These are poems I have written about time, mortality, aging, death and loss.

Thirty
by Michael R. Burch

Thirty crept upon me slowly
with feline caution and a slowly-twitching tail ...
How patiently she waited for the winds to shift!
Now, claws unsheathed, she lies seething to assail
her helpless prey.

 

Modern Charon
by Michael R. Burch

I, too, have stood—paralyzed at the helm
watching onrushing, inevitable disaster.
I too have felt sweat (or ecstatic tears) plaster
damp hair to my eyes, as a slug’s dense film
becomes mucous-insulate. Always, thereafter
living in darkness, bright things overwhelm.

Originally published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea

 

Abide
by Michael R. Burch

after Philip Larkin’s “Aubade”

It is hard to understand or accept mortality—
such an alien concept: not to be.   
Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion,
or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea
boiling like goopy green soup in a kettle.

Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle
than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists
simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle.

And so we abide . . . even in life, staring out across that dark brink.
And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink,
it is best not to drink (or, drinking, certainly not to think).

Published by Light Quarterly, Lighten Up Online, Triplopia and Poetry Life & Times

 

If You Come to San Miguel
by Michael R. Burch

If you come to San Miguel
before the orchids fall,
we might stroll through lengthening shadows
those deserted streets
where love first bloomed ...

You might buy the same cheap musk
from that mud-spattered stall 
where with furtive eyes the vendor
watched his fragrant wares
perfume your breasts ...

Where lean men mend tattered nets,
disgruntled sea gulls chide; 
we might find that cafetucho
where through grimy panes
sunset implodes ...
           
Where tall cranes spin canvassed loads,
the strange anhingas glide.
Green brine laps splintered moorings,
rusted iron chains grind,
weighed and anchored in the past,

held fast by luminescent tides ...
Should you come to San Miguel?
Let love decide.

Published by Romantics Quarterly, Poetry Life & Times and Muddy River Poetry Review

 

Indestructible
by Michael R. Burch

for Johnny Cash

What is a mountain, but stone?
Or a spire, but a trinket of steel?
Johnny Cash is gone,
black from his hair to his bootheels.

Can a man out-endure mountains’ stone
if his songs lift us closer to heaven?
Can the steel in his voice vibrate on
till his words are our manna and leaven?

Sing, all you mountains of stone,
with the rasp of his voice, and the gravel.
Let the twang of thumbed steel lead us home
through these weary dark ways all men travel.

For what is a mountain, but stone?
Or a spire, but a trinket of steel?
Johnny Cash lives on—
black from his hair to his bootheels.

Published by Strong Verse and Poetry Life & Times and set to music by Mike Strand

Copyright © 2006 by Michael R. Burch

When I was a teenager Johnny Cash used to pop into the Nashville McDonald’s where I worked to buy burgers after the Grand Ole Opry let out. True to his nickname, the Man in Black always dressed in black. I think he’s as immortal now as human beings can become, since someone will be singing songs he wrote and and recorded till the end of time. Keywords/Tags: Johnny Cash, black, hair, clothes, boots, voice, rasp, gravel, steel, guitar, songs, music, mountain, stone, heaven, manna, leaven

 

How Long the Night
anonymous Middle English poem, circa early 13th century AD
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

It is pleasant, indeed, while the summer lasts
with the mild pheasants' song ...
but now I feel the northern wind's blast—
its severe weather strong.
Alas! Alas! This night seems so long!
And I, because of my momentous wrong,
now grieve, mourn and fast.

Published by Measure, Setu (India), A Long Story Short, Glass Facets of Poetry, Better Than Starbucks, Chanticleer, Poetry Brevet, Deviant Art, The Unsung Anthology, SAAD Mustafa Community, and Society of Classical Poets; also set to music by the composer Seth Wright

 

The Shrinking Season
by Michael R. Burch

With every wearying year
the weight of the winter grows
and while the schoolgirl outgrows
her clothes,
the widow disappears
in hers.

Published by Angle, Poem Today (featured poem), Heartfelt Death Poems, Girls and Goblins and Madly Jane

 

Almost
by Michael R. Burch

We had—almost—an affair.
You almost ran your fingers through my hair.
I almost kissed the almonds of your toes.
We almost loved,
                          that’s always how love goes.

You almost contemplated using Nair
and adding henna highlights to your hair,
while I considered plucking you a Rose.
We almost loved,
                          that’s always how love goes.

I almost found the words to say, “I care.”
We almost kissed, and yet you didn’t dare.
I heard coarse stubble grate against your hose.
We almost loved,
                          that’s always how love goes.

You almost called me suave and debonair
(perhaps because my chest is pale and bare?).
I almost bought you edible underclothes.
We almost loved,
                          that’s always how love goes.

I almost asked you where you kept your lair
and if by chance I might seduce you there.
You almost tweezed the redwoods from my nose.
We almost loved,
                          that’s always how love goes.

We almost danced like Rogers and Astaire
on gliding feet; we almost waltzed on air ...
until I mashed your plain, unpolished toes.
We almost loved,
                          that’s always how love goes.

I almost was strange Sonny to your Cher.
We almost sat in love’s electric chair
to be enlightninged, till our hearts unfroze.
We almost loved,
                          that’s always how love goes.

 

Spring Was Delayed
by Michael R. Burch

Winter came early:
the driving snows,
the delicate frosts
that crystallize

all we forget
or refuse to know,
all we regret
that makes us wise.

Spring was delayed:
the nubile rose,
the tentative sun,
the wind’s soft sighs,

all we omit
or refuse to show,
whatever we shield
behind guarded eyes.

Originally published by Borderless Journal

 

She Was Very Pretty
by Michael R. Burch

She was very pretty, in the usual way
for perhaps a day;
and when the boys came out to play,
she winked and smiled, then ran away
till one unexpectedly caught her.

At sixteen, she had a daughter.

She was fairly pretty another day
in her squalid house, in her pallid way,
but the skies ahead loomed drably grey,
and the moonlight gleamed jaundiced on her cheeks.

She was almost pretty perhaps two weeks.

Then she was hardly pretty; her jaw was set.
With streaks of silver scattered in jet,
her hair became a solemn iron grey.
Her daughter winked, then ran away.

She was hardly pretty another day.

Then she was scarcely pretty; her skin was marred
by liver spots; her heart was scarred;
her child was grown; her life was done;
she faded away with the setting sun.

She was scarcely pretty, and not much fun.

Then she was sparsely pretty; her hair so thin;
but a light would sometimes steal within
to remind old, stoic gentlemen
of the rules, and how girls lose to win.

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.

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.

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.

Keywords/Tags: time, mortality, aging, death, loss

The Lingering and the Unconsoled Heart
by Michael R. Burch

There is a silence—
the last unspoken moment
before death,

when the moon,
cratered and broken,
is all madness and light,

when the breath comes low and complaining,
and the heart is a ruin
of emptiness and night.

There is a grief—
the grief of a lover's embrace
while faith still shimmers in a mother’s tears ...

There is no emptier time, nor place,
while the faint glimmer of life is ours
that the lingering and the unconsoled heart fears

beyond this: seeing its own stricken face
in eyes that drift toward some incomprehensible place.

I’m afraid Donald Justice was a bit over-optimistic in his poem “Men at Forty” …

Men at Sixty
by Michael R. Burch

after Donald Justice's "Men at Forty"

Learn to gently close
doors to rooms
you can never re-enter.

Rest against the stair rail
as the solid steps
buck and buckle like ships’ decks.

Rediscover in mirrors
your father’s face
once warm with the mystery of lather,
now electrically plucked.

***

That country wench bewitches your heart?
Hell, her most beguiling art’s
hiking her dress
to seduce you with her ankles' nakedness!
Sappho, fragment 57, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

 

TRANSLATIONS OF CHINESE POETRY

Huazi Ridge
by Wang Wei (699-759)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A bird in flight soars, limitless,
communal hills adopt autumn's resplendence;
yet from the top to bottom of Huazi Ridge,
melancholy seems endless.

 

"Lu Zhai" ("Deer Park")
by Wang Wei (699-759)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Uninhabited hills ...
except that now and again the silence is broken
by something like the sound of distant voices
as the sun's sinking rays illuminate lichens ...

 

"Lovesickness"
by Wang Wei (699-759)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Those bright red berries you have in the South,
the luscious ones that emerge each spring:
go gather them, bring them home by the bucketful,
they’re as tempting as my desire for you!

The Ormosia (a red bean called the “love pea”) is a symbol of lovesickness.

 

Farewell (I)
by Wang Wei (699-759)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Where the mountain began its ascent,
we stopped to bid each other farewell...
Now here dusk descends as I shut my wooden gate.
Come spring, the grass will once again turn green,
but will you also return, my friend?

 

Farewell (II)
by Wang Wei
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

We dismounted, drank to your departure.
I asked, “My friend, which way are you heading?”
You said, “Nothing here has been going my way,
So I’m returning to the crags of Nanshan.”
“Godspeed then,” I said, “You’ll be closer to Heaven,
among those infinite white clouds, never-ending!”

 

Spring Night
by Wang Wei
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I'm as idle as the osmanthus flowers...
This quiet spring night the hill stood silent
until the moon arrived and startled its birds:
they continue cawing from the dark ravine.

The osmanthus is a flowering evergreen also known as the devilwood.

 

Quiet Night Thoughts
by Li Bai (701-762)
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.

My interpretation of this famous poem is a bit different from the norm. The moon symbolizes love, so I imagine the moon shining on Li Bai’s bed to be suggestive, an invitation. A man might lower his eyes to avoid seeing something his wife would not approve of.

 

On Parting
by Du Mu
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My feelings are fond, yet “unfeeling” I feign;
we drink our wine, yet make merry in vain.
The candle, so bright!, and yet it still grieves,
for it melts, into tears, as the light recedes.

 

Farewell to a Friend
by Li Bai
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rolling hills rim the northern border;
white waves lap the eastern riverbank...
Here you set out like a windblown wisp of grass,
floating across fields, growing smaller and smaller.
You’ve longed to travel like the rootless clouds,
yet our friendship declines to wane with the sun.
Thus let it remain, our insoluble bond,
even as we wave goodbye till you vanish.
My horse neighs, as if unconvinced.

 

Li Shen (772-846) is better known in the West as Duke Wensu of Zhao. He was a Chinese poet, professor, historian, military general and politician of the Tang Dynasty who served as chancellor during the reign of Emperor Wuzong.

Toiling Farmers
by Duke Wensu of Zhou
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Farmers toil, weeding and hoeing, at noon,
Sweat pouring down their faces.
Who knows food heaped on silver trays
Comes thanks to their efforts and graces?

 

Luo Binwang (c. 619-684) was a Tang Dynasty poet who wrote his famous goose poem at age seven.

Ode to the Goose
by Luo Binwang
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Goose, goose, goose!
You crane your neck toward the sky and sing
as your white feathers float on emerald-green water
and your red feet part silver waves.
Goose, goose, goose!

 

David Hinton said T'ao Ch'ien (365-427) "stands at the head of the great Chinese poetic tradition like a revered grandfather: profoundly wise, self-possessed, quiet, comforting." T'ao gained quasi-mythic status for his commitment to life as a recluse farmer, despite poverty and hardship. Today he is remembered as one of the best Chinese poets of the Six Dynasties Period.

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.

 

Drinking Wine V
by T'ao Ch'ien (365-427)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I built my hut here amid the hurriedness of men,
but where is the din of carriages and horses today?
You ask me "How?" but I have no reply.
Here where the heart is isolated, the earth stands aloof.

Harvesting chrysanthemums by the eastern hedge,
I see the southern hills, afar;
The balmy air of the hills seems good;
migrating birds return to their nests.
This seems like the essence of life,
and yet I lack words.

 

Returning to Live in the Country
by T'ao Ch'ien (365-427)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The caged bird longs for its ancient woodland;
the pond-reared Koi longs for its native stream ...

Dim, dim lies the distant hamlet;
lagging, lagging snakes the smoke of its market-place;
a dog barks in the alley;
a cock crows from atop the mulberry tree ...

My courtyard and door are free from turmoil;
in these dust-free rooms there is leisure to spare.
But too long a captive caught in a cage,
when will I return to Nature?

 

Su Tungpo (1037-1101) is better known as Su Shi. A towering figure of the Northern Song era, Su Shi is considered to be one of China’s greatest poets and essayists. More than 2,000 of his poems survive.

“Pining”
by Su Shi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You’re ten years dead and your memory fades,
nor do I try to remember,
yet how to forget?

Your lonely grave, so distant,
these cold thoughts―how can I hash them out?

If we met today, you wouldn’t recognize me:
this ashen face, my hair like frost.

In a dream last night suddenly I was home,
standing by our bedroom window
where you sat combing your hair and putting on your makeup.

You turned to gaze at me, not speaking,
as tears coursed down your cheeks.

Year after year will it continue to break my heart―
this grave illuminated by ghostly moonlit pines?

 

Visiting the Temple of the God of Mercy during a Deluge
by Su Shi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The silkworms age,
The wheat yellows,
The rain falls unrestrained flooding the valleys,
The farmers cannot work their land,
Nor can the women gather mulberries,
While the Immortals sit white-robed on elevated thrones.

 

Our Lives
by Su Shi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
To what can our lives be likened?
To a flock of geese alighting on snow,
leaving scant evidence of their passage.

2.
To what can our lives be compared?
To a flock of geese fleeing an early snow,
all evidence of their passage quickly melting.

3.
To what can our lives be compared?
To a flock of geese alighting on snow,
leaving a few barely visible feathers.

4.
To what can our lives be compared?
To a flock of geese alighting on snow,
leaving a few frozen tailfeathers.

5.
To what can our lives be compared?
To a flock of geese alighting on snow,
leaving invisible droppings.

Mid-Autumn Moon
by Su Shi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The sunset’s clouds are distant, the air clear and cold,
the Milky Way silent, the moon a jade plate.
Neither life nor this night will last long,
so whose eyes will admire this bright moon tomorrow?

 

Benevolent Moon, an excerpt from “The Moon Festival”
by Su Shi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Rounding the red pavilion,
Stooping to peer through transparent windows,
The moon shines benevolently on the sleepless,
Knowing no sadness, bearing no ill...
But why so bright when we sleep apart?

 

“The Moon Festival”
by Su Shi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

“Where else is there moonlight?”
Wine cup in hand, I ask the dark sky,
Not knowing the hour of the night
in those distant celestial palaces.

I long to ride the wind home,
Yet dread those high towers’ crystal and jade,
Fear freezing to death amid all those icicles.

Instead, I begin to dance with my moon-lit shadow.
Better off, after all, to live close to earth.

Rounding the red pavilion,
Stooping to peer through transparent windows,
The moon shines benevolently on the sleepless,
Knowing no sadness, bearing no ill...
But why so bright when we sleep apart?

As men experience grief and joy, parting and union,
So the moon brightens and dims, waxes and wanes.
It has always been thus, since the beginning of time.

My wish for you is a long, blessed life
And to share this moon’s loveliness though leagues apart.

Su Shi wrote this famous lyric for his brother Ziyou (1039-1112), when the poet was far from the imperial court.

 

"Red Light District"
by Su Shi
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A lonely sick old man,
my frosty hair disheveled by the wind.
My son’s mistakenly pleased by my ruddy complexion,
but I smile, knowing it's the booze.

 

Untitled

For fear the roses might sleep tonight,
I’ll leave a tall candle as a spotlight
to remind them of their crimson glory.
Su Shi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

For fear the roses might sleep tonight,
I’ll light a candle to remind them of their crimson glory.
Su Shi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

 

Red Peonies
by Zhou Bangyan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1.
Such bitterness defies expression:
thus I accept that she’s gone for good,
and too far for letters.

Even if cleverer fingers could preserve both rings, [1]
what we had has dissipated, like windblown mists,
like clouds thinning.

Now the apartment we shared stands empty
and dust has long since settled to an ashen seal,
making me think of roots removed and leaves shed,
of those red peonies she planted then deserted.

2.
On a nearby island the iris blossoms,
but by now her boat nears some distant shore,
with us at opposite ends of the world.

It’s vain to recall her long-ago letters:
all idle talk now, all idle chatter.
I’d like to burn the whole lot of them!

When spring returns to the river landing,
perhaps she’ll send me a spray of plum blossoms; [2]
then, for the rest of my life,
wherever there are flowers and wine,
I’ll weep for her.

[1] The Empress Dowager of Qi separated complexly linked rings of carved jade by smashing them to pieces.

[2] In Chinese poetry the pear blossom symbolizes the transience of life and the ephemeral beauty of nature.

 

A Song of Two Voices
by Zhou Bangyan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

“About to depart, still I linger in the lamplight,
broken-hearted. The vermilion door beckons.
But there’s no need for waterfalls to stain your cheeks:
I’ll return by the time the wild roses fade.”

“Dancing here with your hand on my waist, keeping time,
allowing others to watch as I try not to cry,
do you see the glowing embers in the golden brazier?
Don’t let your love so easily become ashes!”

 

Untitled

A cicada drones sadly in the distance
as I contemplate my journey.
What use are ten thousand tender sentiments,
with no one to receive them?
Zhou Bangyan, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

 

Departure
by Zhou Bangyan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dawn’s clouds hang heavy,
frost stiffens the grass,
mist obscures the battlements.

The well-oiled carriage stands ready to depart,
the cup of parting nearly drained.

Hanging low enough to brush our faces, willow limbs invite being tied into knots.
Concealing rouged tears, she breaks one off with her jade hands.
Here on the banks of the Han she wonders where the wild goose wandered:
For so long now there’s been no word of him.

The land is vast, the sky immense,
the dew cold, the wind brisk,
our surroundings devoid of other people,
the water-clock disconsolate.

Here arise a myriad complications,
but hardest of all is to separate so easily.

The wine cup is not quite empty,
so I counsel the clouds to hold back,
the setting moon to remain above the western tower.

The silken girdle’s sheen safely hidden;
the patterned quilt discreetly folded up;
the linked rings severed;
the delicate perfume dispersed...

 

TRANSLATIONS OF TAMIL POEMS AND EPIGRAMS

Among all earth’s languages we find none, anywhere, as sweet as Tamil. ― Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The Golden Bharath is our glorious homeland:
Hail India, members of a matchless band!
―Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Mankind will achieve enlightenment only when it holds women equal with men. ― Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

You shattered my heart,
now all I see are your reflections in the shards.
―Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am the footprint erased by the rain. ― Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I keep thinking of you, like the child who sticks his hand in the flame knowing he’ll get burned. ― Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

What can a dewdrop do when the forest is aflame?―Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Can you sense when a heart is burning to ashes?―Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Let's sing and dance with glee!

Let’s sing a song to Independence, for we
are finally free!
Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Like the lizard that peeps from a toppled tree, we enter this existence.
Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unlike those who think only about food,
who sit on their verandahs gossiping about meaningless things,
who dwell on their miseries,
who cause trouble for others,
who fret themselves gray,
who become slaves to their desires, then die in vain,
I shall not. I shall not fizzle out, a purposeless nothing.
Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

 

India’s Treasures
by Subramanya Bharathi, a Tamil poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The eternal Himalayas tower above us,
as no other mountains ever rose!

The gently nourishing Ganges ebbs and flows...
Do other rivers rival her? Not even close!

The Upanishads? Literature’s first and fairest Rose
will continue to keep other books on their toes!

 

“Sowkkiyama Kanne” (“How Are You, Dear?”)
by Subramanya Bharathi, a Tamil poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I can’t catch my breath! I can’t catch my breath!
But think nothing of it. Tell me about yourself.

 

"Vande Mataram"
by Subramanya Bharathi, a Tamil poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You are rich with swiftly-flowing streams
and bright with your orchards’ blossoms white.
You are cool with brisk breezes that swirl and delight.
Venerably, we bow before you.

Your skies are moonlit through the nightwatch’s hours
while your groves emit the soft incense of flowers.
Birds chirping in the trees remind us of your blessings.
Venerably, we bow before you.

Countless voices reply when you play your harp.
Countless shoulders stand poised to meet your demands.
When you issue your commands,
swords flash in seventy million hands!

Your enemies tremble as seventy million voices roar
your dreadful name, from shore to shore!

Who says you are timid? They lie!
We stand ready to defend you, or die.

Venerably, we bow before you.

You are our wisdom, you are our law.
You are our heart, our soul, and our breath.
You are our love divine and our awe.
It is your peace in our hearts that conquers death.

Yours is the courage that nerves the arm.
Yours is the beauty, yours is the charm.

Every image we hold sacred and true
In our beautiful temples is tribute to you.

Venerably, we bow before you:
Our Mother, Mother India.

Venerably, we bow before you.

 

“Vazhi Maraittu” (“My View is Obstructed”) from the opera "Nandanar Charitram"
by Gopalakrishna Bharati (1810-1896), a Tamil poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A Dalit ("untouchable") approaches a temple he is not allowed to enter...

my view is obstructed, as if by a Mountain:
there’s a Bull lying here, my Lord!

am i cursed? even arriving at this Holy Temple
i remain in my sins!
am i not allowed to touch Your Feet
O Holy Shiva, Lord of the Kailas?

it suffices that i am able to glimpse You in Your Chariot!
i won’t enter the Great Temple, O Lord,
but is it possible that You might move one Mighty Foot?
to not block my vision, won’t Your Bull move just a little bit?

 

TRANSLATIONS OF TAMIL POEMS AND EPIGRAMS

Among all earth’s languages we find none, anywhere, as sweet as Tamil. ― Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

The Golden Bharath is our glorious homeland:
Hail India, members of a matchless band!
―Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Mankind will achieve enlightenment only when it holds women equal with men. ― Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

You shattered my heart,
now all I see are your reflections in the shards.
―Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am the footprint erased by the rain. ― Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

I keep thinking of you, like the child who sticks his hand in the flame knowing he’ll get burned. ― Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

What can a dewdrop do when the forest is aflame?―Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Can you sense when a heart is burning to ashes?―Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Let's sing and dance with glee!
Let’s sing a song to Independence, for we
are finally free!
―Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation by Michael R. Burch

Like the lizard that peeps from a toppled tree, we enter this existence.
―Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Unlike those who think only about food,
who sit on their verandahs gossiping about meaningless things,
who dwell on their miseries,
who cause trouble for others,
who fret themselves gray,
who become slaves to their desires, then die in vain,
I shall not. I shall not fizzle out, a purposeless nothing.
―Subramanya Bharathi, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

 

India’s Treasures
by Subramanya Bharathi, a Tamil poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The eternal Himalayas tower above us,
as no other mountains ever rose!

The gently nourishing Ganges ebbs and flows...
Do other rivers rival her? Not even close!

The Upanishads? Literature’s first and fairest Rose
will continue to keep other books on their toes!

 

“Sowkkiyama Kanne” (“How Are You, Dear?”)
by Subramanya Bharathi, a Tamil poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I can’t catch my breath! I can’t catch my breath!
But think nothing of it. Tell me about yourself.

 

"Vande Mataram"
by Subramanya Bharathi, a Tamil poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You are rich with swiftly-flowing streams
and bright with your orchards’ blossoms white.
You are cool with brisk breezes that swirl and delight.
Venerably, we bow before you.

Your skies are moonlit through the nightwatch’s hours
while your groves emit the soft incense of flowers.
Birds chirping in the trees remind us of your blessings.
Venerably, we bow before you.

Countless voices reply when you play your harp.
Countless shoulders stand poised to meet your demands.
When you issue your commands,
swords flash in seventy million hands!

Your enemies tremble as seventy million voices roar
your dreadful name, from shore to shore!

Who says you are timid? They lie!
We stand ready to defend you, or die.

Venerably, we bow before you.

You are our wisdom, you are our law.
You are our heart, our soul, and our breath.
You are our love divine and our awe.
It is your peace in our hearts that conquers death.

Yours is the courage that nerves the arm.
Yours is the beauty, yours is the charm.

Every image we hold sacred and true
In our beautiful temples is tribute to you.

Venerably, we bow before you:
Our Mother, Mother India.
Venerably, we bow before you.

 

“Vazhi Maraittu” (“My View is Obstructed”) from the opera "Nandanar Charitram"
by Gopalakrishna Bharati (1810-1896), a Tamil poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

A Dalit ("untouchable") approaches a temple he is not allowed to enter...

my view is obstructed, as if by a Mountain:
there’s a Bull lying here, my Lord!

am i cursed? even arriving at this Holy Temple
i remain in my sins!
am i not allowed to touch Your Feet
O Holy Shiva, Lord of the Kailas?

it suffices that i am able to glimpse You in Your Chariot!
i won’t enter the Great Temple, O Lord,
but is it possible that You might move one Mighty Foot?
to not block my vision, won’t Your Bull move just a little bit?

 

TRANSLATIONS OF UKRAINIAN POEMS AND EPIGRAMS

Taras Hryhorovych Shevchenko (1814-1861) was also known as Kobzar Taras, or simply Kobzar ("The Bard"). The foremost Ukrainian poet of the 19th century, Shevchenko was also a playwright, writer, artist, illustrator, folklorist, ethnographer and political figure. He is considered to be the father of modern Ukrainian literature and, to some degree, of the modern Ukrainian language. Shevchenko was also an outspoken champion of Ukrainian independence and a major figure in Ukraine's national revival. In 1847 he was convicted for explicitly promoting the independence of Ukraine, for writing poems in the Ukrainian language, and for ridiculing members of the Russian Imperial House. He would spend 12 years under some form of imprisonment or military conscription.

Dear God!
by Taras Shevchenko
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Dear God, disaster again!
Life was once calm ... serene ...
But as soon as we began to break the chains
Of bondage that enslaved us ...
The whip cracked! The serfs' blood flew!
Now, like ravenous wolves fighting over a bone,
The Imperial thugs are at each other's throats again.

 

Zapovit ("Testament")
by Taras Shevchenko
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

When I die, let them bury me
on some high, windy steppe,
my tomb a simple burial mound,
unnoticed and unwept.
Below me, my beloved Ukraine's
vast plains ... beyond, the shore
where the mighty Dnieper thunders
as her surging waters roar!
Then let her bear to the distant sea
the blood of all invaders,
before I rise, at last content
to leave this Earth forever.
For how, until that moment,
could I ever flee to God,
knowing my nation lives in chains,
that innocents shed blood?
Friends, free me from my grave ― arise,

sundering your chains!
Water your freedom with blood spilled
by cruel tyrants' evil veins!
Then, when you're all one family,
a family of the free,
do not forget my good intent:
Remember me.

 

Love in Kyiv
by Natalka Bilotserkivets, a Ukrainian poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Love is more terrible in Kyiv
than spectacular Venetian passions,
than butterflies morphing into bright tapers ―
winged caterpillars bursting aflame!

Here spring has lit the chestnuts, like candles,
and we have cheap lipstick’s fruity taste,
the daring innocence of miniskirts,
and all these ill-cut coiffures.

And yet images, memories and portents still move us...
all so tragically obvious, like the latest fashion.

Here you’ll fall victim to the assassin’s stiletto,
your blood coruscating like rust
reddening a brand-new Audi in a Tartarkan alley.

Here you’ll plummet from a balcony
headlong into your decrepit little Paris,
wearing a prim white secretarial blouse.

Here you can no longer discern the weddings from the funerals,
because love in Kyiv is more terrible
than the tired slogans of the New Communism.

Phantoms emerge these inebriated nights
out of Bald Mountain, bearing
red banners and potted red geraniums.

Here you’ll die by the assassin’s stiletto:
plummet from a balcony,
tumble headlong into a brand-new Audi in a Tartarkan alley,
spiral into your decrepit little Paris,
your blood coruscating like rust
on a prim white secretarial blouse.

 

"Words terrify when they remain unspoken." ― Lina Kostenko, translation by Michael R. Burch

Unsaid
by Lina Kostenko, a Ukrainian poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You told me “I love you” with your eyes
and your soul passed its most difficult exam;
like the tinkling bell of a mountain stream,
the unsaid remains unsaid.

Life rushed past the platform
as the station's speaker lapsed into silence:
so many words spilled by the quill!
But the unsaid remains unsaid.

Nights become dawn; days become dusk;
Fate all too often tilted the scales.
Words rose in me like the sun,
yet the unsaid remains unsaid.

 

Let It Be
by Lina Kostenko, a Ukrainian poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let there be light! The touch of a feather.
Let it be forever. A radiant memory!
This world is palest birch bark,
whitened in the darkness from elsewhere.

Today the snow began to fall.
Today late autumn brimmed with smoke.
Let it be bitter, dark memories of you.
Let it be light, these radiant memories!

Don't let the phone arouse your sorrow,
nor let your sadness stir with the leaves.
Let it be light, ’twas only a dream
barely brushing consciousness with its lips.

 

The Beggars
by Mixa Kozimirenko a Ukrainian poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Where, please tell me, should I hide my eyes
when a beggar approaches me
and my fatherland has more beggars
than anyplace else?
To cover my eyes with my hands, so as not to see,
not to hear the words ripping my soul apart?
My closed eyes cry
as the beggars walk by...
My eyes tight-shut, so as not to see them,
not to hear the words ripping my soul apart.
It is Mother Ukraine who’s weeping?
Can it be that her cry is unheard?

 

If the Last Rom Dies
by Mixa Kozimirenko
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

If the last Rom dies,
a star would vanish above the tent,
mountains and valleys moan,
horses whinny in open fields,
thunderclouds shroud the moon,
fiddles and guitars gently weep,
giants and dwarfs mourn.

If the last Rom dies…
what trace will the Roma have left?
Ask anyone, anywhere!

The Romani soul is in their songs―look there!

In lands near and far, everywhere,
Romani songs hearten human hearts.

Although their own road to happiness is hard,
they respect Freedom as well as God,
while searching for their heaven on earth.
But whether they’ve found it―ask them!

Mixa Kozimirenko (1938-2005) was a Ukrainian Romani Gypsy poet, philosopher, educator, music teacher, composer and Holocaust survivor. He was a prominent figure and highly regarded in Ukrainian literary circles.

 

We Are Here
by Michael R. Burch

“We are here.” ― Volodymyr Zelensky

We are here. Were are here.
And we won’t disappear.
We are here. We are here. We are here.

We are here. Have no fear,
our position is clear.
We are here. We are here. We are here.

And yet we need help.
Will earth’s leaders just yelp?
We are here. We are here. We are here.

Our nation stands strong.
Will you choose right, or wrong?
We are here. We are here. We are here.

Now let me be clear,
Vladimir, dear:
We are here. We are here. We are here.

 

TRANSLATIONS OF RUSSIAN POEMS AND EPIGRAMS

The Guest
by Anna Akhmatova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Everything’s the same: a driving snow
Hammers the dining room windows.
Meanwhile, I remain my usual self.
But a man came to me.

I asked him, “What do you want?”
“To be with you in hell.”
I laughed: “It’s plain you intend
To see us both damned!”

But he lifted his elegant hand
to lightly caress the flowers.
“Tell me how they kiss you,
Tell me how you kiss.”

His eyes, observing me blankly,
Never moved from my ring,
Nor did a muscle move
In his implacable face.

We both know his delight
is my unnerving knowledge
that he is indifferent to me,
that I can refuse him nothing.

 

THE MUSE
by Anna Akhmatova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My being hangs by a thread tonight
as I await a Muse no human pen can command.
The desires of my heart ― youth, liberty, glory ―

now depend on the Maid with the flute in her hand.

Look! Now she arrives; she flings back her veil;
I meet her grave eyes ― calm, implacable, pitiless.

“Temptress, confess!
Are you the one who gave Dante hell?”

She answers, “Yes.”

 

I have also translated this tribute poem written by Marina Tsvetaeva for Anna Akhmatova:

Excerpt from “Poems for Akhmatova”
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

You outshine everything, even the sun
at its zenith. The stars are yours!
If only I could sweep like the wind
through some unbarred door,
gratefully, to where you are ...
to hesitantly stammer, suddenly shy,
lowering my eyes before you, my lovely mistress,
petulant, chastened, overcome by tears,
as a child sobs to receive forgiveness ...

 

I Know The Truth
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I know the truth―abandon lesser truths!
There's no need for anyone living to struggle!
See? Evening falls, night quickly descends!
So why the useless disputes, generals, poets, lovers?

The wind is calming now; the earth is bathed in dew;
the stars' infernos will soon freeze in the heavens.
And soon we'll sleep together, under the earth,
we who never gave each other a moment's rest above it.

 

I Know The Truth (Alternate Ending)
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I know the truth―abandon lesser truths!
There's no need for anyone living to struggle!
See? Evening falls, night quickly descends!
So why the useless disputes, generals, poets, lovers?

The wind caresses the grasses; the earth gleams, damp with dew;
the stars' infernos will soon freeze in the heavens.
And soon we'll lie together under the earth,
we who were never united above it.

 

Poems about Moscow
by Marina Tsvetaeva
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

5
Above the city Saint Peter once remanded to hell
now rolls the delirious thunder of the bells.

As the thundering high tide eventually reverses,
so, too, the woman who once bore your curses.

To you, O Great Peter, and you, O Great Tsar, I kneel!
And yet the bells above me continually peal.

And while they keep ringing out of the pure blue sky,
Moscow's eminence is something I can't deny ...

though sixteen hundred churches, nearby and afar,
all gaily laugh at the hubris of the Tsars.

 

I Loved You
by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin, a Russian poet
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I loved you ... perhaps I love you still ...
perhaps for a while such emotions may remain.
But please don't let my feelings trouble you;
I do not wish to cause you further pain.

I loved you ... thus the hopelessness I knew ...
The jealousy, the diffidence, the pain
resulted in two hearts so wholly true
the gods might grant us leave to love again.

 

TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK POEMS AND EPIGRAMS

I am an image, a tombstone. Seikilos placed me here as a long-lasting sign of deathless remembrance.―loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Athens, celestial city, crowned with violets, beloved of poets, bulwark of Greece!―Pindar, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Do not, O my soul, aspire to immortality, but rather exhaust life.
―Pindar, Pythian Ode III, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Fairest of all preludes is mine to incomparable Athens
as I lay the foundation of songs for the mighty race of Alcmaeonidae and their majestic steeds. Among all the nations, which heroic house compares with glorious Hellas?
―Pindar, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Toil and expense confront excellence in endeavors fraught with danger,
but those who succeed are considered wise by their companions.
―Pindar, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I rejoice at this accomplishment and yet I also grieve,
seeing how Envy slanders noble endeavors.
―Pindar, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

 

Olympian Ode I
by Pindar
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Water is best of all,
and after that Gold flaming like a fire in the night with the luster of imperial wealth;
but if you are reluctant, O my soul, to sing of prizes in mere games ... please consider this:
for just as the brightest star can never outshine the sun no matter how often we scan the heavens by day,
even so we shall never find any games greater than our Olympics!

Therefore we raise our voices!

Hence come these glorious hymns!

Thus our minds bend to those skillful in song,
who celebrate Zeus, the son of Kronos,
as they come to the rich and happy hearth of Hieron ...

Hieron, who wields the scepter of justice in Sicily of the many flocks!

Hieron, who culls the choicest fruits of all sorts of excellence!

Hieron, whose halls flower with the splendid music he makes, as one sings blithely at a friend’s table!

Take down from its peg the Dorian lute!

Let the wise sing of the stallion Pherenikos, the steed who carried Hieron to glory,
who now at Pisa has turned out souls toward glad thoughts and rejoicing,
because by the banks of Alpheos he ran, giving his ungoaded body to the course,
and thus delivered victory to his master, the Syracusans' king, who delights in horses!

...

Now the majesty we remember today will be ever sovereign to men. All men.
My role is to crown Hieron with an equestrian strain in an elegant Aeolian mood,
and I am sure that no host among men ― now, or ever ―

shall I ever glorify in the sounding labyrinths of song
who is more learned in the learning of honor or with more might to achieve it!

A god has set a guard over your hopes, O Hieron, and regards them with peculiar care.
And if this god does not fail you, I shall again proclaim in song a greater glory yet,
and find the appropriate words when the time comes,
when to the bright-shining mountain of Kronos I return:
my Muse has yet to release her strongest-wingéd dart!

There are many kinds of greatness in men,
but the highest can only be achieved by kings.
Think not to look further into this,
but let it be your lot to walk loftily all your life,
and mine to be friend to the game-winners, winning honor for my art among Hellenes everywhere.

Year: 
2021
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