Longer Poems by Michael R. Burch
These are longer poems and longish poems by Michael R. Burch... Les Bijoux (“The Jewels”) by Charles Baudelaire loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch My lover nude and knowing my heart's whims Wore nothing more than a few bright-flashing gems; Her art was saving men despite their sins— She ruled like harem girls crowned with diadems! She danced for me with a gay but mocking air, My world of stone and metal sparking bright; I discovered in her the rapture of everything fair— Nay, an excess of joy where the spirit and flesh unite! Naked she lay and offered herself to me, Parting her legs and smiling receptively, As gentle and yet profound as the rising sea— Till her surging tide encountered my cliff, abruptly. A tigress tamed, her eyes met mine, intent ... Intent on lust, content to purr and please! Her breath, both languid and lascivious, lent An odd charm to her metamorphoses. Her limbs, her loins, ...0
BIOGRAPHY REPORT
Every remaining fragmentary thread - even if there was one - leads to permanent, deficit-filling despair; out there, the sinking islands of Atlantis emerge here and there from under the surging, unquestioning, ruminating waters. Even so, the false, often compromising arguments wither away the tyrannical rebellions of the spell of the Executioner-Times. Because even today, slovenly, no-man's house masonry walls prevent the diligent work of an ant, and the budding false modesty also sprouts seeds sooner; butt-heads crown their sermons with thorns.
Because find out! The world has become quite unpredictable, nonsense-brutal to the core, because the new watchword is: "Measure yourself no longer by the universe!" - but by money and extensive, manipulable relationships. they should, but faithfully preserve it for as long as possible, because in the pitch black of the night they sat there as a pig to ward off the constant hunger, and because there wa...
The Composition of Shadows (I & II)
These are poems about poetry, poems about writing poetry, and poems about the process of composition...
The Composition of Shadows (I)
by Michael R. Burch
“I made it out of a mouthful of air.”—W. B. Yeats
We breathe and so we write; the night
hums softly its accompaniment.
Pale phosphors burn; the page we turn
leads onward, and we smile, content.
And what we mean we write to learn:
the vowels of love, the consonants’
strange golden weight, each plosive’s shape—
curved like the heart. Here, resonant,...
sounds’ shadows mass beneath bright glass
like singing voles curled in a maze
of blank white space. We touch a face—
long-frozen words trapped in a glaze
that insulates our hearts. Nowhere
can love be found. Just shrieking air.
The Composition of Shadows (II)
by Michael R. Burch
We breathe and so we write;
the night
hums softly its accompani...
0
Arthurian Poetry by Michael R. Burch
These Arthurian poems by Michael R. Burch are based on ancient Celtic myths that predate the Christianized legends most readers are familiar with. The main characters include King Arthur, Merlin, Guiniverre, Lancelot, Gawain and Morgause. At Tintagel by Michael R. Burch That night, at Tintagel, there was darkness such as man had never seen... darkness and treachery, and the unholy thundering of the sea... In his arms, who is to say how much she knew? And if he whispered her name... "Ygraine" could she tell above the howling wind and rain? Could she tell, or did she care, by the length of his hair or the heat of his flesh,... that her faceless companion was Uther, the dragon, and Gorlois lay dead? Originally published by Songs of Innocence, then by Celtic Twilight, Fables, Fickle Muses and Poetry Life & Times Isolde's Song by Michael R. Burch Through our long years of dreaming to be one we grew toward an enigmatic...0
Accounting halfway
There is an ominous drumming in his heart, boundless vulnerability gnaws. Those who are left alone for good have neither time nor anyone. Twilight dips its richly golden-tipped feather into the undressing of seasons when autumn comes again. He who is left alone can no longer be comforted by either the living or the dead. Unread Apocryphal movements hang on the walls of Time; our memory moments gradually become denser: do you bind up the bleeding, punctured wounds of your cells voluntarily or out of pity?!
The one who is left alone, the mournful admission ponders in him: he has always stood alone in the face of the threatening World. The Indian wind of times is only a fragment of his memory. An unprincipled defense and defiance alliance cannot serve with sufficient impartiality to create new relationships.
Creating a sacred protection system out of friendships is almost totally impossible. He who is left alone, let his voice be a tame knock, ...
POET FABLE
Day into night
No permissions just decisions
The desire to write
The need to be heard
Opportunities to explore
The tomorrow into the ever after
The heart leading the way
Destiny granted
Who a Poet is
A Poet meant to be
Poets always understands
Embracing instinct
Wonders of any journey
Stories through discover
Over and over writing more
No time limits
Write until satisfied
True Poet
Totally inspired
Endless Poet writes
&...
FORGOTTEN ISLANDERS HERE
Crashing into rock-hard phalanster walls to death; alone and hesitantly, at every age we must stand before the hideously betrayed Hyena-World, which we could only believe was our own. Our enlightening, prophetic words are almost without light, shadowless, there is no longer, and perhaps there cannot be, anyone who understands the essence of the current garbage dump here, and who is in debt to whom, or just the obligee at all times.
Because there are only Jobbágys, trinketsuckers here, and quite a lot of straw man-little kings, who preach to their heart's content, but do nothing noble or good. Even the vibrant green youth begins to wither early, when teenage mothers, even children themselves, leave their little ones on the shores of endless ditches. How should one still bow to the no-compromise?! Maybe! Even so - if they need to or not - they can pose as all kinds of peppermint-jampec people who don't help, they just execute, but why.
...by the time you think about it
No one can escape primarily from himself. It's as if crouching, chained shadows follow him in the pitch-black, where only nodding moles walk in sewer tunnels, just like on the surface. In the crass, careerist drive, in the prison of repressed, exhibitionist emotions, when perhaps everyone is already courting the facts and not rational arguments or connections, he licks prize-winning asses.
People already know and feel that they have been encircled in the power of a cage by insidious compromise and manipulation, from which there is rarely a way out. "I know who I need to push and rub in order to assert myself!" would reveal many things if they were left alone. Flattering subterfuge has also increasingly become a part of Being at the molecular level; who can betray whom, and whether the wide range of possibilities is just does it apply to a certain Someone?!
- It is impossible to know for sure when and under what conditions a person c...
FISHER PRICE VOICE
Fisher Price toys
For every girl and boy
A child’s enchanted heart
Love of toys from the start
The Fisher Price name
Satisfaction claim
Every child’s brand
Fisher Price extends throughout the land
Playful experience
Captivation influence
Fisher Price that no one forgets
A time and place
A past with no erase
Inner joy
A Fisher Price toy
The smiles from every girl and boy.
COMPT
Time, this old snow-hooked old man, is still too full of himself; I don't see how I could fit into the story. My old pessimism and my bad mood do not want to go away.
The so-called more beautiful reality shows its back, whether suspicious-looking, pock-marked strangers or even greedy, beaten monsters constantly force me to stand among them and loudly chant brainwashed, propaganda slogans about the greater life opportunities that have become only for the privileged.
During the happy-sad hour of self-pity, they eat bigger and bigger bites of your soul. Luscious, double-minded mirrors constantly make fun of the heart that falls easily in love, just like a beggar forever picking up crumbs for a whole life, the dragged soul.
It seems to be easier to come back halfway from the darkness outside than from the inner darkness that wants to consume us. The frozen starlight does not let up from the eye socket view of the dead. And why is i...