These are antinatalist poems and translations by Michael R. Burch. The antinatalist translations include poems and prose by Al-Ma'arri, Aristotle, Buddha, Homer, Omar Khayyam, Sappho, Seneca, the bible's King Solomon, and Sophocles.
Antinatalism is the belief that human beings should not procreate. Do we have the "right" to bring other human beings into a world that was always "red in tooth and claw" and is now increasingly deadly due to global warming, nuclear weapons, drone warfare and maniacal leaders like Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin, Putin, Jong-un, Netanyahu and Trump?
There were antinatalist notes in Homer, around 3,000 years ago ...
HOMER
For the gods have decreed that unfortunate mortals must suffer, while they remain sorrowless. — Homer (circa 800 BC), Iliad 24.525-526, translation by Michael R. Burch
It is best not to be born or, having been born, to pass on as swiftly as possible.—attributed to Homer, translation by Michael R. Burch
One of the first great voices to directly question whether human being should give birth was that of Sophocles, around 2,500 years ago ...
SOPHOCLES, PART I
Oblivion: What a boon, to lie unbound by pain!—Sophocles, translation by Michael R. Burch
Not to have been born is best,
and blessed
beyond the ability of words to express.
—Sophocles (circa 497-406 BC), translation by Michael R. Burch
It’s a hundred times better not be born;
but if we cannot avoid the light,
the path of least harm is swiftly to return
to death’s eternal night.
—Sophocles, Oedipus at Colonus, translation by Michael R. Burch
There are more Sophocles quotes later on this page. According to Aristotle, it had become so common in ancient Greece to say "It is best not to be born" that it was considered a cliché!
ARISTOTLE
"You ... may well consider those blessed and happiest who have departed this life before you ... This thought is indeed so old that the one who first uttered it is no longer known; it has been passed down to us from eternity, and hence doubtless it is true. Moreover, you know what is so often said and [now] passes for a trite expression ... It is best not to be born at all; and next to that, it is better to die than to live; and this is confirmed even by divine testimony [i.e, the wisdom of Silenus]: ... The best for them [humans] is not to be born at all, not to partake of nature's excellence; not to be is best, for both sexes. This should be our choice, if choice we have; and the next to this is, when we are born, to die as soon as we can." — Aristotle, Eudemus (354 BCE), surviving fragment quoted in Plutarch, Consolatio ad Apollonium, sec. xxvii
KING SOLOMON THE WISE
The Bible's wisest man, King Solomon, agreed with the ancient Greeks that it was best not to be born:
"So I returned, and considered all the oppressions that are done under the sun: and behold the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no comforter; and on the side of their oppressors there was power; but they had no comforter. Wherefore I praised the dead which are already dead more than the living which are yet alive. Yea, better is he than both they, which hath not yet been, who hath not seen the evil work that is done under the sun." — King James Bible, Ecclesiastes 4:1-3, attributed to King Solomon
OMAR KHAYYAM
Happy the soul who speeds back to the Source,
but crowned with peace is the one who never came.
—a Sophoclean antinatalist passage from the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, translation by Michael R. Burch
AL-MA'ARRI
Another strong, relentlessly questioning voice was that of a blind Arabic seer, the great Arab classical poet Abu 'L' Ala Ahmad ibn 'Abdallah al-Ma'arri, commonly referred to as al Ma'arri...
Bittersight
by Michael R. Burch
for Abu al-Ala Al-Ma'arri
To be plagued with sight
in the Land of the Blind,
—to know birth is death
and that Death is kind—
is to be flogged like Eve
(stripped, sentenced and fined)
because evil is “good”
in some backwards mind.
Antinatalist Shyari Couplets by Abul Ala Al-Ma'arri (973-1057), translation by Michael R. Burch:
Lighten your tread:
The ground beneath your feet is composed of the dead.
Walk slowly here and always take great pains
Not to trample some departed saint's remains.
And happiest here is the hermit with no hand
In making sons, who dies a childless man.
SENECA
Two thousand years ago, the Roman philosopher and statesman Seneca spoke of his right to euthanasia, but also about the bliss of not being born in the first place ...
Just as I select a ship when it's time to travel, or a house when it's time to change residences, even so I will choose when it's time to depart from life.―Seneca (4 BC-65 AD), translation by Michael R. Burch
There is nothing so pointless, so perfidious as human life! ... The ultimate bliss is not to be born; otherwise we should speedily slip back into the original Nothingness. Seneca, On Consolation to Marcia, translation by Michael R. Burch
Religion is regarded by fools as true, by the wise as false, and by rulers as useful. — Seneca, translation by Michael R. Burch
SOPHOCLES, PART II
Antinatalist quotes by Sophocles (circa 497-406 BC):
Never to be born may be the biggest boon of all.—Sophocles, translation by Michael R. Burch
Oblivion: What a boon, to lie unbound by pain!—Sophocles, translation by Michael R. Burch
The happiest life is one empty of thought.—Sophocles, translation by Michael R. Burch
Consider no man happy till he lies dead, free of pain at last.—Sophocles, translation by Michael R. Burch
What is worse than death? When death is desired but denied.—Sophocles, translation by Michael R. Burch
Children anchor their mothers to life.—Sophocles, translation by Michael R. Burch
When a man endures nothing but endless miseries, what is the use of hanging on day after day, always edging closer and closer toward death? Anyone who warms his heart with the false glow of flickering hope is a wretch! The noble man should live with honor and die with honor. That's all that can be said.—Sophocles, translation by Michael R. Burch
ANCIENT GREEK EPITAPHS AND OTHER EPIGRAMS
Pity this boy who was beautiful, but died.
Pity his monument, overlooking this hillside.
Pity the world that bore him, then foolishly survived.
—Michael R. Burch, after an unknown Greek poet
Little I knew—a child of five—
of what it means to be alive
and all life’s little thrills;
but little also—(I was glad not to know)—
of life’s great ills.
—Michael R. Burch, after Lucian
Death is evil; the Gods all agree.
For, had death been good,
the Gods would
be mortal, like me.
—Sappho, translation by Michael R. Burch
Gold does not rust,
yet my son becomes dust?
—Sappho, translation by Michael R. Burch
Here he lies in state tonight: Great is his Monument!
Yet Ares cares not, neither does War relent.
—Michael R. Burch, after Anacreon
Everywhere the sea is the sea, the dead are the dead.
What difference to me—where I rest my head?
The sea knows I’m buried.
—Michael R. Burch, after Antipater of Sidon
Blame not the gale, nor the inhospitable sea-gulf, nor friends’ tardiness,
Mariner! Just man’s foolhardiness.
—Michael R. Burch, after Leonidas of Tarentum
Mariner, do not ask whose tomb this may be,
but go with good fortune: I wish you a kinder sea.
—Michael R. Burch, after Plato
MORE ANTINATALIST QUOTES
Everybody stop breeding, or by method of birth-control stop birth.—Jack Kerouac
Original Sin is the crime of existence itself.—Arthur Schopenhauer
Nanda, I do not praise the creation of a new existence: not even a molecule, not even for a moment.—Gautama Buddha, translation by Michael R. Burch
Since time dawned
only the dead have experienced peace;
life is snow burning in the sun.
—Nandai, translation by Michael R. Burch
Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay
To mould me man? Did I solicit thee
From darkness to promote me?
—John Milton, Paradise Lost
This dream of nothingness we so fear
is salvation clear.
—Michael R. Burch
MODERN ANTINATALIST POEMS
"Dover Beach" by Matthew Arnold
"Infant Sorrow" by William Blake
"Hurt Hawks" by Robinson Jeffers
"This Be The Verse" by Philip Larkin
"Prayer Before Birth" by Louis MacNeice
A large number of poems by Tom Merrill
MY ANTINATALIST POEMS
The first Catholic Pope, according to the Popes themselves, was Saint Peter, whose original name was Simon according to the gospels. So I have written a poem for the first Simple Simon and his simpleton heirs. If there is an "eternal hell" and most human beings are bound there, from day one the Popes should have been warning human beings NOT to procreate, duh!
Multiplication, Tabled
or Procreation Inflation
by Michael R. Burch
for the Religious Right
“Be fruitful and multiply”—
great advice, for a fruitfly!
But for women and men,
simple Simons, say, “WHEN!”
Paradoxical Ode to Antinatalism
by Michael R. Burch
“God is Love.”
A stay on love
would end death’s hateful sway,
someday.
A stay on love
would thus be love,
I say.
Be true to love
and thus end death’s
fell sway!
Habeas Corpus
by Michael R. Burch
from “Songs of the Antinatalist”
I have the results of your DNA analysis.
If you want to have children, this may induce paralysis.
I wish I had good news, but how can I lie?
Any offspring you have are guaranteed to die.
It wouldn’t be fair—I’m sure you’ll agree—
to sentence kids to death, so I’ll waive my fee.
veni, vidi, etc.
by Michael R. Burch
the last will and testament of a preemie
i came, i saw, i figured
it was better to be transfigured,
so rather than cross my Rubicon
i fled to the Great Beyond.
i bequeath my remains, so small,
to Brutus, et al.
Willy Nilly
by Michael R. Burch
for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped—
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, Willy Nilly?
Epitaph for a Palestinian Child
by Michael R. Burch
I lived as best I could, and then I died.
Be careful where you step: the grave is wide.
Antinatalist Haiku for the Children of Gaza
by Michael R. Burch
You astound me,
your name
unpronounceable on my lips ...
Born into the delicate autumn,
too late to mature,
pale petals ...
Soft as daffodils fall
all the lamentations
of life’s smallest victims,
unheard ...
Styx
by Michael R. Burch
Black waters,
deep and dark and still . . .
all men have passed this way,
or will.
Dust (II)
by Michael R. Burch
We are dust
and to dust we must
return ...
but why, then,
life’s pointless sojourn?
Long Division
by Michael R. Burch
All things become one
Through death’s long division
And perfect precision.
evol-u-shun
by Michael R. Burch
does GOD adore the Tyger
while it’s ripping ur lamb apart?
does GOD applaud the Plague
while it’s eating u à la carte?
does GOD admire ur intelligence
while u pray that IT has a heart?
does GOD endorse the Bible
you blue-lighted at k-mart?
thanksgiving prayer of the parasites
by Michael R. Burch
GODD is great;
GODD is good;
let us thank HIM
for our food.
by HIS hand
we all are fed;
give us now
our daily dead:
ah-men!
(p.s.,
most gracious
& salacious
HEAVENLY LORD,
we thank YOU in advance for
meals galore
of loverly gore:
of precious
delicious
sumptuous
scrumptious
human flesh!)
Murder Most Fowl!
by Michael R. Burch
“Murder most foul!”
cried the mouse to the owl.
“Friend, I’m no sinner;
you’re merely my dinner;
as you fall upon my sword,
take it up with the LORD.”
the wise owl replied
as the tasty snack died.
faith(less)
by Michael R. Burch
Those who believed
and Those who misled
lie together at last
in the same narrow bed
and if god loved Them more
for Their strange lack of doubt,
he kept it well hidden
till he snuffed Them out.
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.
brrExit
by Michael R. Burch
what would u give
to simply not exist—
for a painless exit?
he asked himself, uncertain.
then from behind
the hospital room curtain
a patient screamed—
"my life!"
The Shrinking Season
by Michael R. Burch
With every wearying year
the weight of the winter grows
and while the schoolgirl outgrows
her clothes,
the widow disappears
in hers.
Defenses
by Michael R. Burch
Beyond the silhouettes of trees
stark, naked and defenseless
there stand long rows of sentinels:
these pert white picket fences.
Now whom they guard and how they guard,
the good Lord only knows;
but savages would have to laugh
observing the tidy rows.
Time Out!
by Michael R. Burch
Time is at war with my body!
am i Time’s most diligent hobby?
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.
Scratch-n-Sniff
by Michael R. Burch
The world’s first antinatalist limerick?
Life comes with a terrible catch:
It’s like starting a fire with a match.
Though the flames may delight
In the dark of the night,
In the end what remains from the scratch?
While not antinatalist poems, per se, these poems question the dubious claims of Bible and the religions it spawned. I wrote the first poem, "Bible Libel," after reading the Bible from cover to cover at age eleven.
Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch
If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.
fog
by Michael R. Burch
ur just a bit of fluff
drifting out over the ocean,
unleashing an atom of rain,
causing a minor commotion,
for which u expect awesome GODS
to pay u SUPREME DEVOTION!
... but ur just a smidgen of mist
unlikely to be missed ...
where did u get the notion?
What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch
What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to Kill and Plunder?
For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!
When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,
when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?
A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch
Santa Claus,
for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please . . .
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!
gimME that ol’ time religion!
by michael r. burch
fiddle-dee-dum, fiddle-dee-dee,
jesus loves and understands ME!
safe in his grace, I’LL damn them to hell—
the strumpet, the harlot, the wild jezebel,
the alky, the druggie, all queers short and tall!
let them drink ashes and wormwood and gall,
’cause fiddle-dee-DUMB, fiddle-dee-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEee . . .
jesus loves and understands
ME!
Saving Graces
for the Religious Right
by Michael R. Burch
Life’s saving graces are love, pleasure, laughter
(wisdom, it seems, is for the Hereafter).
pretty pickle
by Michael R. Burch
u’d blaspheme if u could
because ur God’s no good,
but of course u cant:
ur a lowly ant
(or so u were told by a Hierophant).
u-turn: another way to look at religion
by Michael R. Burch
... u were born(e) orphaned from Ecstasy
into this lower realm: just one of the inching worms
dreaming of Beatification;
u'd love to make a u-turn back to Divinity, but
having misplaced ur chrysalis,
can only chant magical phrases,
like Circe luring ulysses back into the pigsty ...
In His Kingdom of Corpses
by Michael R. Burch
In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to speak
in many enraged discourses,
high, high from some mountain peak
where He’s lectured man on compassion
while the sparrows around Him fell,
and babes, for His meager ration
of rain, died and went to hell,
unbaptized, for that’s His fashion.
In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to vent
in many obscure discourses
on the need for man to repent,
to admit that he’s a sinner;
give up sex, and riches, and fame;
be disciplined at his dinner
though always he dies the same,
whether fatter or thinner.
In his kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to speak
in many absurd discourses
of man’s Ego, precipitous Peak!,
while demanding praise and worship,
and the bending of every knee.
And though He sounds like the Devil,
all religious men now agree
He loves them indubitably.
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.
no foothold
by Michael R. Burch
there is no hope;
therefore i became invulnerable to love.
now even god cannot move me:
nothing to push or shove,
no foothold.
so let me live out my remaining days in clarity,
mine being the only nativity,
my death the final crucifixion
and apocalypse,
as far as the i can see ...
Practice Makes Perfect
by Michael R. Burch
I have a talent for sleep;
it’s one of my favorite things.
Thus when I sleep, I sleep deep ...
at least till the stupid clock rings.
I frown as I squelch its damn beep,
then fling it aside to resume
my practice for when I’ll sleep deep
in a silent and undisturbed tomb.
Originally published by Light Quarterly
Redefinitions
Faith: falling into the same old claptrap.—Michael R. Burch
Religion: the ties that blind.—Michael R. Burch
Listen
by Michael R. Burch
Listen to me now and heed my voice;
I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness,
but listen now.
Listen to me now, and if I say
that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray,
I have no choice.
Does a madman choose his words? They come to him,
the moon’s illuminations, intimations of the wind,
and he must speak.
But listen to me now, and if you hear
the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear,
then do not tarry,
but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary.
I believe I wrote the first version of this poem around age 17 or 18.
Less Heroic Couplets: Funding Fundamentals
by Michael R. Burch
"I found out that I was a Christian for revenue only and I could not bear the thought of that, it was so ignoble." — Mark Twain
Making sense from nonsense is quite sensible! Suppose
you’re running low on moolah, need some cash to paint your toes ...
Just invent a new religion; claim it saves lost souls from hell;
have the converts write you checks; take major debit cards as well;
take MasterCard and Visa and good-as-gold Amex;
hell, lend and charge them interest, whether payday loan or flex.
Thus out of perfect nonsense, glittery ores of this great mine,
you’ll earn an easy living and your toes will truly shine!
Originally published by Lighten Up Online
Less Heroic Couplets: Attention Span Gap
by Michael R. Burch
Better not to live, than live too long:
The world prefers a brief poem, a short song.
Less Heroic Couplets: Crop Duster
by Michael R. Burch
We are dust and to dust we must return ...
but why, then, life’s pointless sojourn?
Less Heroic Couplets: Clover
by Michael R. Burch
It’ll soon be over
(clover?)
Less Heroic Couplets: Weird Beard
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
C’mon, admit — love’s truly weird:
why does a vagina need a beard?
Should making love produce foul poxes?
What can we make of such paradoxes?
And having made love, what the hell’s the point
of ending up with a sore, limp joint?
And who invented love, which we all pursue
like rats in a maze after sniffing glue?
Pagans Protest the Intolerance of Christianity
by Michael R. Burch
“We have a common sky.” — Quintus Aurelius Symmachus (c. 345-402)
We had a common sky
before the Christians came.
We thought there might be gods
but did not know their names.
The common stars above us?
They winked, and would not tell.
Yet now our fellow mortals claim
our questions merit hell!
The cause of our damnation?
They claim they’ve seen the LIGHT ...
but still the stars wink down at us,
as wiser beings might.
ur-gent
by Michael R. Burch
if u would be a good father to us all,
revoke the Curse,
extract the Gall;
but if the abuse continues,
look within
into ur Mindless Soulless Emptiness Grim,
& admit ur sin,
heartless jehovah,
slayer of widows and orphans ...
quick, begin!
bible libel (ii)
by Michael R. Burch
ur savior’s a cad
—he’s as bad as his dad—
i note per ur horrible Bible.
demanding belief
or he’ll bring u to grief?
he’s worse than his horn-sprouting rival!
was this man ever good
before being made “god”?
if so, half ur Bible is libel!
un-i-verse-all love
by Michael R. Burch
there is a Gaud, it’s true!
and furthermore, tHeSh(e)It loves u!
unfortunately
the
He
Sh(e)
It
,even more adorably,
loves cancer, aids and leprosy.
Notes toward an Icarian philosophy of life ...
by Michael R. Burch
If the mind’s and the heart’s quests were ever satisfied,
what would remain, as the goals of life?
If there was only light, with no occluding matter,
if there were only sunny mid-afternoons but no mysterious midnights,
what would become of the dreams of men?
What becomes of man’s vision, apart from terrestrial shadows?
And what of man’s character, formed
in the seething crucible of life and death,
hammered out on the anvil of Fate, by Will?
What becomes of man’s aims in the end,
when the hammer’s anthems at last are stilled?
If man should confront his terrible Creator,
capture him, hogtie him, hold his horny feet to the fire,
roast him on the spit as yet another blasphemous heretic
whose faith is suspect, derelict ...
torture a confession from him,
get him to admit, “I did it! ...
what then?
Once man has taken revenge
on the Frankenstein who created him
and has justly crucified the One True Monster, the Creator ...
what then?
Or, if revenge is not possible,
if the appearance of matter was merely a random accident,
or a group illusion (and thus a conspiracy, perhaps of dunces, us among them),
or if the Creator lies eternally beyond the reach of justice ...
what then?
Perhaps there’s nothing left but for man to perfect his character,
to fly as high as his wings will take him toward unreachable suns,
to gamble everything on some unfathomable dream, like Icarus,
then fall to earth, to perish, undone ...
or perhaps not, if the mystics are right
about the true nature of darkness and light.
Is there a source of knowledge beyond faith,
a revelation of heaven, of the Triumph of Love?
The Hebrew prophets seemed to think so,
and Paul, although he saw through a glass darkly,
and Julian of Norwich, who heard the voice of God say,
“All shall be well,
and all manner of things shall be well ...”
Does hope spring eternal in the human breast,
or does it just blindly grope?
Icarus Bickerous
by Michael R. Burch
for the Religious Right
Like Icarus, waxen wings melting,
white tail-feathers fall, bystanders pelting.
They look up amazed
and seem rather dazed—
was it heaven’s or hell’s furious smelting
that fashioned such vulturish wings?
And why are they singed?—
the higher you “rise,” the more halting?
Crescendo Against Heaven
by Michael R. Burch
As curiously formal as the rose,
the imperious Word grows
until it sheds red-gilded leaves:
then heaven grieves
love’s tiny pool of crimson recrimination
against God, its contention
of the price of salvation.
These industrious trees,
endlessly losing and re-losing their leaves,
finally unleashing themselves from earth, lashing
themselves to bits, washing
themselves free
of all but the final ignominy
of death, become
at last: fast planks of our coffins, dumb.
Together now, rude coffins, crosses,
death-cursed but bright vermilion roses,
bodies, stumps, tears, words: conspire
together with a nearby spire
to raise their Accusation Dire ...
to scream, complain, to point out these
and other Dark Anomalies.
God always silent, ever afar,
distant as Bethlehem’s retrograde star,
we point out now, in resignation:
You asked too much of man’s beleaguered nation,
gave too much strength to his Enemy,
as though to prove Your Self greater than He,
at our expense, and so men die
(whose accusations vex the sky)
yet hope, somehow, that You are good ...
just, O greatest of Poets!, misunderstood.
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!
Beast 666
by Michael R. Burch
“... what rough beast ... slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?”—W. B. Yeats
Brutality is a cross
wooden, blood-stained,
gas hissing, sibilant,
lungs gilled, deveined,
red flecks on a streaked glass pane,
jeers jubilant,
mocking.
Brutality is shocking—
tiny orifices torn
by cruel adult lust,
the fetus unborn
tossed in a dust-
bin. The scarred skull shorn,
nails bloodied, tortured,
an old wound sutured
over, never healed.
Brutality, all its faces revealed,
is legion:
Death March, Trail of Tears, Inquisition . . .
always the same.
The Beast of the godless and of man’s “religion”
slouching toward Jerusalem:
horned, crowned, gibbering, drooling, insane.
Shock and Awe
by Michael R. Burch
With megatons of “wonder,”
we make our godhead clear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.
The world’s heart ripped asunder,
its dying pulse we hear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.
Strange Trinity! We ponder
this God we hold so dear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.
The vulture and the condor
proclaim: The feast is near!—
Death. Destruction. Fear.
Soon He will plow us under;
the Anti-Christ is here:
Death. Destruction. Fear.
We love to hear Him thunder!
With Shock and Awe, appear!—
Death. Destruction. Fear.
For God can never blunder;
we know He holds US dear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.
Lay Down Your Arms
by Michael R. Burch
Lay down your arms; come, sleep in the sand.
The battle is over and night is at hand.
Our voyage has ended; there's nowhere to go . . .
the earth is a cinder still faintly aglow.
Lay down your pamphlets; let's bicker no more.
Instead, let us sleep here on this ravaged shore.
The sea is still boiling; the air is wan, thin . . .
lay down your pamphlets; now no one will “win.”
Lay down your hymnals; abandon all song.
If God was to save us, He waited too long.
A new world emerges, but this world is through . . .
so lay down your hymnals, or write something new.
What Immense Silence
by Michael R. Burch
What immense silence
comforts those who kneel here
beneath these vaulted ceilings
cavernous and vast?
What luminescence stained
by patchwork panels of bright glass
illuminates drained faces
as the crouching gargoyles leer?
What brings them here—
pale, tearful congregations,
knowing all Hope is past,
faithfully, year upon year?
Or could they be right? Perhaps
Love is, implausibly, near
and I alone have not seen It . . .
But, if so, still, I must ask:
why is it God that they fear?
Published in The Bible of Hell
Where We Dwell
by Michael R. Burch
Night within me.
Never morning.
Stars uncounted.
Shadows forming.
Wind arising
where we dwell
reaches Heaven,
reeks of Hell.
Published in The Bible of Hell
Intimations
by Michael R. Burch
Let mercy surround us
with a sweet persistence.
Let love propound to us
that life is infinitely more than existence.
Published by Katrina Anthology
Altared Spots
The mother leopard buries her cub,
then cries three nights for his bones to rise
clad in new flesh, to celebrate the sunrise.
Good mother leopard, pensive thought
and fiercest love’s wild insurrection
yield no certainty of a resurrection.
Man’s tried them both, has added tears,
chants, dances, drugs, séances, tombs’
white alabaster prayer-rooms, wombs
where dead men’s frozen genes convene ...
there is no answer—death is death.
So bury your son, and save your breath.
Or emulate earth’s “highest species”—
write a few strange poems and odd treatises.
Peers
by Michael R. Burch
These thoughts are alien, as through green slime
smeared on some lab tech’s brilliant slide, I grope,
positioning my bright oscilloscope
for better vantage, though I cannot see,
but only peer, as small things disappear—
these quanta strange as men, as passing queer.
And you, Great Scientist, are you the One,
or just an intern, necktie half undone,
white sleeves rolled up, thick documents in hand
(dense manuals you don’t quite understand),
exposing me, perhaps, to too much Light?
Or do I escape your notice, quick and bright?
Perhaps we wield the same dull Instrument
(and yet the Thesis will be Eloquent!).
Published by The Neovictorian/Cochlea
dark matter(s)
by Michael R. Burch
for and after William Blake
the matter is dark, despairful, alarming:
ur Creator is hardly prince charming!
yes, ur “Great I Am”
created blake’s lamb
but He also created the tyger ...
and what about trump and rod steiger?
NOTE: Rod Steiger is best known for his portrayals of weirdos, oddballs, mobsters, bandits, serial killers, and fascists like Mussolini and Napoleon.
Is there any Light left?
by Michael R. Burch
Is there any light left?
Must we die bereft
of love and a reason for being?
Blind and unseeing,
rejecting and fleeing
our humanity, goat-hooved and cleft?
Is there any light left?
Must we die bereft
of love and a reason for living?
Blind, unforgiving,
unworthy of heaven
or this planet red, reeking and reft?
NOTE: While “hoofed” is the more common spelling, I preferred “hooved” for this poem. Perhaps because of the contrast created by “love” and “hooved.”
Modern Dreams
by Michael R. Burch
after David B. Gosselin
I dreamed that God was good, but then I woke
and all his goodness vanished—poof!—
like smoke.
I dreamed his Word was good, but then I heard
commandments evil, awful, weird,
absurd.
I dreamed of Heaven where cruel Angels flew
above my head and screamed, the Chosen Few,
“We’re not like you!”
I dreamed of Hell below, where prostitutes
adored by Jesus played on lovely lutes
“True Love Commutes.”
I dreamed of Earth then woke to hear a Gong’s
repellent echoes in Religion’s song
of right gone wrong.
Prayer for a Merciful, Compassionate, etc., God to Murder His Creations Quickly & Painlessly, Rather than Slowly & Painfully
by Michael R. Burch
Lord, kill me fast and please do it quickly!
Please don’t leave me gassed, archaic and sickly!
Why render me mean, rude, wrinkly and prickly?
Lord, why procrastinate?
Lord, we all know you’re an expert killer!
Please, don’t leave me aging like Phyllis Diller!
Why torture me like some poor sap in a thriller?
God, grant me a gentler fate!
Lord, we all know you’re an expert at murder
like Abram—the wild-eyed demonic goat-herder
who’d slit his son’s throat without thought at your order.
Lord, why procrastinate?
Lord, we all know you’re a terrible sinner!
What did dull Japheth eat for his 300th dinner
after a year on the ark, growing thinner and thinner?
God, grant me a gentler fate!
Dear Lord, did the lion and tiger compete
for the last of the lambkin’s sweet, tender meat?
How did Noah preserve his fast-rotting wheat?
God, grant me a gentler fate!
Lord, why not be a merciful Prelate?
Do you really want me to detest, loathe and hate
the Father, the Son and their Ghostly Mate?
Lord, why procrastinate?
Alien
by Michael R. Burch
for J. S. S., a "Christian" poet
On a lonely outpost on Mars
the astronaut practices “speech”
as alien to primates below
as mute stars winking high, out of reach.
And his words fall as bright and as chill
as ice crystals on Kilimanjaro —
far colder than Jesus’s words
over the “fortunate” sparrow.
And I understand how gentle Emily
felt, when all comfort had flown,
gazing into those inhuman eyes,
feeling zero at the bone.
Oh, how can I grok his arctic thought?
For if he is human, I am not.
Autumn Conundrum
by Michael R. Burch
It’s not that every leaf must finally fall,
it’s just that we can never catch them all.
Piercing the Shell
by Michael R. Burch
If we strip away all the accouterments of war,
perhaps we’ll discover what the heart is for.
Belated Canonization
by Michael R. Burch
I loved you for the best.
I loved you through the worst.
I loved you fully dressed,
even when the water pipes burst.
But the gods were not impressed
and so they took you first.
I loved you nonetheless,
even when the earth seemed cursed.
I loved you at the prom.
I loved you in the hearse.
I still think of you as blessed.
Please excuse this morbid verse.
Only Flesh
by Michael R. Burch
Moonlight in a pale silver rain caresses her cheek
but what she feels is an emptiness more chilling than fear ...
Nothing is questioned, yet the answer seems clear:
Night, inevitably, only seems to end ...
Flesh is the stuff that does not endure.
The sand slips sinuously through narrowing glass
as Time sums all things past, and to come.
Only flesh does not last.
Eternally, Night pirouettes with the Sun;
each bright grain, slipping past, will return.
Only flesh fades to ash though unable to burn.
Only flesh does not last.
Only flesh, in the end, makes its bed in brown grass.
Only flesh shivers, frailer than the pale wintry light.
Only flesh seeps in oils that will not ignite.
Only flesh rues its past.
Only flesh.
Parting is such sweet sorrow
by Michael R. Burch
The cosmos is flying apart.
Hush, Neil deGrasse Tyson’s irked heart!
Repeat, repeat.
Don’t skip a beat.
Perhaps some new Big Bang will spark?
Neil deGrasse Tyson told Stephen Colbert that what keeps him awake at night is the fear that expansion will cause most of the universe to become invisible to us.
Menu Venue
by Michael R. Burch
At the passing of the shark
the dolphins cried Hark!;
cute cuttlefish sighed Gee
there will be a serener sea
to its utmost periphery!;
the dogfish barked,
so joyously!;
pink porpoises piped Whee!
excitedly,
delightedly.
But ...
Will there be as much glee
when there’s no you and me?
How It Goes, Or Doesn’t
by Michael R. Burch
My face is getting craggier.
My pants are getting saggier.
My ear-hair’s getting shaggier.
My wife is getting naggier.
I’m getting old!
My memory’s plumb awful.
My eyesight is unlawful.
I eschew a tofu waffle.
My wife’s an Eiffel eyeful.
I’m getting old!
My temperature is colder.
My molars need more solder.
Soon I’ll need a boulder-holder.
My wife seized up. Unfold her!
I’m getting old!
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.
The Drawer of Mermaids
by Michael R. Burch
This poem is dedicated to Alina Karimova, who was born with severely deformed legs and five fingers missing. Alina loves to draw mermaids and believes her fingers will eventually grow out.
Although I am only four years old,
they say that I have an old soul.
I must have been born long, long ago,
here, where the eerie mountains glow
at night, in the Urals.
A madman named Geiger has cursed these slopes;
now, shut in at night, the emphatic ticking
fills us with dread.
(Still, my momma hopes
that I will soon walk with my new legs.)
It’s not so much legs as the fingers I miss,
drawing the mermaids under the ledges.
(Observing, Papa will kiss me
in all his distracted joy;
but why does he cry?)
And there is a boy
who whispers my name.
Then I am not lame;
for I leap, and I follow.
(G’amma brings a wiseman who says
our infirmities are ours, not God’s,
that someday a beautiful Child
will return from the stars,
and then my new fingers will grow
if only I trust Him; and so
I am preparing to meet Him, to go,
should He care to receive me.)
The Abyss
by Michael R. Burch
Love, the abyss
where pale Lorelei dwell,
swells with bright music —
the music of hell.
For the sirens there lure
countless men to their doom,
crying, “Give us a child!”
in the luminous gloom.
And who can resist
their cries — wild & untamed —
or the flash of a breast,
its pink nipple inflamed?
So the young men all leap
in their lemming-like urge
to thresh their soft shells
where the dark waters surge.
Now many lie shattered
on the sharp, hidden rocks
where they succor the spawn
of some wily sea-fox.
Lures of the Lorelei
by Michael R. Burch
These are the rocks where the Lorelei combs
her wind-tangled hair as the dark water moans,
and her uncanny hymns echo softly between
worlds fashioned of stone and strange algaed dreams . . .
Here men hear her songs, as they always have done,
as they dream to be one with the pulse of the foam . . .
as they also now long for her sleek, slender arms—
sweet relief from their ships, mules, wives, shanties and farms!
But what does she offer them—is it love?
As she croons her desire, is she moray, minx, dove?
Or merely a mystery: an enigma, like death,
to men bent on drowning, unhappy with breath?
Strange Tides, Stranger Tidings
by Michael R. Burch
for Sharon Rose
She walked into the sea one night
to never be seen again;
the Maelstrom made her hair a fright
as she left the world of men.
Some say she thus gained second sight.
Beware strange tides! Amen.
The first year of her life was hard;
the second was harder still.
Like a cameo carved out of sard
she bent to God’s harsh will.
At last her doctors all agreed:
“Just give her some damn chill pill!”
The years flashed by; she did not age
so much as disappeared.
For who could see
human dignity
in a thing so small, wizened and weird?
At last she had no memory
save all she’d ever feared.
Then the sea called to her strangely,
as if the Voice of God:
“I repent, O, I repent
of my Anger and my Rod!
Now I only wish to hold you,
and have you Tulip-Cod!”
She thought her nickname sweet indeed;
she did not stop to think,
for who can doubt the Word of God?
She tottered to the brink
of Doom itself, an ancient crone
doomed like a stone: to sink.
She made a votive offering;
she cast a lonely spell
upon the sea, before she stepped
into the gates of Hell;
the Maelstrom took her greedily;
she bade the world, “Farewell!”
So what became of her, you ask?
I can’t pretend to say:
did Michael and the Devil
contend for her that day?
Did the Voice of God mislead her,
or the wind lead her astray?
But sometimes late at night
when the ocean’s dreary roar
abates somewhat, an eerie light
gleams on that rocky shore,
and a lovely Mermaid, tulip-white,
sings, tremulous and pure ...
sweet ancient songs of ancient wrongs
the “love” of God endures.
Amen
I Panajia I gorgona (“The Mermaid Madonna”)
by Michael R. Burch
To touch—the trembling eagerness of fingers
that sightless, in blind darkness, knew to grope,
to seize the hand outstretched, and thus to hope ...
such was your touch, and softly, now, it lingers:
fond memory! I do not understand
this foreign hand that grasps mine now: crude claws’
rude pincers, which engage, but without cause
except to trap me in such enervate sands.
O softer than your mermaid’s swimming tresses:
your arcane touch, your almost human hand!
You held a shell shaped like an ampersand
close to my ear; the surging sea’s caresses
spoke to my heart ... until Gorgona neared
on crablike feet: repulsive, skittering, weird.
Abide
by Michael R. Burch
after Philip Larkin's "Aubade"
It is hard to understand or accept mortality—
such an alien concept: not to be.
Perhaps unsettling enough to spawn religion,
or to scare mutant fish out of a primordial sea
boiling like goopy green tea in a kettle.
Perhaps a man should exhibit more mettle
than to admit such fear, denying Nirvana exists
simply because we are stuck here in such a fine fettle.
And so we abide . . .
even in life, staring out across that dark brink.
And if the thought of death makes your questioning heart sink,
it is best not to drink
(or, drinking, certainly not to think).
#antinatalist #antinatalism #birth #born #procreation #procreate #life #death #Sophocles #Homer
antinatalist , antinatalism, birth, born, procreation, procreate, life, death, Sophocles, Homer