ballad

"Finally to Burn" is a poem about the Fall and Resurrection of Icarus, with the assistance of Tom o’Bedlam.

Finally to Burn
by Michael R. Burch

Athena takes me
sometimes by the hand

and we go levitating
through strange Dreamlands

where Apollo sleeps
in his dark forgetting

and Passion seems
like a wise bloodletting

and all I remember
,upon awaking,

is: to Love sometimes
is like forsaking

one’s Being—to drift
heroically beyond thought,

forsaking the here
for the There and the Not.

The friends we had, the friends we left
Along the siren streets
A signal past, a thousand thefts
In red light, white light beats
 
Oh, where can I rest in this hidden town
As wind comes whistling through
In light and dark, as it rains down,
A dancer flails there too
 
Somewhere she dwells, the chastised nun,
A remnant work of whim
Perhaps it’s one or maybe none
She waits and waits for him
 
The courtyard halls where beauty haunts
In bellows of burial bells
At night it sleeps its lot of want

The General went fore, a prisoner of war,
Enchained at the enemy’s behest;
But now he’s back, the dust is slack,
With wine I greet my guest.
 
We sing in verse of skies and birds,
Forbidding a barrack word;
With spring before, we leave the war
And howls of night unheard.
 
But peaceful strolls leave generals no role:
The King alone we know;
To climb up high you weary your thighs,
But gaze at your sword and go.
 
 

Afar I row a little boat,
An island of song and show;
Ashore I leave a nighttime note
Of footsteps laid below.
 
For now it drizzles mist ahead,
Mixed in with dark night green;
I walk a path where willows tread,
A painted river scene.
 
I open the door and see a room
Of skirts in red and plum;
With girls a-sway and arms abloom,
The beating of a drum.
 
I watch until my bottle goes,
The noise will leave us soon;
Outside a child unfolds a rose,
Her soul beneath moon.

Today no toll in work or soul
As spring is green with ease;
In Central Park I make my mark
To see the cherry trees.
 
A bird lets out its welcome shout
Beneath the building glass;
The wind lets bare a woman’s hair
In lovely, flowing mass.
 
I know the moon will come out soon,
For now the sun’s on track;
I gaze at bluffs with cherry puffs,
Unwilling to go back.

By chance I saw her at the corner
Of Fifth and Forty-Eight;
The crowd moved past, we talked at last,
And smiled as on a date.
We planned to meet again sometime
Or talk at any rate,
But the number she gave I failed to save,
As charm’s a poor cousin to fate.