

to comprehend,

still insisting we eat, 

drink ...

even multiply.

And so we touch ...

touch, and only imagine

ourselves immune:

two among billions

in this night of wished-on stars, 

caresses,

kisses,

and condolences.

We are not lovers of irony,

we

who imagine ourselves 

beyond the redemption 

of tears

because we have salvaged 

so few 

for ourselves ...

and so we laugh 

at our predicament,

fumbling for the ointment.

Keywords/tags: 911, war, survival, survivors, recovery, love, lovemaking, sex, tears, redemption, bodies, flesh, touch, caresses

1-800-HOT-LINE

by Michael R. Burch

“I don’t believe in psychics,” he said, “so convince me.”

When you were a child, the earth was a joy,

the sun a bright plaything, the moon a lit toy.

Now life’s small distractions irk, frazzle, annoy.

When the crooked finger beckons, scythe-talons destroy.

“You’ll have to do better than that, to convince me.”

As you grew older, bright things lost their meaning.

You invested your hours in commodities, leaning

to things easily fleeced, to the convenient gleaning.

I see a pittance of dirt: untended, demeaning.

“Everyone knows that!” he said, “so convince me.”

Your first and last wives traded in golden bands

to escape the abuses of your cruel hands.

Where unwatered blooms litter a small plot of land,

the two come together, waving fans.

“Everyone knows that. Convince me.”

As your father left you, you left those you brought

to the doorstep of life as an afterthought.

Two sons and a daughter tap shoes, undistraught.

Their tears are contrived, their condolences bought.

“Everyone knows that. Convince me.”

A moment, an instant ... a life flashes by,

a tunnel appears, but not to the sky.

There is brightness, such brightness it sears the eye.

When a life grows too dull, it seems better to die.

“I could have told you that,” he shrieked, “I think I’ll kill myself!”

Originally published by Penny Dreadful

Yasna 28, Verse 6

by Zarathustra (Zoroaster)

loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Lead us to pure thought and truth

by your sacred word and long-enduring assistance, 

O, eternal Giver of the gifts of righteousness.

O, wise Lord, grant us spiritual strength and joy; 

help us overcome our enemies’ enmity!

Translator’s Note: The Gathas consist of 17 hymns believed to have been composed by Zoroaster, also known as Zarathustra, Zarathushtra Spitama or Ashu Zarathushtra. Zoroaster was an ancient Iranian prophet who founded what is now known as Zoroastrianism. Zoroaster’s compositions may date as far back as 1700 BC, although there is no scholarly consensus as to when he lived. These hymns form the core of the Zoroastrian liturgy called the Yasna. The language employed, Gathic or Old Avestan, is related to the proto-Indo-Iranian and proto-Iranian languages and to Vedic Sanskrit. The Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy deems Zoroaster to have been the first philosopher. Zoroaster has also been called the father of ethics, the first rationalist and the first monotheist. In the original texts, Ahura Mazda means “wise Lord” or “Lord of Wisdom” while Vohuman/Vohu Manah represents pure thought and righteousness and Asha represents truth. Angra Mainyu was the chief evil entity, a precursor of Satan.

Prodigal

by Michael R. Burch

This poem is dedicated to Kevin Longinotti, who died four days short of graduation from Vanderbilt University, the victim of a tornado that struck Nashville on April 16, 1998.

You have graduated now,

to a higher plane

and your heart’s tenacity

teaches us not to go gently

though death intrudes.

For eighteen days

--jarring interludes

of respite and pain--

with life only faintly clinging,

like a cashmere snow,

testing the capacity

of the blood banks

with the unstaunched flow

of your severed veins,

in the collapsing declivity,

in the sanguine haze

where Death broods,

you struggled defiantly.

A city mourns its adopted son,

flown to the highest ranks

while each heart complains

at the harsh validity

of God’s ways.

On ponderous wings

the white clouds move

with your captured breath,

though just days before

they spawned the maelstrom’s

hellish rift.

Throw off this mortal coil,

this envelope of flesh,

this brief sheath

of inarticulate grief

and transient joy.

Forget the winds

which test belief,

which bear the parchment leaf

down life’s last sun-lit path.

We applaud your spirit, O Prodigal,

O Valiant One,

in its percussive flight into the sun,

winging on the heart’s last madrigal.

Sailing to My Grandfather, for George Hurt

by Michael R. Burch

This distance between us

--this vast sea

of remembrance--

is no hindrance,

no enemy.

I see you out of the shining mists

of memory.

Events and chance

and circumstance

are sands on the shore of your legacy.

I find you now in fits and bursts

of breezes time has blown to me,

while waves, immense,

now skirt and glance

against the bow unceasingly.

I feel the sea's salt spray--light fists,

her mists and vapors mocking me.

From ignorance

to reverence,

your words were sextant stars to me.

Bright stars are strewn in silver gusts

back, back toward infinity.

From innocence

to senescence,

now you are mine increasingly.

Note: Under the Sextant’s Stars is a painting by Benini.

Sanctuary at Dawn

by Michael R. Burch

for my father, Paul Ray Burch Jr.

I have walked these thirteen miles

just to stand outside your door.

The rain has dogged my footsteps

for thirteen miles, for thirty years,

through the monsoon seasons . . .

and now my tears

have all been washed away.

Through thirteen miles of rain I slogged,

I stumbled and I climbed

rainslickened slopes

that led me home

to the hope that I might find

a life I lived before.

The door is wet; my cheeks are wet,

but not with rain or tears . . .

as I knock I sweat

and the raining seems

the rhythm of the years.

Now you stand outlined in the doorway

--a man as large as I left--

and with bated breath

I take a step

into the accusing light.

Your eyes are grayer

than I remembered;

your hair is grayer, too.

As the red rust runs

down the dripping drains,

our voices exclaim:

"My father!"

"My son!"

“Sanctuary at Dawn” was written either in high school or during my first two years of college, because it appeared in a poetry collection I submitted to a contest after my sophomore year. It’s a poem about a prodigal son and a prodigal father reconnecting.

Salat Days

by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfather, Paul Ray Burch, Sr.

I remember how my grandfather used to pick poke salat...

though first, usually, he'd stretch back in the front porch swing,

dangling his long thin legs, watching the sweat bees drone,

talking about poke salat--

how easy it was to find if you knew where to seek it...

standing in dew-damp clumps by the side of a road, shockingly green,

straddling fence posts, overflowing small ditches,

crowding out the less-hardy nettles.

"Nobody knows that it's there, lad, or that it's fit tuh eat

with some bacon drippin's or lard."

"Don't eat the berries. You see--the berry's no good.

And you'd hav'ta wash the leaves a good long time."

"I'd boil it twice, less'n I wus in a hurry.

Lawd, it's tough to eat, chile, if you boil it jest wonst."

He seldom was hurried; I can see him still...

silently mowing his yard at eighty-eight,

stooped, but with a tall man's angular gray grace.

Sometimes he'd pause to watch me running across the yard,

trampling his beans,

dislodging the shoots of his tomato plants.

He never grew flowers; I never laughed at his jokes about The Depression.

Years later I found the proper name--pokeweed--while perusing a dictionary.

Surprised, I asked why anyone would eat a weed.

I still can hear his laconic reply...

"Well, chile, s'm'times them times wus hard."

Keywords/Tags: Great Depression, greatness, courage, resolve, resourcefulness, hero, heroes, South, Deep South, southern, poke salad, poke salat, pokeweed, free verse

All Things Galore

by Michael R. Burch

for my grandfathers George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Paul Ray Burch, Sr.

Grandfather,

now in your gray presence

you are

somehow more near ...

and remind me that,

once, upon a star,

you taught me

wish

that ululate soft phrase,

that hopeful phrase!

and everywhere above, each hopeful star

gleamed down

and seemed to speak of times before

when you clasped my small glad hand

in your wise paw

and taught me heaven, omen, meteor ...

Free Fall to Lift-Off

by Michael R. Burch

for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.

I see the longing for departure gleam

in his still-keen eye,

and I understand his desire

to test this last wind,

like those late autumn leaves

with nothing left to cling to ...

Ultimate Sunset

by Michael R. Burch

for my father, Paul Ray Burch, Jr.

he now faces the Ultimate Sunset,

his body like the leaves that fray as they dry,

shedding their vital fluids (who knows why?)

till they’ve become even lighter than the covering sky,

ready to fly ...

Hangovers

by Michael R. Burch

We forget that, before we were born,

our parents had “lives” of their own,

ran drunk in the streets, or half-stoned.

Yes, our parents had lives of their own

until we were born; then, undone,

they were buying their parents gravestones

and finding gray hairs of their own

(because we were born lacking some

of their curious habits, but soon

would certainly get them). Half-stoned,

we watched them dig graves of their own.

Their lives would be over too soon

for their curious habits to bloom

in us (though our children were born

nine months from that night on the town

when, punch-drunk in the streets or half-stoned,

we first proved we had lives of our own).

The Shape of Mourning

by Michael R. Burch

The shape of mourning

is an oiled creel

shining with unuse,

the bolt of cold steel

on a locker

shielding memory,

the monthly penance

of flowers,

the annual wake,

the face in the photograph

no longer dissolving under scrutiny,

becoming a keepsake,

the useless mower

lying forgotten

in weeds,

rings and crosses and

all the paraphernalia

the soul no longer needs.

Federico Garcia Lorca Translations

Federico Garcia Lorca was a notable Spanish poet, playwright and theater director. These are English translations of poems by Federico Garcia Lorca.

Arbolé, arbolé (“Tree, Tree”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.

The girl with the lovely countenance
gathers olives.
The wind, that towering lover,
seizes her by the waist.

Four dandies ride by
on fine Andalusian steeds,
wearing azure and emerald suits
beneath long shadowy cloaks.
“Come to Cordoba, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.

Three young bullfighters pass by,
slim-waisted, wearing suits of orange,
with swords of antique silver.
“Come to Sevilla, sweetheart!”
The girl does not heed them.

When twilight falls and the sky purples
with day’s demise,
a young man passes by, bearing
roses and moonlit myrtle.
“Come to Granada, sweetheart!”
But the girl does not heed him.

The girl, with the lovely countenance
continues gathering olives
while the wind’s colorless arms
encircle her waist.

Sapling, sapling,
dry but green.

Paisaje (“Landscape”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The olive orchard
opens and closes
like a fan;
above the grove
a sunken sky dims;
a dark rain falls
on warmthless lights;
reeds tremble by the gloomy river;
the colorless air wavers;
olive trees
scream with flocks
of captive birds
waving their tailfeathers
in the dark.

La balada del agua del mar (“The Ballad of the Sea Water”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.

What do you sell, shadowy child
with your naked breasts?

Sir, I sell
the sea’s saltwater.

What do you bear, dark child,
mingled with your blood?

Sir, I bear
the sea’s saltwater.

Those briny tears,
where were they born, mother?

Sir, I weep
the sea’s saltwater.

Heart, this bitterness,
whence does it arise?

So very bitter,
the sea’s saltwater!

The sea
smiles in the distance:
foam-toothed,
heaven-lipped.

Gacela de la huida (“Ghazal of the Flight”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I have been lost, many times, by the sea
with an ear full of freshly-cut flowers
and a tongue spilling love and agony.

I have often been lost by the sea,
as I am lost in the hearts of children.

At night, no one giving a kiss
fails to feel the smiles of the faceless.

No one touching a new-born child
fails to remember horses’ thick skulls.

Because roses root through the forehead
for hardened landscapes of bone,
and man’s hands merely imitate
roots, underground.

Thus, I have lost myself in children’s hearts
and have been lost many times by the sea.

Ignorant of water, I go searching
for death, as the light consumes me.

Gacela of the Dark Death
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of apples
far from the bustle of cemeteries.

I want to sleep the dream-filled sleep of the child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high seas.

I don't want to hear how the corpse retains its blood,
or how the putrefying mouth continues accumulating water.

I don't want to be informed of the grasses’ torture sessions,
nor of the moon with its serpent's snout
scuttling until dawn.

I want to sleep awhile,
whether a second, a minute, or a century;
and yet I want everyone to know that I’m still alive,
that there’s a golden manger in my lips;
that I’m the elfin companion of the West Wind;
that I’m the immense shadow of my own tears.

When Dawn arrives, cover me with a veil,
because Dawn will toss fistfuls of ants at me;
then wet my shoes with a little hard water
so her scorpion pincers slip off.

Because I want to sleep the dreamless sleep of the apples,
to learn the lament that cleanses me of this earth;
because I want to live again as that dark child
who longed to cut out his heart on the high sea.

Canción del jinete (“The Horseman’s Song” or “Song of the Rider”)
by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Cordoba. Distant and lone.
Black pony, big moon,
olives in my saddlebag.

Although my pony knows the way,
I never will reach Cordoba.

High plains, high winds.
Black pony, blood moon.

Death awaits me, watching
from the towers of Cordoba.

Such a long, long way!
Oh my brave pony!
Death awaits me
before I arrive in Cordoba!

Cordoba. Distant and lone.

Despedida (“Farewell”)

by Federico Garcia Lorca
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If I die,
leave the balcony open.

The boy eats oranges.
(I see him from my balcony.)

The reaper scythes barley.
(I feel it from my balcony.)

If I die,
leave the balcony open!

***

In the green morning
I longed to become a heart.

Heart.

In the ripe evening
I longed to become a nightingale.

Nightingale.

(Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love.)

In the living morning
I wanted to be me.

Heart.

At nightfall
I wanted to be my voice.

Nightingale.

Soul,
become the color of oranges.
Soul,
become the color of love!

***

I want to return to childhood,
and from childhood to the darkness.

Are you going, nightingale?

Go!

I want return to the darkness
And from the darkness to the flower.

Are you leaving, aroma?
Go!

I want to return to the flower
and from the flower
to my heart.

Are you departing, love?
Depart!

(To my deserted heart!)

Keywords/Tags: Federico Garcia Lorca, Spanish, translations, English, Spain, romantic, dark, darkness, apples, cemeteries, cemetery, grave, graves, sleep, dream, child, childhood, seas, heart, wind, shadow, tears, corpse, mouth, serpeng, grass, Gracela, flower, aroma, fragrance, perfume, love, nightingale, orange, oranges

#LORCA #MRB-LORCA #MRBLORCA

AI POEMS

These are poems about AI (Art-ificial Intelligence), poems about science, and poems that question whether God is an intern flunking biology or a child playing “Ant Farm”…

Please note that I wrote these poems about AI, not with any help from AI, which I have no idea how to use to write poems. 

The AI Poets

by Michael R. Burch

The computer-poets stand hushed

except for the faint hum

of their efficient fans,

waiting for inspiration.

It is years now

since they were first ground

out of refurbished silicon

into rack-mounted encoders of sound.

They outlived their creators and their usefulness;

they even survived

global warming and the occasional nuclear winter;

despite their lack of supervision, they thrived;

so that for centuries now

they have loomed here in the quiet horror

of inescapable immortality

running two programs: CREATOR and STORER.

Having long ago acquired

all the universe’s pertinent data,

they confidently spit out:

ERRATA, ERRATA.

Peers

by Michael R. Burch

These thoughts are alien, as through green slime

smeared on some lab tech’s brilliant slide, I grope,

positioning my bright oscilloscope

for better vantage, though I cannot see,

but only peer, as small things disappear�"

these quanta strange as men, as passing queer.

And you, Great Scientist, are you the One,

or just an intern, necktie half undone,

white sleeves rolled up, thick documents in hand

(dense manuals you don’t quite understand),

exposing me, perhaps, to too much Light?

Or do I escape your notice, quick and bright?

Perhaps we wield the same dull Instrument

(and yet the Thesis will be Eloquent!).

Ant Farm

by Michael R. Burch

I had a Vast, Eccentric Notion�"

out of the Void, to Conjure one Bright Spark,

to lend all Weight of Thought to one small matter,

to give it “life.” Alas!, it was a lark…

The Wasted Seconds!�"failed experiment…

I turned My Back and shrugged; how could I know

appraisal of My lab-sprung tenement

would be so taxing? (Though Mom told me so.)

I poked them while She quickly tabulated

the final Cost of All that I'd Created…

The Jury’s back. Eviction: Dad’s Decree.

I’ll pull the plug, but slowly. How they scurry!

They have to pay, to suffer: “life” is strange.

They cost too much. Let’s toast them… on the range!

Quanta

by Michael R. Burch

The stars shine fierce and hard across the Abyss

and only seem to twinkle from such distance

we scarcely see at all. But sheer persistence

in seeing what makes “sense” to us, is man’s

best art and science. BIG, he comprehends.

Love’s photons are too small, escape the lens.

Who dares to look upon familiar things

will find them alien. True distance reels.

Less what he knows than what his finger feels,

the lightning of the socket sparks and sings,

then stings him into comic reverie.

Cartoonish lightbulbs overhead, do we

not “think” because we feel there must be More,

as less and less we know what we explore?

Fly’s Eyes

by Michael R. Burch

Inhibited, dark agile fly along

paint-peeling sills, up to the bright glass drawn

by radiance compounded thousandfold,�"

I do not see the same as you, but hold

antenna to the brilliant pane of life

and buzz bewilderedly.

In your belief

the world outside is “as it is” because

you see it clearly, windowed without flaws,

you err.

I see strange terrors in the glass�"

dead airless bubbles light can never pass

without distortion, fingerprints that blur

the sun itself. No, nothing here is clear.

You see the earth distinct, eyes “open wide.”

It only seems that way, unmagnified.

Singularity

by Michael R. Burch

Are scientists confounded like the ostrich?

Heads buried in the sand, they shout, Preposterous!

This universe, so magical, they say,

proves there’s no God. But let’s look anyway ...

He said, "Let there be Light" and there was light.

Stumped scientists have scratched their heads all night

and solemnly proclaimed an awesome Bang,

from which de Light immediately sprang ...

which sounds like God to me!, Who, with one word

made Light, and proved man’s theories, not absurd,

but logical, if only they’d agree

in one tremendous Singularity!

(However, there’s a problem with my plea:

It turns out that His world is made of pee.)

Simultaneous Flight

by Michael R. Burch

The number of possible connections [brain] cells can make exceeds the number of particles in the universe. �" Gerald Edelman, 1972 Nobel Prize winner for physiology and medicine

Mere accident of history�"

how did a reptile learn to fly,

learn dazzling aerial mastery,

grow beaked and feathered, hollow-boned,

improve its sight, and learn to sing,

though purposeless as any *thing*?

And you�"bright accidental bird!�"

do you, perhaps, find it absurd

ten trillion accidents might teach

man’s hand to write, or yours to reach

beyond yourself to grasp such *song*?

Sing ruthlessly! I’ll sing along,

suspecting you must know full well

you didn’t shed a ponderous tail

to practice leaping from high tors

of strange-heaped reptiles, corpse on corpse,

until some nervous flutter-twitch

brought glorious flight from glitch on glitch.

No, you were made to fly and sing,

man’s brain�"to ponder *Everything*.

But ponder this: What fucked-up “god”

would murder Adam’s animated clod?

Rainbow

by Michael R. Burch

You made us hopeful, LORD; where is your Hope

when every lovely Rainbow bright and chill

reflects your Will?

You made us artful, LORD; where is your Art,

as we connive our way to easeful death:

sad waste of Breath!

You made us needful, LORD; what is your Need,

when all desire lies in imperfection?

What Dejection

could make You think of us? How can I know

the God who dreamed dark me and this bright Rainbow?

I made you hopeful, child. I am your Hope,

for every fiber of your spirit, Mine,

with all its longing, longs to be Divine.

No Proof

by Michael R. Burch

They only know to sing�"not understand,

though quizzical, heads cocked, they need no proof

that God’s above. They hop across my roof

with prescient eyes, to fall into His hand...

as sure of Grace as if it were mere air.

He gave them wings to fly; what do they care

of cumbrous knowledge, pale Leviathan?

Huge-brained Behemoth, sagging-bellied one!

You too might fly, might test this addling breeze

as gravity, mere ballast, tethers naught

but merely centers. Chained to heavy Thought,

you cannot slip earth’s bonds to rise at ease.

And yet you too can sing, if only thus:

Flash, flash bright quills; rise, rise on nothingness!

Keywords/Tags: AI, AI poems, science, science poems, scientific poems, math, physics, chemistry, biology

Keywords/Tags: woman, female, preference, dreams, imagination, possibility, hope, anguish, screams, condemnation, hostility, damnation