These are epigrams written by Michael R. Burch and his translations of epigrams written by other poets.
Native American Prayer
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Help us learn the lessons you have left us here
in every leaf and rock.
***
A question that sometimes drives me hazy:
am I or are the others crazy?
—Albert Einstein, poetic interpretation by Michael R. Burch
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The childless woman,
how tenderly she caresses
homeless dolls ...
—Hattori Ransetsu, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
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Are mayflies missed by mountains? Do stars
applaud the glowworm’s stellar mimicry?
—Michael R. Burch
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I wish I could wash
this perishing earth
in its shimmering dew.
—Basho, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
***
Prose Epigrams
The most dangerous words ever uttered by human lips are “Thus saith the LORD.” — Michael R. Burch
Experience is the best teacher but a hard taskmaster.—Michael R. Burch
Time will tell, as it always does in the end.—Michael R. Burch
One man's coronation is another man's consternation.—Michael R. Burch
The Golden Rule is much easier to recite than observe. — Michael R. Burch
The Golden Rule is much easier to recite for others' benefit than to observe oneself. — Michael R. Burch
Consider a Golden Mean when the Golden Rule is employed. Some people are much harder on themselves than on others. — Michael R. Burch
Poets must sometimes re-butt asses like Trump.—Michael R. Burch
Trump’s real goals are obvious
and yet millions of Americans remain oblivious.
—Michael R. Burch
Justice may be blind, but does she have to be deaf too?—Michael R. Burch
There is nothing at all supreme, nor anything remotely just, about Clarence Thomas.—Michael R. Burch
To live without philosophizing is to close one's eyes and never attempt to open them.—Rene Descartes, loose translation by Michael R. Burch
The editors of Poetry know no more about poetry than I do about basket-weaving, except that I know a good basket when I have it in my hands.—Michael R. Burch
Keywords/Tags: epigram, epigrams, poet, poets, poems, poetry, antinatalist, antinatalism, rejection, slip
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When you’ve given so much
that I can’t bear your touch,
then from a safe distance
let me admire your persistence.
('Mini-Ode to Stamina' by Michael R. Burch)
***
Paradoxical Ode to Antinatalism
by Michael R. Burch
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!
***
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.
***
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.
Abu al-Ala Al-Ma'arri (973-1057), antinatalist Shyari
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
***
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.
Published by Angle, Poem Today (featured poem), Heartfelt Death Poems, Girls and Goblins and Madly Jane
***
Rejection Slip
by Michael R. Burch
pour Melissa Balmain
Whenever my writing gets rejected
I always wonder how the rejecter got elected.
Are we exchanging at the same Bourse?
(Excepting present company, of course!)
I consider the term “rejection slip” to be a double entendre. When editors reject my poems, did I slip up, or did they?
***
Confetti for Ferlinghetti
by Michael R. Burch
Lawrence Ferlinghetti
is the only poet whose name rhymes with “spaghetti”
and, while not being quite as rich as J. Paul Getty,
he still deserves some confetti
for selling a million books while being a modern Dante Gabriel Rossetti.
Like Dante Gabriel Rossetti, his rhyming namesake Lawrence Ferlinghetti was a poet and a painter. Ferlinghetti also wore other hats: playwright, novelist, publisher, bookstore owner and activist. In 1953, he founded City Lights, the first all-paperback bookshop in the United States, which quickly became a Mecca for the Beats and other progressive literary types. In 1956, he published Howl, then defeated the censors in a landmark court case. That landmark victory paved the way for previously banned books, such as Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Tropic of Cancer, to be sold legally. Ferlinghetti’s most famous poetry collection, A Coney Island of the Mind (1958), has sold over one million copies at home and abroad.
***
The Humpback
by Michael R. Burch
The humpback is a gullet
equipped with snarky fins.
It has a winning smile:
and when it SMILES, it wins
as miles and miles of herring
excite its fearsome grins.
So beware, unwary whalers,
lest you drown, sans feet and shins!
***
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.
***
Ding Dong ...
by Michael R. Burch
for Fliss
An impertinent bit of sunlight
defeated a goddess, NIGHT.
Hooray!, cried the clover,
Her reign is over!
But she certainly gave us a fright!
***
Be very careful what you pray for!
by Michael R. Burch
Now that his T’s been depleted
the Saint is upset, feeling cheated.
His once-fiery lust?
Just a chemical bust:
no “devil” cast out or defeated.
***
The Flu Fly Flew
by Michael R. Burch
A fly with the flu foully flew
up my nose—thought I’d die—had to sue!
Was the small villain fined?
An abrupt judge declined
my case, since I’d “failed to achoo!”
***
Hell-Bound Hounds
by Michael R. Burch
We have five dogs and every one’s a sinner!
I swear it’s true—they’ll steal each other’s dinner!
They’ll hump before they’re married. That’s unlawful!
They’ll even screw in public. Eek, so awful!
And when it’s time for treats (don’t gasp!), they’ll beg!
They have no pride! They’ll even hump your leg!
Our oldest Yorkie murdered dear, sweet Olive,
our helpless hamster! None will go to college
or work to pay their room and board, or vets!
When the Devil says, “Pee here!” they all yip, “Let’s!”
And yet they’re sweet and loyal, so I doubt
the Lord will dump them in hell’s dark redoubt . . .
which means there’s hope for you, perhaps for me.
But as for cats? I say, “Best wait and see.”
***
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?
***
Anti-Vegan Manifesto
by Michael R. Burch
Let us
avoid lettuce,
sincerely,
and also celery!
***
Rising Fall
by Michael R. Burch
after Keats
Seasons of mellow fruitfulness
collect at last into mist
some brisk wind will dismiss ...
Where, indeed, are the showers of April?
Where, indeed, the bright flowers of May?
But feel no dismay ...
It’s time to make hay!
I believe the closing line was influenced by this remark J. R. R. Tolkien made about the inspiration for his plucky hobbits: “I've always been impressed that we're here surviving because of the indomitable courage of quite small people against impossible odds: jungles, volcanoes, wild beasts ... they struggle on, almost blindly in a way.” Thus, whatever our apprehensions about the coming winter, when autumn falls and fall rises, it’s time to make hay.
***
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!
***
I didn’t mean to love you,
but I did.
Best leave the rest unsaid,
hid-
den
and unbidden.
—Michael R. Burch
You imagine life is good,
but have you actually understood?
—Michael R. Burch
Living with a body ain’t much fun.
Harder, still, to live without one.
Whatever happened to our day in the sun?
—Michael R. Burch
How little remains of our joys and our pains.
How little remains of our losses and gains.
How little remains of whatever remains.
—Michael R. Burch
Sometimes I feel better, it’s true,
but mostly I’m still not over you.
—Michael R. Burch
Don’t let the past defeat you.
Learn from it, but don’t dwell.
Have no regrets at “farewell.”
—Michael R. Burch
Haughty moon,
when did I ever trouble you,
insomnia’s co-conspirator!
—Michael R. Burch
Every day’s a new chance to lose weight,
but most likely,
I’ll
... procrastinate ...
—Michael R. Burch
***
Big Ben Boner
by Michael R. Burch
Early to bed, hurriedly to rise
makes a man stealthy,
and that’s why he’s wealthy:
what the hell is he doing behind your closed eyes?
Friend, how you’ll squirm
when you belatedly learn
that you’re the worm!
***
Pecking Disorder
by Michael R. Burch
Love has a pecking order,
or maybe a dis-order,
a hell we recognize
if we merely open our eyes:
the attractive win at birth,
while those of ample girth
are deemed of little worth
from Nottingham to Perth.
Nottingham is said to have the most beautiful women in the world.
***
Tease
by Michael R. Burch
It’s what you always say, okay?
It’s what you always say:
C’mon let’s play,
roll in the hay,
It’s what you always say. Ole!
But little do you do, it’s true.
But little do you do.
A little diddle, run to piddle ...
we never really screw!
That’s you!
***
Observance (II)
by Michael R. Burch
fifty years later...
The trees are in their autumn beauty,
majestic to the eye.
Whoever felt as I,
whoever
felt them doomed to die
despite their flamboyant colors?
They seem like knights of dismal countenance ...
as if, windmills themselves,
they might tilt with the bloody sky.
And yet their favors gaily fly!
KEYWORDS/TAGS: epigram, epigrams, love, life, living, fun, sun, joy, pain, past, sad, sadness
***
A More Likely Plot for “Romeo and Juliet”
by Michael R. Burch
Wont to croon
by the light of the moon
on a rickety ladder,
mad as a hatter,
Romeo crashed to the earth in a swoon,
broke his leg,
had to beg,
repented of falling in love too soon.
A nurse, averse
to his seductive verse,
aware of his madness
and familial badness,
searched for the stiletto in her purse.
Meanwhile, Juliet
began to fret
that the roguish poet
(wouldn’t you know it?)
had pledged his “love” because of a bet!
A gang of young thugs
and loutish lugs
had their faces engraved on “wanted” mugs.
They were doomed to fail,
ended up in jail,
became young fascists and cried “Sieg Heil!”
No tickets were sold,
no tickets were bought,
because, in the end, it all came to naught.
Exeunt stage left.
***
Apologies to España
by Michael R. Burch
the reign
in Trump’s brain
falls mainly as mansplain
***
No Star
by Michael R. Burch
Trump, you're no "star."
Putin made you an American Czar.
Now, if we continue down this dark path you've chosen,
pretty soon we'll be wearing lederhosen.
***
tRUMP is the butt of many jokes.—Michael R. Burch
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Wayne Gretzky was pure skill poured into skates.—Michael R. Burch
***
Cassidy Hutchinson is not only credible, but her courage and poise under fire have been incredible. — Michael R. Burch
Cassidy Hutchinson is a modern Erin Brockovich except that in her case the well has been poisoned for the whole country. — Michael R. Burch
***
Morgause’s Song
by Michael R. Burch
Before he was my brother,
he was my lover,
though certainly not the best.
I found no joy
in that addled boy,
nor he at my breast.
Why him? Why him?
As the candles dim,
it grows harder and harder to say ...
Perhaps girls and boys
are the god’s toys
when they lose their way.
Published by Celtic Twilight
I have three different endings for this poem. I went with “when they lose their way” because it seems a bit darker and eerier to me. Do the gods take advantage of children who have lost their way? They certainly don’t do anything to help them, apparently. My original ending was “when the skies are gray,” suggesting that when the children were forced to play inside by bad weather, which happens a lot in rainy England, they chose an adult form of indoor play. But I didn’t like doubling the passive “are” when I wanted a strong closing stanza. My third ending was “when it’s time to play,” which suggests that as the children were playing with each other, the gods were toying with them. But Morgause’s “perhaps” leaves everything up in the air. Perhaps it was the gods, or perhaps it was just nature taking its course, or perhaps it was something she doesn’t want to admit about herself. Morgause was an enchantress. Did she lure Arthur into having sex, knowing what would result? If so, why?
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