Enough! Poem by Michael Burch

Enough!
by Michael R. Burch

It's not that I don't want to die;
I shall be glad to go.
Enough of diabetes pie,
and eating sickly crow!
Enough of win and place and show.
Enough of endless woe!

Enough of suffering and vice!
I've said it once;
I'll say it twice:
I shall be glad to go.

But why the hell should I be nice
when no one asked for my advice?
So grumpily I'll go...
although
(most probably) below.
POEMS ABOUT SHAKESPEARE by Michael R. Burch

These are poems I have written about Shakespeare, poems I have written for Shakespeare, and poems I have written after Shakespeare.



Fleet Tweet: Apologies to Shakespeare
by Michael R. Burch

a tweet
by any other name
would be as fleet!
@mikerburch



Fleet Tweet II: Further Apologies to Shakespeare
by Michael R. Burch

Remember, doggonit,
heroic verse crowns the Shakespearean sonnet!
So if you intend to write a couplet,
please do it on the doublet!
@mikerburch



Stage Fright
by Michael R. Burch

To be or not to be?
In the end Hamlet
opted for naught.



Ophelia
by Michael R. Burch

for Kevin N. Roberts

Ophelia, madness suits you well,
as the ocean sounds in an empty shell,
as the moon shines brightest in a starless sky,
as suns supernova before they die...



Shakespeare's Sonnet 130 Refuted
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
— Shakespeare, Sonnet 130

Seas that sparkle in the sun
without its light would have no beauty;
but the light within your eyes
is theirs alone; it owes no duty.
Whose winsome flame, not half so bright,
is meant for me, and brings delight.

Coral formed beneath the sea,
though scarlet-tendriled, cannot warm me;
while your lips, not half so red,
just touching mine, at once inflame me.
Whose scorching flames mild lips arouse
fathomless oceans fail to douse.

Bright roses' brief affairs, declared
when winter comes, will wither quickly.
Your cheeks, though paler when compared
with them? —more lasting, never prickly.
Whose tender cheeks, so enchantingly warm,
far vaster treasures, harbor no thorns.

Originally published by Romantics Quarterly

This was my first sonnet, written in my teens after I discovered Shakespeare's 'Sonnet 130.' At the time I didn't know the rules of the sonnet form, so mine is a bit unconventional. I think it is not bad for the first attempt of a teen poet. I remember writing this poem in my head on the way back to my dorm from a freshman English class. I would have been 18 or 19 at the time.



Attention Span Gap
by Michael R. Burch

What if a poet, Shakespeare,
were still living to tweet to us here?
He couldn't write sonnets,
just couplets, doggonit,
and we wouldn't have Hamlet or Lear!

Yes, a sonnet may end in a couplet,
which we moderns can write in a doublet,
in a flash, like a tweet.
Does that make it complete?
Should a poem be reduced to a stublet?

Bring back that Grand Era when men
had attention spans long as their pens,
or rather the quills
of the monsieurs and fils
who gave us the Dress, not its hem!



Chloe
by Michael R. Burch

There were skies onyx at night... moons by day...
lakes pale as her eyes... breathless winds
undressing tall elms... she would say
that we'd loved, but I figured we'd sinned.

Soon impatiens too fiery to stay
sagged; the crocus bells drooped, golden-limned;
things of brightness, rinsed out, ran to gray...
all the light of that world softly dimmed.

Where our feet were inclined, we would stray;
there were paths where dead weeds stood untrimmed,
distant mountains that loomed in our way,
thunder booming down valleys dark-hymned.

What I found, I found lost in her face
while yielding all my virtue to her grace.

'Chloe' is a Shakespearean sonnet about being parted from someone you wanted and expected to be with forever. It was originally published by Romantics Quarterly as 'A Dying Fall'



Sonnet: The City Is a Garment
by Michael R. Burch

A rhinestone skein, a jeweled brocade of light, —
the city is a garment stretched so thin
her festive colors bleed into the night,
and everywhere bright seams, unraveling,

cascade their brilliant contents out like coins
on motorways and esplanades; bead cars
come tumbling down long highways; at her groin
a railtrack like a zipper flashes sparks;

her hills are haired with brush like cashmere wool
and from their cleavage winking lights enlarge
and travel, slender fingers... softly pull
themselves into the semblance of a barge.

When night becomes too chill, she softly dons
great overcoats of warmest-colored dawn.

'The City is a Garment' is a Shakespearean sonnet.



Afterglow
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

The night is full of stars. Which still exist?
Before time ends, perhaps one day we'll know.
For now I hold your fingers to my lips
and feel their pulse... warm, palpable and slow...

once slow to match this reckless spark in me,
this moon in ceaseless orbit I became,
compelled by wilder gravity to flee
night's universe of suns, for one pale flame...

for one pale flame that seemed to signify
the Zodiac of all, the meaning of
love's wandering flight past Neptune. Now to lie
in dawning recognition is enough...

enough each night to bask in you, to know
the face of love... eyes closed... its afterglow.

'Afterglow' is a Shakespearean sonnet.



I Learned Too Late
by Michael R. Burch

'Show, don't tell! '

I learned too late that poetry has rules,
although they may be rules for greater fools.

In any case, by dodging rules and schools,
I avoided useless duels.

I learned too late that sentiment is bad—
that Blake and Keats and Plath had all been had.

In any case, by following my heart,
I learned to walk apart.

I learned too late that 'telling' is a crime.
Did Shakespeare know? Is Milton doing time?

In any case, by telling, I admit:
I think such rules are shit.



Heaven Bent
by Michael R. Burch

This life is hell; it can get no worse.
Summon the coroner, the casket, the hearse!
But I'm upwardly mobile. How the hell can I know?
I can only go up; I'm already below!

This is a poem in which I imagine Shakespeare speaking through a modern Hamlet.



That Mella Fella
by Michael R. Burch

John Mella was the longtime editor of Light Quarterly.

There once was a fella
named Mella,
who, if you weren't funny,
would tell ya.
But he was cool, clever, nice,
gave some splendid advice,
and if you did well,
he would sell ya.

Shakespeare had his patrons and publishers; John Mella was one of my favorites in the early going, along with Jean Mellichamp Milliken of The Lyric.



Chip Off the Block
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy

In the fusion of poetry and drama,
Shakespeare rules! Jeremy's a ham: a
chip off the block, like his father and mother.
Part poet? Part ham? Better run for cover!
Now he's Benedick — most comical of lovers!

NOTE: Jeremy's father is a poet and his mother is an actress; hence the fusion, or confusion, as the case may be.

Keywords/Tags: Shakespeare, Shakespearean, sonnet, epigram, epigrams, Hamlet, Ophelia, Lear, Benedick, tweet, tweets



Unfoldings
by Michael R. Burch

for Vicki

Time unfolds...
Your lips were roses.
... petals open, shyly clustering...
I had dreams
of other seasons.
... ten thousand colors quiver, blossoming.

Night and day...
Dreams burned within me.
... flowers part themselves, and then they close...
You were lovely;
I was lonely.
... a virgin yields herself, but no one knows.

Now time goes on...
I have not seen you.
... within ringed whorls, secrets are exchanged...
A fire rages;
no one sees it.
... a blossom spreads its flutes to catch the rain.

Seasons flow...
A dream is dying.
... within parched clusters, life is taking form...
You were honest;
I was angry.
... petals fling themselves before the storm.

Time is slowing...
I am older.
... blossoms wither, closing one last time...
I'd love to see you
and to touch you.
... a flower crumbles, crinkling, worn and dry.

Time contracts...
I cannot touch you.
... a solitary flower cries for warmth...
Life goes on as
dreams lose meaning.
... the seeds are scattered, lost within a storm.

Keywords/Tagss: love, roses, petals, unfolding, lips, spring, virgin, dreams, time, seasons, storms, summer, drought



More or Less
by Michael R. Burch

for Richard Moore

Less is more —
in a dress, I suppose,
and in intimate clothes
like crotchless hose.

But now Moore is less
due to death's subtraction
and I must confess:
I hate such redaction!



Anna Akhmatova was a great Russian poet, and a personal favorite of mine...

The evening light is broad and yellow
by Anna Akhmatova
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The evening light is broad and yellow;
it glides in on an April rain.
You arrived years late,
yet I'm glad you came.

Please sit down here, beside me,
receive me with welcoming eyes.
Here is my blue notebook
with my childhood poems inside.

Forgive me if I lived in sorrow,
spent too little time rejoicing in the sun.
Forgive, forgive, me, if I mistook
others for you, when you were the One.



Our Sweet Ecologist
by Michael R. Burch

Our sweet ecologist —
what will she do with the ants
and the cockroaches, bedbugs and lice
when they want to live in her pants?



bachelorhoodwinked
by michael r. burch

u
are
charming
& disarming,
but mostly alarming
since all my resolve
dissolved!

u
are
chic
as a sheikh's
harem girl in the sheets
but my castle's no longer my own
and my kingdom's been overthrown!



The Bachelor Spectacular
by Michael R. Burch

One heart? Tossed aside.
The other? A bride's.
In all his great wisdom, the bachelor decides.

Eeenie, mean-ie, mine-y, mo',
one gal must stay and one must go.
If she hollers? That's the show!

No heart can handle such despair!
But hearts get broken, hearts repair.
Next season? The treasoned will rule the air.

Originally published by Light



The Unspectacular Bachelor
by Michael R. Burch

The bachelor is back, he's black,
and some fair-skinned gals sure want him in the sack!
And, yes, he's a whole lot smarter
than the previous knights of that peculiar garter.

We can hear the white supremacists stewing:
What the hell are the screenwriters doing?
They know love requires a nice white spark,
and this apprentice is far too dark!



Updated Advice to Amorous Bachelors
by Michael R. Burch

At six-thirty,
feeling flirty,
I put on the hurdy-gurdy...

But Ms. Purdy,
all alert-y,
kicked me where I'm sore and hurty.

The moral of my story?
To avoid a fate as gory,
flirt with gals a bit more whore-y!



Cut Out the Bachelor Nonsense!
There's a bun in auntie's oven;
now soon you'll have a cousin!
―Michael R. Burch



Time Out
by Michael R. Burch

Time is running out,
no doubt.
Time is running out.

I don't know what the LORD's about,
since Time is running out, the Lout! ,
and leaving me with gas and gout.

I don't know what the LORD's about;
still, it does no good to grouse or pout,
since Time is merely running out,
like quail before a native scout.

'Twill do no good to shout or flout:
Time's running out,
I have no doubt,
though who knows what the LORD's about?

No need for faith or even doubt,
since Time is merely running out,
like water from a rusty spout
or mucous from a leaky snout.

Yes, Time is merely running out,
and yet I feel inclined to pout
and truth be told, sometimes to doubt
just what the hell the LORD's about.



Tr(end) y
by Michael R. Burch

Ain't it funny how trendy
becomes so dead-endy?
Lava lamps and bell bottoms
soon became 'never bought ‘ems.'
While that teenage tattoo
soon'll have wrinkles too.



This was my first-ever dabble dactyl, my variation of the double dactyl.

Donald Dabble Dactyl #1
by Michael R. Burch

Piggledy-Wiggledy
Ronald McDonald
cursed Donald Trump,
his least favorite clown:

'Why should I try to be
funny as Donald? He
gets all the laughs
claiming upside is down! '

Donald Dabble Dactyls must begin with 'Piggledy-Wiggledy' in homage to The Donald's oinkerishness and his 'do. References to clowns, gold-plated toilets and/or diapers are a plus but not required.

Donald Dabble Dactyl #2
by Michael R. Burch

Wond'ringly, blund'ringly
Ronald McDonald
asked, 'Who the hell
is this strange orange clown? '

'Why should I try to be
funny as Donnie? He
gets all the laughs
from marks who should frown! '

I see that I violated my prime directive, so 'never mind.'

Donald Dabble Dactyl #3
by Michael R. Burch

Piggledy-Wiggledy
45th president,
or erstwhile manse resident,
perched on a throne

of gold-plated porcelain
matching his orange 'tan, '
bombing Iran
from his twittery phone?



Cowpoke
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16

Sleep, old man...
your day has long since passed.
The endless plains,
cool midnight rains
and changeless ragged cows
alone remain
of what once was.

You cannot know
just how the Change
will rape the windswept plains
that you so loved...
and so sleep now,
O yes, sleep now...
before you see just how
the Change will come.

Sleep, old man...
your dreams are not our dreams.
The Rio Grande,
stark silver sand
and every obscure brand
of steed and cow
are sure to pass away
as you do now.

I believe this poem was written around the same time as 'Blue Cowboy, ' perhaps on the same day. That was probably sometime around 1974, at age 16 or thereabouts.



Blue Cowboy
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16

He slumps against the pommel,
a lonely, heartsick boy—
his horse his sole companion,
his gun his only toy
—and bitterly regretting
he ever came so far,
forsaking all home's comforts
to sleep beneath the stars,
he sighs.

He thinks about the lover
who awaits his kiss no more
till a tear anoints his lashes,
lit by uncaring stars.
He reaches to his aching breast,
withdraws a golden lock,
and kisses it in silence
as empty as his thoughts
while the wind sighs.

Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge
between the earth and distant stars.
Do not fall; the fiends of hell
would leap to feast upon your heart.

Blue cowboy, sift the burnt-out sand
for a drop of water warm and brown.
Dream of streams like silver seams
even as you gulp it down.

Blue cowboy, sing defiant songs
to hide the weakness in your soul.
Blue cowboy, ride that lonesome ridge
and wish that you were going home
as the stars sigh.



Chixiao ('The Owl')
by Duke Zhou
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Owl!
You've stolen my offspring,
Don't shatter my nest!
When with labors of love
I nurtured my fledglings.

Before the skies darkened
And the dark rains fell,
I gathered mulberry twigs
To thatch my nest,
Yet scoundrels now dare
Impugn my enterprise.

With fingers chafed rough
By the reeds I plucked
And the straw I threshed,
I now write these words,
Too hoarse to speak:
I am homeless!

My wings are withered,
My tail torn away,
My home toppled
And tossed into the rain,
My cry a distressed peep.



The Song of Roland
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 16

'for spring in retreat'

Rain down,
strange murmurous water...
no, summer is not yet nigh.

Cease your complaining,
for May is,
calling December a lie,
still rocking the high white sky.

Sleep now,
summer hours...
too soon your time shall come.

Softly straining,
the raining
spring begs, 'Let me run
one more hour beneath the sun,
for soon I shall be gone.'

Lie down,
weary Roland,
for summer is not yet nigh.

Remember a pyre
of stars blazing higher
upon night's immense dark sky
unsettling as her eyes,
twinkling, even as you died...

Lie down,
weary Roland,
for summer is not yet nigh.

I believe I wrote 'The Song of Roland' around age 16.



That Not-So-Mellow Fellow, Othello
by Michael R. Burch

Not sure 'bout that fellow, Othello,
was he a 'hero' or merely piss yellow?
He killed his poor wife
over a handkerchief!
Thus Iago proved his heart Jello.



Time Out!
by Michael R. Burch

Time is at war with my body!
am i Time's most diligent hobby?
for there's never Time out
from my low-t and gout
and my once-brilliant mind has grown stodgy!



Waiting Game
by Michael R. Burch

Nothing much to live for,
yet no good reason to die:
life became
a waiting game...
Rain from a clear blue sky.



Nipples' Ripples
by Michael R. Burch

Men are scared of nipples:
that's why they can't be seen.
For if they were,
we'd go to war
as in the days of Troy, I ween.



Untitled Epigrams

Teach me to love:
to fly beyond sterile Mars
to percolating Venus.
—Michael R. Burch

The LIV is LIVid:
livid with blood,
and full of egos larger
than continents.
—Michael R. Burch

Evil is as evil does.
Evil never needs a cause.
Evil loves amoral 'laws, '
laughs and licks its blood-red claws
while kids are patched together with gauze.
— Michael R. Burch

Poets laud Justice's
high principles.
Trump just gropes
her raw genitals.
—Michael R. Burch



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.



VILLANELLES

These are villanelles and villanelle-like poems, including a new new poetic form I invented, the "trinelle" or "triplenelle."

What happened to the songs of yesterdays?
by Michael R. Burch

Is poetry mere turning of a phrase?
Has prose become its height and depth and sum?
What happened to the songs of yesterdays?

Does prose leave all nine Muses vexed and glum,
with fingers stuck in ears, till hearing's numbed?
Is poetry mere turning of a phrase?

Should we cut loose, drink, guzzle jugs of rum,
write prose nonstop, till Hell or Kingdom Come?
What happened to the songs of yesterdays?

Are there no beats to which tense thumbs might thrum?
Did we outsmart ourselves and end up dumb?
Is poetry mere turning of a phrase?

How did a feast become this measly crumb,
such noble princess end up in a slum?
What happened to the songs of yesterdays?

I'm running out of rhymes! Please be a chum
and tell me if some Muse might spank my bum
for choosing rhyme above the painted phrase?
What happened to the songs of yesterdays?



Trump's Retribution Resolution
by Michael R. Burch

My New Year's resolution?
I require your money and votes,
for *you* are *my* retribution.

May I offer you dark-skinned scapegoats
and bigger and deeper moats
as part of my sweet resolution?

Please consider a YUGE contribution,
a mountain of lovely C-notes,
for *you* are *my* retribution.

Revenge is our only solution,
since my critics are weasels and stoats.
Come, second my sweet resolution!

The New Year's no time for dilution
of the anger of victimized GOATs,
when *you* are *my* retribution.

Forget the damned Constitution!
To dictators "ideals" are footnotes.
My New Year's resolution?
*You* are *my* retribution.



Why I Left the Right
by Michael R. Burch

I was a Reagan Republican in my youth but quickly "left" the GOP when I grokked its inherent racism, intolerance and retreat into the Dark Ages.

I fell in with the troops, but it didn't last long:
I'm not one to march to a klanging gong.
"Right is wrong" became my song.

I'm not one to march to a klanging gong
with parrots all singing the same strange song.
I fell in with the bloops, but it didn't last long.

These parrots all singing the same strange song,
with no discernment between right and wrong?
"Right is wrong" became my song.

With no discernment between right and wrong,
the klan marched on in a white-robed throng.
I fell in with the rubes, but it didn't last long.

The klan marched on in a white-robed throng,
enraged by the sight of boys in sarongs.
"Right is wrong" became my song.

Enraged by the sight of boys in sarongs
and girls with butch hairdos, the clan klanged its gongs.
I fell in with the dupes, but it didn't last long.
"Right is wrong" became my song.



The vanilla-nelle
by Michael R. Burch

The vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write
In a chocolate world where purity is slight,
When every rhyming word must rhyme with white!

As sure as night is day and day is night,
And walruses write songs, such is my plight:
The vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write.

I'm running out of rhymes and it's a fright
because the end's not nearly (yet) in sight,
When every rhyming word must rhyme with white!

It's tougher when the poet's not too bright
And strains his brain, which only turns up "blight."
Yes, the vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write.

I strive to seem aloof and recondite
while avoiding ancient words like "knyghte" and "flyte"
But every rhyming word must rhyme with white!

I think I've failed: I'm down to "zinnwaldite."
I fear my Muse is torturing me, for spite!
For the vanilla-nelle is rather dark to write
When every rhyming word must rhyme with white!



I may have invented a new poetic form, the "trinelle" or "triplenelle."

Ars Brevis
by Michael R. Burch

Better not to live, than live too long:
this is my theme, my purpose and desire.
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.

My will to live was never all that strong.
Eternal life? Find some poor fool to hire!
Better not to live, than live too long.

Granny panties or a flosslike thong?
The latter rock, the former feed the fire.
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.

Let briefs be brief: the short can do no wrong,
since David slew Goliath, who stood higher.
Better not to live, than live too long.

A long recital gets a sudden gong.
Quick death's preferred to drowning in the mire.
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.

A wee bikini or a long sarong?
French Riviera or some dull old Shire?
Better not to live, than live too long:
The world prefers a brief three-minute song.



This is a 'trinelle' or 'triplenelle' about one of my favorite basketball players:

The Ballad of Dalton 'Connect' Knecht
by Michael R. Burch

The basket's bent, the nets are charred.
It's hard to kill his will, as well.
Dalton Knecht is hard to guard.

To all defenders, it's '*en garde*! '
It's hard to kill his will, as well.
The basket's bent, the nets are charred.

There's no defense, all exits 're barred.
It's hard to kill his will, as well.
Dalton Knecht is hard to guard.

All hope is lost, not even a shard.
It's hard to kill his will, as well.
The basket's bent, the nets are charred.

The opposing coach's faith is jarred.
It's hard to kill his will, as well.
Dalton Knecht is hard to guard.

The defense's pride is maimed and scarred.
It's hard to kill his will, as well.
The basket's bent, the nets are charred.
Dalton Knecht is hard to guard.



Door Mouse
by Michael R. Burch

I'm sure it's not good for my heart—
the way it will jump-start
when the mouse scoots the floor
(I try to kill it with the door,
never fast enough, or
fling a haphazard shoe...
always too slow too)
in the strangest zig-zaggedy fashion
absurdly inconvenient for mashin',
till our hearts, each maniacally revvin',
make us both early candidates for heaven.



Prose Poem: The Trouble with Poets
by Michael R. Burch

This morning the neighborhood girls were helping their mothers with chores, but one odd little girl was out picking roses by herself, looking very small and lonely. Suddenly the odd one refused to pick roses anymore because she decided it might "hurt" them. Now she just sits beside the bushes, rocking gently back and forth, weeping and consoling the vegetation!
Now she's lost all interest in nature, which she finds "appalling." She dresses in black "like Rilke" and says she prefers the "roses of the imagination"! She mumbles constantly about being "pricked in conscience" and being "pricked to death." What on earth can she mean? Does she plan to have sex until she dies?

For chrissake, now she's locked herself in her room and refuses to come out until she has "conjured" the "perfect rose of the imagination"! We haven't seen her for days. Her only communications are texts punctuated liberally with dashes. They appear to be badly-rhymed poems. She signs them "starving artist" in lower-case. What on earth can she mean? Is she anorexic, or bulimic, or is this just a phase she'll outgrow?



Mercedes Benz
by Michael R. Burch

I'd like to do a song of great social and political import. It goes like this:

Oh Donnie, won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz?
My friends screw in Porsches, I must make amends!
Like you, I fucked my partners and now have no friends.
So, Donnie won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz?

Oh Donnie, won't you sell me a sexy import?
You need to pay your lawyers: a tart for a tort!
I'll await her delivery, each day until three.
And Donnie, please throw in Ivanka for free!

Oh, Donnie won't you buy me a night on the town?
I'm counting on you, Don, so please don't let me down!
Oh, prove you're a playboy and bring them around.
Oh, Donnie won't you buy me a night on the town?

Oh Donnie, won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz?
My friends screw in Porsches, I must make amends!
Like you, I fucked my partners and now have no friends.
So, Donnie won't you sell me your Mercedes Benz?



Syndrome
by Michael R. Burch

When the heart of a child,
fragile, like a flower, unfolds;
when his soul emerges from its last concealment,
nestled in the womb's muscular whorls, its secret chambers;
when he kicks and screams,
flung from the watery darkness into the harsh light's glare,
feeling its restive anger, its accusatory stare;
when he feels the heart his emergent heart remembers
fluttering against his cheek,
then falls into the lilac arms of heavy-lidded sleep;
when he reopens his eyes to the bellows' thunder
(which he has never heard before, save as a drowned echo)
and feels its wild surmise, and sees—with wonder
the tenderness in another's eyes
reflecting his startled wonder back at him,
as his heart picks up the beat of his mother's grieving hymn for the world's intolerable slander;
when he understands, with a babe's discernment—
the breasts, the hands, that now, throughout the years,
will bless him with their comforts, console him with caresses,
the gentle eyes, which, with their knowing tears,
will weep him away from the world's slick, writhing dangers
through all his restlessly-flowering years;
as his helplessly-frail fingers curl around the nose now leaning to catch his powdery talcum scent...
Remember—it is the world's syndrome, its handicap, not his,
that will insulate assumers from the gentle pollinations of his loveliness,
from his gifts of enchantment, from his all-encompassing acceptance,
from these tender angelic charms now lifting awed earthlings who gladly embrace him.

Published by the National Association for Down Syndrome



Homer translations

Surrender to sleep at last! What a misery, keeping watch all night, wide awake. Soon you'll succumb to sleep and escape all your troubles. *Sleep*. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Passage home? Impossible! Surely you have something else in mind, Goddess, urging me to cross the ocean's endless expanse in a *raft*. So vast, so full of danger! Hell, sometimes not even the sea-worthiest ships can prevail, aided as they are by Zeus's mighty breath! I'll never set foot on a raft, Goddess, until you swear by all that's holy you're not plotting some new intrigue! — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Let's hope the gods are willing. They rule the vaulting skies. They're stronger than men to plan, execute and realize their ambitions. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Few sons surpass their fathers; most fall short, all too few overachieve. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Death is the Great Leveler, not even the immortal gods can defend the man they love most when the dread day dawns for him to take his place in the dust. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Any moment might be our last. Earth's magnificence? Magnified because we're doomed. You will never be lovelier than at this moment. We will never pass this way again. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Beauty! Ah, Terrible Beauty! A deathless Goddess, she startles our eyes! — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Many dread seas and many dark mountain ranges lie between us. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

The lives of mortal men? Like the leaves' generations. Now the old leaves fall, blown and scattered by the wind. Soon the living timber bursts forth green buds as spring returns. Even so with men: as one generation is born, another expires. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Since I'm attempting to temper my anger, it does not behoove me to rage unrelentingly on. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Overpowering memories subsided to grief. Priam wept freely for Hector, who had died crouching at Achilles' feet, while Achilles wept himself, first for his father, then for Patroclus, as their mutual sobbing filled the house. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

"Genius is discovered in adversity, not prosperity." — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Ruin, the eldest daughter of Zeus, blinds us all with her fatal madness. With those delicate feet of hers, never touching the earth, she glides over our heads, trapping us all. First she entangles you, then me, in her lethal net. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Death and Fate await us all. Soon comes a dawn or noon or sunset when someone takes my life in battle, with a well-flung spear or by whipping a deadly arrow from his bow. — Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Death is the Great Leveler, not even the immortal gods can defend the man they love most when the dread day dawns for him to take his place in the dust.—Homer, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Giacomo da Lentini

Giacomo da Lentini, also known as Jacopo da Lentini or by the appellative *Il Notaro* ("The Notary") , was an Italian poet of the 13th century who has been credited with creating the sonnet.

Sonnet 26
by Giacomo da Lentini
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I've seen it rain on sunny days;
I've seen the darkness split by light;
I've seen white lightning fade to haze;
Seen frozen snow turn water-bright.

Some sweets have bitter aftertastes
While bitter things can taste quite sweet:
So enemies become best mates
While former friends no longer meet.

Yet the strangest thing I've seen is Love,
Who healed my wounds by wounding me.
Love quenched the fire he lit before;
The life he gave was death, therefore.

How to warm my heart? It eluded me.
Yet extinguished, Love sears all the more.



Haiku

Am I really this old,
so many ghosts
beckoning?
—Michael R. Burch

Sleepyheads!
I recite my haiku
to the inattentive lilies.
—Michael R. Burch

The sky tries to assume
your eyes' azure
but can't quite pull it off.
—Michael R. Burch

The sky tries to assume
your eyes' arresting blue
but can't quite pull it off.
—Michael R. Burch

Early robins
get the worms,
cats waiting to pounce.
—Michael R. Burch

Two bullheaded frogs
croaking belligerently:
election season.
—Michael R. Burch

An enterprising cricket
serenades the sunrise:
soloist.
—Michael R. Burch

A single cricket
serenades the sunrise:
solo violinist.
—Michael R. Burch

My life:
how little remains
of a night so brief?
—Masaoka Shiki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Masaoka Shiki struggled with tuberculosis and died at age 35.
Yesterday's snows
that fell like cherry blossoms
are mudpuddles again.

—Koshigaya Gozan, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I write, erase, revise, erase again,
and then...
suddenly a poppy blooms!

—Katsushika Hokusai, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Vanishing spring:
songbirds lament,
fish weep with watery eyes.

—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Wearily,
I enter the inn
to be welcomed by wisteria!

—Matsuo Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pale moonlight:
the wisteria's fragrance
seems equally distant.

—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
By such pale moonlight
even the wisteria's fragrance
seems distant.

—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pale moonlight:
the wisteria's fragrance
drifts in from afar.

—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Pale moonlight:
the wisteria's fragrance
drifts in from nowhere.

—Yosa Buson, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Plum flower temple:
voices ascend
from the valleys.

—Natsume Soseki, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
limping to the grave under the sentence of death,
should i praise ur LORD? think i'll save my breath!
-michael r. burch

Because you made a world where nothing matters,
our hearts lie in tatters.
—Michael R. Burch



Hurrian Hymn No.6
ancient Akkadian hymn
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

'Hurrian Hymn No.6' was discovered in the ruins of Ugarit, near the modern town of Ras Shamra in Syria. It is the oldest surviving substantially complete work of notated music, dating to around 1400 BCE. The hymn is addressed to the goddess Nikkal (aka Ningal) , the wife of the moon god Sin in ancient Mesopotamian mythology. 'Hurrian Hymn No.6' is one of 36 ancient Akkadian hymns called the 'Hurrian Hymns' that were preserved in cuneiform, although the rest of the hymns are not as well-preserved.

1.
Having endeared myself to the Deity, she will embrace me.
May this offering of bread I bring wholly cover my sins.
May the sesame oil purify me as I bow low before your divine throne in awe.
Nikkal will make the sterile fertile, cause the barren to be fruitful:
They will bring forth children like grain.
The wife will bear her husband's children.
May she who has not yet borne children now conceive them!

2.
For those who receive my offerings,
I place two loaves in their bowls as I perform the rites.
The couple have raised sacrifices to the heavens for their health and good fortune!
I have placed the loaves before your Divine Throne.
I will purify their sins, without denying them.
I will bring the lovers to you, that you may find them agreeable, for you love those who come forward to be reconciled.
I have brought their sins before you, to be removed through the reconciliation ritual.
I will honor you at your footstool.
Nikkal will strengthen them.
She allows married couples have children.
She allows children to be conceived by their fathers.
But the unreconciled will weep: 'Why have I not yet born my husband children? '


Ammiditāna's Hymn to Ištar
Ancient Akkadian poem, author unknown
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

1 iltam zumrā rašubti ilātim
2 litta''id bēlet iššī rabīt igigī
3 ištar zumrā rašubti ilātim
4 litta''id bēlet ilī nišī rabīt igigī

1 Sing the praises of the Goddess, our awe-inspiring Goddess!
2 Sing the praises of our Lady, the greatest of the gods!
3 Sing the praises of Ishtar, our awe-inspiring Goddess!
4 Sing the praises of our Lady, the greatest of the gods!

5 šāt mēleṣim ruāmam labšat
6 za'nat inbī mīkiam u kuzbam
7 šāt mēleṣim ruāmam labšat
8 za'nat inbī mīkiam u kuzbam

5 Ishtar who becomes aroused, exuding lust,
6 dripping desire—voluptuous and amorous!
7 Ishtar who becomes aroused, exuding lust,
8 dripping desire—voluptuous and amorous!

9 šaptīn duššupat balāṭum pīša
10 simtišša ihannīma ṣīhātum
11 šarhat irīmū ramû rēšušša
12 banâ šimtāša bitrāmā īnāša šitārā

9 Her lips drip honey-sweetness, her mouth is life itself,
10 Her cheeks are flushed with delight!
11 She is lovely, with beads braided in her hair!
12 Her cheeks are comely, her eyes are iridescent!

13 eltum ištāša ibašši milkum
14 šīmat mimmami qatišša tamhat
15 naplasušša bani bu'āru
16 baštum mašrahu lamassum šēdum

13 Our Goddess is pure, her counsel uncontested;
14 She holds the fates of all worlds in her hands!
15 Seeing her brings prosperity and happiness
16 for her pride, splendor, and protective spirit!

17 tartāmī tešmê ritūmī ṭūbī
18 u mitguram tebēl šīma
19 ardat tattadu umma tarašši
20 izakkarši innišī innabbi šumša

17 She is the Goddess of love-making and seduction,
18 of pleasure and harmony!
19 She teaches the naked girl to become a mother;
20 She will advance her name among the people!

21 ayyum narbiaš išannan mannum
22 gašrū ṣīrū šūpû parṣūša
23 ištar narbiaš išannan mannum
24 gašrū ṣīrū šūpû parṣūša

21 Who can rival her glory?
22 Her powers are unlimited, exalted and manifest!
23 Who can rival Ishtar's glory?
24 Her powers are unlimited, exalted and manifest!

25 gaṣṣat inilī atar nazzazzuš
26 kabtat awassa elšunu haptatma
27 ištar inilī atar nazzazzuš
28 kabtat awassa elšunu haptatma

25 Highest of the gods, her standing immense,
26 Her word is law, she towers above them!
27 Ishtar among the gods, her standing immense,
28 Her word is law, she towers above them!

29 šarrassun uštanaddanū siqrīša
30 kullassunu šâš kamsūšim
31 nannarīša illakūši
32 iššû u awīlum palhūšīma

29 They beg their queen to issue them orders;
30 they bow down obsequiously before her!
31 Acolytes orbit around her;
32 Men and women approach her in fear!

33 puhriššun etel qabûša šūtur
34 ana anim šarrīšunu malâm ašbassunu
35 uznam nēmeqim hasīsam eršet
36 imtallikū šī u hammuš

33 Foremost in the assembly, her speech altogether exalted,
34 she sits throned among them, an equal to Anu, the king!
35 She is wise beyond comprehension
36 when she and her chieftan confer!

37 ramûma ištēniš parakkam
38 iggegunnim šubat rīšātim
39 muttiššun ilū nazzuizzū
40 epšiš pîšunu bašiā uznāšun

37 They sit at the dais together,
38 in their delightful dwelling,
39 as the gods stand respectfully
40 awaiting her bidding.

41 šarrum migrašun narām libbīšun
42 šarhiš itnaqqišunūt niqi'ašu ellam
43 ammiditāna ellam niqī qātīšu
44 mahrīšun ušebbi li'ī u yâlī namrā'i

41 The king, their favourite, their hearts' beloved,
42 offers his sacrifice before them in splendour.
43 In their presence, Ammiditana, with his own hands
44 makes fattened offerings of bulls and stags.

45 išti anim hāmerīša tēteršaššum
46 dāriam balāṭam arkam
47 madātim šanāt balāṭim ana ammiditāna
48 tušatlim ištar tattadin

45 From Anum, her bridegroom, she has demanded
46 for the king a long fruitful life.
47 Many long years of life for Ammiditana
48 Ishtar has granted!

49 siqrušša tušaknišaššu
50 kibrat erbe'im ana šēpīšu
51 u naphar kalīšunu dadmī
52 taṣammissunūti ana nīrīšu

49 At her command the four corners of the earth
50 bow down to him!
51 She has bound the entire orb of the earth
52 to his yoke!

53 bibil libbīša zamar lalêša
54 naṭumma ana pîšu siqri ea īpuš
55 ešmēma tanittaša irissu
56 libluṭmi šarrašu lirāmšu addāriš

53 Her heart's desire, the praise-filled song,
54 is suited to his mouth, the commandment of Ea.
55 'I have heard her eulogy, ' said Ea, 'and I was delighted with it! '
56 'May her king live long and may she love him forever! '

57 ištar ana ammiditāna šarri rā'imīki
58 arkam dāriam balāṭam šurqī

57 O Ishtar, may he live long and prosper,
58 Ammiditana, the king who loves you!

Keywords/Tags: Shakespeare, poetry, drama, poet, light verse, humor, life, death, love, Mars, Venus, Othello, Iago, Duke Zhou, Owl, homeless, cowboy, bachelor, Richard Moore, Anna Akhmatova