❤️ “I Found You in the Silence”
I found you not in the thunder,
But in the stillness of my soul—
When the world forgot to listen,
And the noise no longer stole.
You came like morning whispers,
Soft as sun on sleepy skin,
Not loud, not grand, but certain—
Like the peace I felt within.
You weren’t a storm or wildfire,
No flash across the skies,
But the steady glow of twilight
That rests behind closed eyes.
These are English translations of Urdu poems by Jaun Elia, who has been called the "poet of pain." Syed Sibt-e-Asghar Naqvi (1931-2002), more commonly known as Jaun Elia, was a Pakistani Urdu poet, philosopher, biographer, and scholar. A child prodigy, he began writing poetry at age eight but didn't published his first poetry collection, Shayad, until age sixty.
I am strange—so strange
that I self-destructed and don't regret it.
―Jaun Elia, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
These are my English translations of poems and epigrams by the ancient Greek poet Callimachus aka Kallimachos. His surviving poems come from various sources including the Greek Anthology and the Garland of Meleager. The epigrams of Callimachus were so admired in antiquity that they became part of the school curriculum.
For Gail White, who put me up to these translations.
Here I lie, Timon, hateful as ever;
curse me as you go, but please go, wherever.
—Callimachus, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
In my dreams, I see them all,
the ones who let you slip away.
The neighbour who laced the earth with death,
letting you lap up that toxic mess,
your little body wracked with pain,
stumbling, lost, into the street,
only feet from your own front door,
Perhaps they didn’t want to pay for a professional.
The driver who did not apply the brakes,
who felt the bump and carried on,
leaving you alone, afraid,
dying on the roadside,
Only feet from the safety of your home.
Perhaps they wanted to get home to the football.
Every day, as we drive past the quiet streets,
I scan the pavements, the hollow kerbs,
hoping to glimpse a flicker of fur,
a little shadow waiting by the roadside.
My head knows I won’t find you there,
but my heart still holds on to hope.
Every evening, stepping from the bus,
I turn my gaze to the ginnel’s glow,
orange streetlights casting ghosts on the stones,
hoping to see a little shadow bounding from the dark.
My head knows I won’t find you there,
but my heart still holds on to hope.
Mary,
a name that still lingers on the breeze,
like the soft rustle of autumn leaves
falling where the birds fly free.
I didn’t know you long,
but in that time,
you became more than a friend—
more than a passing figure
in a fleeting chapter of my life.
You became a grandmother,
and I loved you as such.
She is a soldier,
a warrior in the quiet moments,
fighting battles not of her choosing,
but of necessity,
holding the weight of the world
on her shoulders,
so that we, her daughters,
might walk a little lighter.
A mother and a father,
she wears both roles with quiet grace,
never asking for applause,
never seeking praise,
she simply does.
She is the artist,
painting our lives with love,
with lessons learned through fire
and scars borne with pride,
forging the strength of ten
in the heart of one.
Epiphanies on Woman as Divine Love Incarnate
by Hildegard of Bingen
Mary, Queen of Bucks, with beauty sharp as fate,
A painted smile, a poisoned crown, she’d wait.
From velvet lies to whispered tongues of power,
Her hand would grasp, and kingdoms would devour.
A tempest in a lace-edged gown, so sweet,
She danced upon the backs of men’s defeat.
Her lover’s eyes—how they bent to her whim,
Yet in her mirror, shadows grew so grim.
Upon the bridge where swords met steel and fate,
In Finea’s mist, where river waters weep,
There stood a man, a prince in name and soul,
Myles O’Reilly, Slasher of the foe.
Descended from the kings of old Breifne,
A chieftain’s blood ran strong within his veins,
With Ireland’s pride aflame within his heart,
He dared to stand, though England pressed him low.
They called him but a man, yet giants fell,
The Scottish beast cut down with but one stroke.
His blade, a flash of vengeance in the dusk,
An iron whisper sung in rebel hands.
