The LEVELER
These are poems about time, mortality, death, decay and loss ...
The Leveler
by Michael R. Burch
The nature of Nature
is bitter survival
from Winter’s bleak fury
till Spring’s brief revival.
The weak implore Fate;
bold men ravish, dishevel her ...
till both are cut down
by mere ticks of the Leveler.
Published by The Lyric, The Aurorean, Tucumcari Literary Review, Romantics Quarterly and in a YouTube video by Asma Masooma
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Ono no Komachi translations
These are my modern English translations of ancient Japanese poems by Ono no Komachi.
Watching wan moonlight flooding tree limbs,
my heart also brims,
overflowing with autumn.
—Ono no Komachi (circa 825-900), loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Original Haiku
These are original haiku written by Michael R. Burch, many of them under the influence of the Oriental masters of the form.
Dark-bosomed clouds
pregnant with heavy thunder ...
the water breaks
—Michael R. Burch
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Silver
by Michael R. Burch
Poems about Frost, Ice and Winter
These are poems about Frost, Ice and Winter, plus poems I have written after Robert Frost.
Not Elves, Exactly
by Michael R. Burch
after Robert Frost's "Mending Wall"
Something there is that likes a wall,
that likes it spiked and likes it tall,
that likes its pikes’ sharp rows of teeth
and doesn’t mind its victims’ grief
(wherever they come from, far or wide)
as long as they fall on the other side.
As Fall Begins, I Look Within
As Fall Begins, I Look Within
Li Yi (746-829)Ten thousand fears have come to fix my life,
As on this mirrored shore I gaze uneased—
Here all I see has turned my temples white
And now it’s time to face the autumn breeze.
Chinese 立秋前一日覽鏡 李益 萬事銷身外 生涯在鏡中 唯將滿鬢雪 明日對秋風 | Pronunciation Lì Qiū Qián Yī Rì Lǎn Jìng |
Harbor
along the harbor
where green sea goes gray
on an autumn day
as it’s turned half winter
now in the sun
and the pairs form
of cold light and mannequins
that mouth out with their frozen lips
of something yet to come
Two Portraits
You say, as one who shapes a life,
That you will never be a wife,
And, laughing lightly, ask my aid
To paint your future as a maid.
This is the portrait; and I take
The softest colors for your sake:
The springtime of your soul is dead,
And forty years have bent your head;
The lines are firmer round your mouth,
But still its smile is like the South.
Your eyes, grown deeper, are not sad,
Yet never more than gravely glad;
And the old charm still lurks within
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To Walt Whitman In America
Send but a song oversea for us,
Heart of their hearts who are free,
Heart of their singer, to be for us
More than our singing can be;
Ours, in the tempest at error,
With no light but the twilight of terror;
Send us a song oversea!
Sweet-smelling of pine-leaves and grasses,
And blown as a tree through and through
With the winds of the keen mountain-passes,
And tender as sun-smitten dew;
Sharp-tongued as the winter that shakes
The wastes of your limitless lakes,
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To Whom It May Concern
In Autumn,
as in Spring,
the sap flows,
the sap wishes to race
against heartbeats
before the winter,
before the winter
buries us
in her usual shroud of ice.
I turn to you
knowing that
unrequited love
is good
for poetry,
knowing that pain
will nudge the muse
as well as anything,
knowing that you
are afraid, fettered
to a life
you do not love,
& so unfree
that freedom seems
more fearful even
than the familiar
business
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To the Tune of
The fragrance of the pink lotus
fails, the jade mat hints of autumn.
Softly I unfasten my silk cloak,
Who is sending a letter from
among the clouds?
When the swan message returns,
the balcony is flooded with moonlight.
The blossoms drift on, the water flows.
There is the same yearning of the heart,
But it abides in two places.
There is no way to drive away this yearning:
Driven from the eyebrows,
It enters the heart.
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