christ is a liberty
christ is a liberty of rock n roll
christ is a liberty of hell
christ is christ of liberty
rock n roll is a christ of a crisis
rock n roll is hail as a crisis
rock n roll is hail as hell
a crisis is a crisis of hell
a crisis is a crisis of rock n roll
hell is hail as hell
hell is hail as crisis
a hail of rock n roll is a hail of crisis
liberty is hail as hell
liberty is hail as rock n roll
These are lullabies I have written over the years, as poems. Some of my poems have been set to music and thus have become actual songs and lullabies.
For a Ukrainian Child, with Butterflies
by Michael R. Burch
Where does the butterfly go ...
when lightning rails ...
when thunder howls ...
when hailstones scream ...
when winter scowls ...
when nights compound dark frosts with snow ...
where does the butterfly go?
These are modern English translations of Urdu poems by Mirza Ghalib.
Near Sainthood
by Mirza Ghalib
translation by Kanu V. Prajapati and Michael R. Burch
On the subject of mystic philosophy, Ghalib,
your words might have struck us as deeply profound ...
Hell, we might have pronounced you a saint,
if only we hadn't found
you drunk
as a skunk!
***
Ghazal
by Mirza Ghalib
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
These are poems of mine that have been turned into songs by composers, plus a few that I would like to become songs.
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.
Poems for Posting July 2021
Index
There is beauty in her.
The way she moves,
Like she’s in a perfect rhythm with the earth.
She hums in sweet sixths with the birds,
While I settle in dissonance,
Lost in the sound.
There is wonder in her;
Her eyes gleam with passion,
and the birds sing, now in thirds.
Meanwhile, I remain in dissonance,
Lost in the sound.
The stairway sits empty
In silent echoes from yesterday
When so much
Filled the halls, darkly,
Like a performance at Carnegie Hall
After all the music dies
On one cacophonous note
'TWAS one of those dreams, that by music are brought,
Like a bright summer haze, o'er the poet's warm thought --
When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on,
And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone.
The wild notes he heard o'er the water were those
He had taught to sing Erin's dark bondage and woes,
And the breath of the bugle now wafted them o'er
From Dinis' green isle, to Glena's wooded shore.
He listen'd -- while, high o'er the eagle's rude nest,
The lingering sounds on their way loved to rest;
I love the hour that comes, with dusky hair
And dewy feet, along the Alpine dells
To lead the cattle forth. A thousand bells
Go chiming after her across the fair
And flowery uplands, while the rosy flare
Of sunset on the snowy mountain dwells,
And valleys darken, and the drowsy spells
Of peace are woven through the purple air.
Dear is the magic of this hour: she seems
To walk before the dark by falling rills,
And lend a sweeter song to hidden streams;
She opens all the doors of night, and fills
The Son of God in doing good
Was fain to look to Heaven and sigh:
And shall the heirs of sinful blood
Seek joy unmixed in charity?
God will not let Love's work impart
Full solace, lest it steal the heart;
Be thou content in tears to sow,
Blessing, like Jesus, in thy woe:
He looked to Heaven, and sadly sighed -
What saw my gracious Saviour there,
"With fear and anguish to divide
The joy of Heaven-accepted prayer?
So o'er the bed where Lazarus slept
He to His Father groaned and wept:
