Takaha Shugyo haiku and tanka translations
Takaha Shugyo (1930-) was born in Japan's mountainous Yamagata Prefecture and began writing haiku at age fifteen. He studied with Yamaguchi Seishi and Akimoto Fujio, won the Young Poet's Award in 1965, then went on to found the haiku magazine KARI in 1978.
Oh, fallen camellias,
if I were you,
I'd leap into the torrent!
―Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
A single tree
with a heart carved into its trunk
blossoms prematurely
―Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Still clad in its clown's costume—
the dead ladybird.
―Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Wild geese pass
leaving the emptiness of heaven
revealed
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Are the geese flying south?
The candle continues to flicker ...
―Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Inside the cracked shell
of a walnut:
one empty room
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Such gloom!
Inside the walnut's cracked shell:
one empty room
―Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Bring me an icicle
sparkling with the stars
of the deep north
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Seen from the skyscraper
the trees' fresh greenery:
parsley sprigs
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Our life here on earth:
to what shall we compare it?
It is not like a rowboat
departing at daybreak,
leaving no trace of us in its wake?
― Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Tree crickets chirping—
after I've judged
a thousand verses today!
―Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Crickets chirping discordantly—
how to judge
ten thousand verses?
―Takaha Shugyo, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Original Haiku by Michael R. Burch
Sleepyheads!
I recite my haiku
to the inattentive lilies.
—Michael R. Burch
Am I really this old,
so many ghosts
beckoning?
—Michael R. Burch
Mightier than Atlas,
she shoulders the weight
of one fallen star.
―Michael R. Burch, 'Childless'
Dark-bosomed clouds
pregnant with heavy thunder...
the water breaks
―Michael R. Burch
Celebrate the New Year?
The cat is not impressed,
the dogs shiver.
—Michael R. Burch
Cats are seldom impressed by human accomplishments, while the canine members of our family have always hated fireworks and other unexpected loud noises.
Early robins
get the worms,
cats waiting to pounce.
—Michael R. Burch
Crushed grapes
surrender such sweetness!
A mother's compassion.
―Michael R. Burch
My footprints
so faint in the snow?
Ah yes, you lifted me.
―Michael R. Burch
An emu feather
still falling?
So quickly you rushed to my rescue.
―Michael R. Burch
The eagle sees farther
from its greater height—
our ancestors' wisdom
―Michael R. Burch
The ability
to disagree agreeably—
civility.
―Michael R. Burch
The sun warms
a solitary stone.
Let us abandon no one.
―Michael R. Burch
Born into the delicate autumn,
too late to mature,
pale petal...
―Michael R. Burch
Soft as daffodils fall
all the lamentations
of life's smallest victims,
unheard...
―Michael R. Burch
Elderly sunflowers:
bees trimming their beards.
―Michael R. Burch
Fireflies
thinking to illuminate the darkness?
Poets!
―Michael R. Burch
As springs' budding blossoms emerge
the raptors glide mercilessly.
―Michael R. Burch
Valentine Haiku and Tanka, for Beth
one pillow...
our dreams
merge
―Michael R. Burch
She bathes in silver,
~~~~ afloat ~~~~
on her reflections...
—Michael R. Burch
You rise with the sun,
mysteriously warm,
also scattering sunbeams.
―Michael R. Burch
You astound me,
your name
unpronounceable on my lips.
―Michael R. Burch
You astound me;
your name on my lips
remains unpronounceable.
―Michael R. Burch
A leaf brushes my cheek:
a subtle lover's
gentlest caress.
―Michael R. Burch
Teach me to love:
to fly beyond sterile Mars
to percolating Venus.
―Michael R. Burch
How vaguely I knew you
though I held you close...
your heart's muffled thunder,
your breath the wind—
rising and falling.
―Michael R. Burch
Iffy Coronavirus Haiku
yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #1
by michael r. burch
plagued by the Plague
i plague the goldfish
with my verse
yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #2
by michael r. burch
sunflowers
hang their heads
embarrassed by their coronas
I wrote this poem after having a sunflower arrangement delivered to my mother, who is in an assisted living center and can't have visitors due to the coronavirus pandemic. I have been informed the poem breaks haiku rules about personification, etc.
homework: yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #3
by michael r. burch
dim bulb overhead,
my silent companion:
still imitating the noonday sun?
yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #4
by michael r. burch
Spring fling—
children string flowers
into their face masks
yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #5
by michael r. burch
the Thought counts:
our lips and fingers
insulated by plexiglass...
yet another iffy coronavirus haiku #6
by michael r. burch
masks, masks
everywhere
and not a straw to drink...
Dark Cloud, Silver Lining
by Michael R. Burch
Every corona has a silver lining:
I'm too far away to hear your whining,
and despite my stormy demeanor,
my hands have never been cleaner!
New World Order (last in a series and perhaps of a species)
by Michael R. Burch
The days of the dandelions dawn...
soon man will be gone:
fertilizer.
The Original Sin: Rhyming Haiku!
Haiku
should never rhyme:
it's a crime!
―Michael R. Burch
The herons stand,
sentry-like, at attention...
rigid observers of some unknown command.
―Michael R. Burch
Late
fall;
all
the golden leaves turn black underfoot:
soot
―Michael R. Burch
Dry leaf flung awry:
bright butterfly,
goodbye!
―Michael R. Burch
A snake in the grass
lies, hissing
'Trespass! '
―Michael R. Burch
Honeysuckle
blesses my knuckle
with affectionate dew
―Michael R. Burch
My nose nuzzles
honeysuckle's
sweet nothings
―Michael R. Burch
The day's eyes were blue
until you appeared
and they wept at your beauty.
―Michael R. Burch
The sky was blue
until you appeared
and it wept at your beauty.
―Michael R. Burch
The moon in decline
like my lover's heart
lies far beyond mine
―Michael R. Burch
My mother's eyes
acknowledging my imperfection:
dejection
―Michael R. Burch
The sun sets
the moon fails to rise
we avoid each other's eyes
―Michael R. Burch
bright leaf flung awry ~
butterfly, goodbye!
―Michael R. Burch
leaf flutters in flight ~
bright, O and endeavoring butterfly,
goodbye!
―Michael R. Burch
a soaring kite flits
into the heart of the sun?
Butterfly & Chrysanthemum
―Michael R. Burch
The whore with the pallid lips
lipsticks
into something more comfortable
―Michael R. Burch
I am a traveler
going nowhere—
but my how the gawking bystanders stare!
―Michael R. Burch
This is a poem composed of haiku-like stanzas:
Lift up your head
dandelion,
hear spring roar!
How will you tidy your hair
this near
summer?
Leave to each still night
your lightest affliction,
dandruff.
Soon you will free yourself:
one shake
of your white mane.
Now there are worlds
into which you appear
and disappear
seemingly at will
but invariably blown—
wildly, then still.
Gasp at the bright chill
glower
of winter.
Icicles splinter;
sleep still an hour,
till, resurrected in power,
you lift up your head,
dandelion.
Hear spring roar!
―Michael R. Burch
Variations on Fall
Farewells like
falling
leaves,
so many sad goodbyes.
―Michael R. Burch
Falling leaves
brittle hearts
whisper farewells
―Michael R. Burch
Autumn leaves
soft farewells
falling...
falling...
falling...
―Michael R. Burch
Autumn leaves
Fall's farewells
Whispered goodbyes
―Michael R. Burch
Variations on the Seasons
by Michael R. Burch
Mother earth
prepares her nurseries:
spring greening
The trees become
modest,
coy behind fans
*
Wobbly fawns
have become the fleetest athletes:
summer
*
Dry leaves
scuttle like crabs:
autumn
*
The sky
shivers:
snowfall
Each
translucent flake
lighter than eiderdown
the entire town entombed
but not in gloom,
bedazzled.
Variations on Night
Night—
ice and darkness
conspire against human warmth
―Michael R. Burch
Night and the Stars
conspire against me:
Immensity
―Michael R. Burch
in the ice-cold cathedral
prayer candles ablaze
flicker warmthlessly
―michael r. burch
Variations on the Arts
by Michael R. Burch
Paint peeling:
the novel's
novelty wears off...
The autumn marigold's
former glory:
allegory.
Human arias?
The nightingale frowns, perplexed.
Tone deaf!
Where do cynics
finally retire?
Satire.
All the world's
a stage
unless it's a cage.
To write an epigram,
cram.
If you lack wit, scram.
Haiku
should never rhyme:
it's a crime!
Video
dumped the boob tube
for YouTube.
Anyone
can rap:
just write rhythmic crap!
Variations on Lingerie
by Michael R. Burch
Were you just a delusion?
The black negligee you left
now merest illusion.
The clothesline
quivers,
ripe with unmentionables.
The clothesline quivers:
wind,
or ghosts?
Variations on Love and Wisdom
by Michael R. Burch
Wise old owls
stare myopically at the moon,
hooting as the hart escapes.
Myopic moon-hooting owls
hoot as the hart escapes
The myopic owl,
moon-intent, scowls;
my rabbit heart thunders...
Peace, wise fowl!
Tanka
All the wild energies
of electric youth
captured in the monochromes
of an ancient photobooth
like zigzagging lightning.
―Michael R. Burch
The plums were sweet,
icy and delicious.
To eat them all
was perhaps malicious.
But I vastly prefer your kisses!
―Michael R. Burch
A child waving...
The train groans slowly away...
Loneliness...
Somewhere in the distance gusts
scatter the stray unharvested hay...
―Michael R. Burch
How vaguely I knew you
though I held you close...
your heart's muffled thunder,
your breath the wind—
rising and falling.
―Michael R. Burch
Childless
by Michael R. Burch
Mightier than Atlas,
she shoulders the weight
of one fallen star.
Ascendance Transcendence
by Michael R. Burch
Breaching the summit
I reach
the horizon's last rays.
sheer green stockings
queer green beer
St. Patrick's Day!
―michael r. burch
cicadas chirping everywhere
singing to beat the band—
surround sound
―michael r. burch
Regal, upright,
clad in royal purple:
Zinnia
―michael r. burch
Love is a surreal sweetness
in a world where trampled grapes
become wine.
―michael r. burch
although meant for market
a pail full of strawberries
invites indulgence
―michael r. burch
late November;
skeptics scoff
but the geese no longer migrate
―michael r. burch
as the butterfly hunts nectar
the generous iris
continues to bloom
―michael r. burch
As springs' budding blossoms emerge
the raptors glide mercilessly.
—Michael R. Burch
I wrote the haiku-like poem above on 3-27-2023 after the Nashville Covenant school massacre.—Michael R. Burch
Incomprehensible
by Michael R. Burch
"Slain" — an impossible word to comprehend.
The male lion murders cubs,
licks his lips, devours them.
Her sky-high promises:
midday moon
—Michael R. Burch
The north wind's refrain,
a southbound train...
Invitation?
—Michael R. Burch
The north wind's refrain,
the receding strain
of a southbound train...
Invitation?
—Michael R. Burch
Elderly sunflowers:
bees trimming their beards.
—Michael R. Burch
The evening grass
accumulates dew,
roots in corpses.
—Michael R. Burch
Midwinter
church bells
seem more cacophonous...
—Michael R. Burch
Coyotes yip at wolves,
their offspring endangered:
politics
—Michael R. Burch
Can eagles soar,
hooded?
—Michael R. Burch
Brittle autumn leaf,
no one informed me
you were my life!
—Michael R. Burch
Early robins
get the worms,
cats waiting to pounce.
—Michael R. Burch
Sleepyheads!
I recite my haiku
to the inattentive lilies.
—Michael R. Burch
Am I really this old,
so many ghosts
beckoning?
—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
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
The Ultimate Haiku Against God
by Michael R. Burch
Because you made a world
where nothing matters,
our hearts lie in tatters.
POEMS ABOUT NIGHTMARES
My nightmare ...
by Michael R. Burch, writing as “The Child Poets of Gaza”
I had a dream of Jesus!
Mama, his eyes were so kind!
But behind him I saw a billion Christians
hissing "You're nothing!," so blind.
Excelsior
by Michael R. Burch
I lift my eyes and laugh, Excelsior . . .
Why do you come, wan spirit, heaven-gowned,
complaining that I am no longer “pure?”
I threw myself before you, and you frowned,
so full of noble chastity, renowned
for leaving maidens maidens. In the dark
I sought love’s bright enchantment, but your lips
were stone; my fiery metal drew no spark
to light the cold dominions of your heart.
What realms were ours? What leasehold? And what claim
upon these territories, cold and dark,
do you seek now, pale phantom? Would you light
my heart in death and leave me ashen-white,
as you are white, extinguished by the Night?
Excerpts from the Journal of Dorian Gray
by Michael R. Burch
It was not so much dream, as error;
I lay and felt the creeping terror
of what I had become take hold . . .
The moon watched, silent, palest gold;
the picture by the mantle watched;
the clock upon the mantle talked,
in halting voice, of minute things . . .
Twelve strokes like lashes and their stings
scored anthems to my loneliness,
but I have dreamed of what is best,
and I have promised to be good . . .
Dismembered limbs in vats of wood,
foul acids, and a strangled cry!
I did not care, I watched him die . . .
Each lovely rose has thorns we miss;
they prick our lips, should we once kiss
their mangled limbs, or think to clasp
their violent beauty. Dream, aghast,
the flower of my loveliness,
this ageless face (for who could guess?),
and I will kiss you when I rise . . .
The patterns of our lives comprise
strange portraits. Mine, I fear,
proved dear indeed . . . Adieu!
The knife’s for you.
Originally published by Dusk & Shiver Magazine
ROBERT BURNS TRANSLATIONS/MODERNIZATIONS
Comin Thro the Rye
by Robert Burns
Oh, Jenny's all wet, poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry;
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.
Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.
Should a body meet a body
Comin' through the rye,
Should a body kiss a body,
Need anybody cry?
Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.
Should a body meet a body
Comin' through the glen,
Should a body kiss a body,
Need all the world know, then?
Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye.
She's draggin' all her petticoats
Comin' through the rye.
A Red, Red Rose
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Oh, my love is like a red, red rose
that's newly sprung in June
and my love is like the melody
that's sweetly played in tune.
And you're so fair, my lovely lass,
and so deep in love am I,
that I will love you still, my dear,
till all the seas run dry.
Till all the seas run dry, my dear,
and the rocks melt with the sun!
And I will love you still, my dear,
while the sands of life shall run.
And fare you well, my only love!
And fare you well, awhile!
And I will come again, my love,
though it were ten thousand miles!
Banks of Doon
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Oh, banks and hills of lovely Doon,
How can you bloom so fresh and fair;
How can you chant, ecstatic birds,
When I'm so weary, full of care!
You'll break my heart, small warblers,
Flittering through the flowering thorn:
Reminding me of long-lost joys,
Departed—never to return!
I've often wandered lovely Doon,
To see the rose and woodbine twine;
And as the lark sang of its love,
Just as fondly, I sang of mine.
Then gaily-hearted I plucked a rose,
So fragrant upon its thorny tree;
And my false lover stole my rose,
But, ah!, he left the thorn in me.
Auld Lange Syne
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
And days for which we pine?
For times we shared, my darling,
Days passed, once yours and mine,
We’ll raise a cup of kindness yet,
To those fond-remembered times!
Have you ever wondered just exactly what you're singing? "Auld lang syne" means something like "times gone by" or "times long since passed" and in the context of the song means something like "times long since passed that we shared together and now remember fondly." In my translation, which is not word-for-word, I try to communicate what I believe Burns was trying to communicate: raising a toast to fond recollections of times shared in the past.
To a Mouse
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Sleek, tiny, timorous, cowering beast,
why's such panic in your breast?
Why dash away, so quick, so rash,
in a frenzied flash
when I would be loath to pursue you
with a murderous plowstaff!
I'm truly sorry Man's dominion
has broken Nature's social union,
and justifies that bad opinion
which makes you startle,
when I'm your poor, earth-born companion
and fellow mortal!
I have no doubt you sometimes thieve;
What of it, friend? You too must live!
A random corn-ear in a shock's
a small behest; it-
'll give me a blessing to know such a loss;
I'll never miss it!
Your tiny house lies in a ruin,
its fragile walls wind-rent and strewn!
Now nothing's left to construct you a new one
of mosses green
since bleak December's winds, ensuing,
blow fast and keen!
You saw your fields laid bare and waste
with weary winter closing fast,
and cozy here, beneath the blast,
you thought to dwell,
till crash! the cruel iron ploughshare passed
straight through your cell!
That flimsy heap of leaves and stubble
had cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you're turned out, for all your trouble,
less house and hold,
to endure cold winter's icy dribble
and hoarfrosts cold!
But mouse-friend, you are not alone
in proving foresight may be vain:
the best-laid schemes of Mice and Men
go oft awry,
and leave us only grief and pain,
for promised joy!
Still, friend, you're blessed compared with me!
Only present dangers make you flee:
But, ouch!, behind me I can see
grim prospects drear!
While forward-looking seers, we
humans guess and fear!
To a Louse
by Robert Burns
translation/interpretation/modernization by Michael R. Burch
Hey! Where're you going, you crawling hair-fly?
Your impudence protects you, barely;
I can only say that you swagger rarely
Over gauze and lace.
Though faith! I fear you dine but sparely
In such a place.
You ugly, creeping, blasted wonder,
Detested, shunned by both saint and sinner,
How dare you set your feet upon her—
So fine a lady!
Go somewhere else to seek your dinner
On some poor body.
Off! around some beggar's temple shamble:
There you may creep, and sprawl, and scramble,
With other kindred, jumping cattle,
In shoals and nations;
Where horn nor bone never dare unsettle
Your thick plantations.
Now hold you there! You're out of sight,
Below the folderols, snug and tight;
No, faith just yet! You'll not be right,
Till you've got on it:
The very topmost, towering height
Of miss's bonnet.
My word! right bold you root, contrary,
As plump and gray as any gooseberry.
Oh, for some rank, mercurial resin,
Or dread red poison;
I'd give you such a hearty dose, flea,
It'd dress your noggin!
I wouldn't be surprised to spy
You on some housewife's flannel tie:
Or maybe on some ragged boy's
Pale undervest;
But Miss's finest bonnet! Fie!
How dare you jest?
Oh Jenny, do not toss your head,
And lash your lovely braids abroad!
You hardly know what cursed speed
The creature's making!
Those winks and finger-ends, I dread,
Are notice-taking!
O would some Power with vision teach us
To see ourselves as others see us!
It would from many a blunder free us,
And foolish notions:
What airs in dress and carriage would leave us,
And even devotion!
#BURNS #MRBURNS
POEMS ABOUT SAINTS AND SINNERS
Of Seabound Saints and Promised Lands
by Michael R. Burch
Judas sat on a wretched rock,
his head still sore from Satan’s gnawing.
Saint Brendan’s curragh caught his eye,
wildly geeing and hawing.
"I’m on parole from Hell today!,"
Pale Judas cried from his lonely perch.
"You’ve fasted forty days, good Saint!
Let this rock by my church,
my baptismal, these icy waves.
O, plead for me now with the One who saves!"
Saint Brendan, full of mercy, stood
at the lurching prow of his flimsy bark,
and mightily prayed for the mangy man
whose flesh flashed pale and stark
in the golden dawn, beneath a sun
that seemed to halo his tonsured dome.
Then Saint Brendan sailed for the Promised Land
and Saint Judas headed Home.
O, behoove yourself, if ever you can,
of the fervent prayer of a righteous man!
In Dante’s "Inferno," Satan gnaws on Judas Iscariot’s head. A curragh is a boat fashioned from wood and ox hides. Saint Brendan of Ireland is the patron saint of sailors and whales. According to legend, he sailed in search of the Promised Land and discovered America centuries before Columbus.
DANTE TRANSLATIONS
Translations of Dante Epigrams and Quotes by Michael R. Burch
Little sparks may ignite great Infernos.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In Beatrice I beheld the outer boundaries of blessedness.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
She made my veins and even the pulses within them tremble.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Her sweetness left me intoxicated.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Love commands me by determining my desires.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Follow your own path and let the bystanders gossip.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
The devil is not as dark as depicted.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
There is no greater sorrow than to recall how we delighted in our own wretchedness.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
As he, who with heaving lungs escaped the suffocating sea, turns to regard its perilous waters.—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you nosedive in the mildest breeze?—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
O human race, born to soar heavenward, why do you quail at the least breath of wind?—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Midway through my life’s journey
I awoke to find myself lost in a trackless wood,
for I had strayed far from the straight path.
—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
INSCRIPTION ON THE GATE OF HELL
Before me nothing existed, to fear.
Eternal I am, and eternal I endure.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
—Dante, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
POEMS ABOUT TIME, LOSS AND FADING MEMORIES
Cycles
by Michael R. Burch
I see his eyes caress my daughter’s breasts
through her thin cotton dress,
and how an indiscreet strap of her white bra
holds his bald fingers
in fumbling mammalian awe . . .
And I remember long cycles into the bruised dusk
of a distant park,
hot blushes,
wild, disembodied rushes of blood,
portentous intrusions of lips, tongues and fingers . . .
and now in *him* the memory of me lingers
like something thought rancid,
proved rotten.
I see Another again—hard, staring, and silent—
though long-ago forgotten . . .
And I remember conjectures of panty lines,
brief flashes of white down bleacher stairs,
coarse patches of hair glimpsed in bathroom mirrors,
all the odd, questioning stares . . .
Yes, I remember it all now,
and I shoo them away,
willing them not to play too long or too hard
in the back yard—
with a long, ineffectual stare
that years from now, he may suddenly remember.
Photographs
by Michael R. Burch
Here are the effects of a life
and they might tell us a tale
(if only we had time to listen)
of how each imperiled tear would glisten,
remembered as brightness in her eyes,
and how each dawn’s dramatic skies
could never match such pale azure.
Like dreams of her, these ghosts endure
and they tell us a tale of impatient glory . . .
till a line appears—a trace of worry?—
or the wayward track of a wandering smile
which even now can charm, beguile?
We might find good cause to wonder
as we see her pause (to frown?, to ponder?):
what vexed her in her loveliness . . .
what weight, what crushing heaviness
turned her auburn hair a frazzled gray,
and stole her youth before her day?
We might ask ourselves: did Time devour
the passion with the ravaged flower?
But here and there a smile will bloom
to light the leaden, shadowed gloom
that always seems to linger near . . .
And here we find a single tear:
it shimmers like translucent dew
and tells us Anguish touched her too,
and did not spare her for her hair's
burnt copper, or her eyes' soft hue.
Published in Tucumcari Literary Review (the first poem in its issue)
POEMS ABOUT DAY AND NIGHT
Day, and Night (I)
by Michael R. Burch
The moon exposes syphilitic craters
and veiled by ghostly willows, palely looms,
while we who rise each day to grind a living,
dream each scented night of such perfumes
as drew us to the window, to the moonlight,
when all the earth was steeped in cobalt blue—
an eerie vase of achromatic flowers
bled silver by pale starlight, losing hue.
The night begins her waltz to waiting sunrise—
adagio, the music she now hears,
while we who in the sunlight slave for succor,
dreaming, seek communion with the spheres.
And all around the night is in crescendo,
and everywhere the stars’ bright legions form,
and here we hear the sweet incriminations
of lovers we had once to keep us warm.
And also here we find, like bled carnations,
red lips that whitened, kisses drawn to lies,
that touched us once with fierce incantations
and taught us love was prettier than wise.
Day, and Night (II)
by Michael R. Burch
The moon exposes pockmarked scars of craters;
her visage, veiled by willows, palely looms.
And we who rise each day to grind a living,
dream each scented night of such perfumes
as drew us to the window, to the moonlight,
when all the earth was steeped in cobalt blue—
an eerie vase of achromatic flowers
bled silver by pale starlight, losing hue.
The night begins her waltz to waiting sunrise—
adagio, the music she now hears;
and we who in the sunlight slave for succor,
dreaming, seek communion with the spheres.
And all around the night is in crescendo,
and everywhere the stars’ bright legions form,
and here we hear the sweet incriminations
of lovers we had once to keep us warm.
And also here we find, like bled carnations,
red lips that whitened, kisses drawn to lies,
that touched us once with fierce incantations
and taught us love was prettier than wise.
POEMS ABOUT ABRAHAM LINCOLN AND ANN RUTLEDGE
Ann Rutledge’s grave marker in Petersburg, Illinois, contains a poem written by Edgar Lee Masters in which she is “Beloved of Abraham Lincoln, / Wedded to him, not through union, / But through separation.”
Ann Rutledge’s Irregular Quilt
by Michael R. Burch
based on “Lincoln the Unknown” by Dale Carnegie
I.
Her fingers “plied the needle” with “unusual swiftness and art”
till Abe knelt down beside her: then her demoralized heart
set Eros’s dart a-quiver; thus a crazy quilt emerged:
strange stitches all a-kilter, all patterns lost. (Her host
kept her vicarious laughter barely submerged.)
II.
Years later she’d show off the quilt with its uncertain stitches
as evidence love undermines men’s plans and women’s strictures
(and a plethora of scriptures.)
III.
But O the sacred tenderness Ann’s reckless stitch contains
and all the world’s felicities: rich cloth, for love’s fine gains,
for sweethearts’ tremulous fingers and their bright, uncertain vows
and all love’s blithe, erratic hopes (like now’s).
IV.
Years later on a pilgrimage, by tenderness obsessed,
Dale Carnegie, drawn to her grave, found weeds in her place of rest
and mowed them back, revealing the spot of the Railsplitter’s joy and grief
(and his hope and his disbelief).
V.
Yes, such is the tenderness of love, and such are its disappointments.
Love is a book of rhapsodic poems. Love is an grab bag of ointments.
Love is the finger poised, the smile, the Question — perhaps the Answer?
Love is the pain of betrayal, the two left feet of the dancer.
VI.
There were ladies of ill repute in his past. Or so he thought. Was it true?
And yet he loved them, Ann (sweet Ann!), as tenderly as he loved you.
Winter Thoughts of Ann Rutledge
by Michael R. Burch
Winter was not easy,
nor would the spring return.
I knew you by your absence,
as men are wont to burn
with strange indwelling fire —
such longings you inspire!
But winter was not easy,
nor would the sun relent
from sculpting virgin images
and how could I repent?
I left quaint offerings in the snow,
more maiden than I care to know.
RISQUE LIMERICKS
Dee Lite Full
by Michael R. Burch
A cross-dressing dancer, “Dee Lite,”
wore gowns luciferously bright
till he washed them one day
the old-fashioned way ...
in bleach. Now he’s “Sister Off-White.”
The Bender Ender Blender
by Michael R. Burch
There once was a bubbly bartender,
a transvestite who went on a bender.
“So I cut myself off,”
she cried with a sob,
“There’s the evidence, there in the blender!”
KEYWORDS/TAGS: Takaha Shugyo, haiku translations, tanka translations, Robert Burns, Dante, modern English translations