Michael R. Burch |
Native American
Travelers' Blessing
loose
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Let
us walk respectfully here
among
earth's creatures, great and small,
remembering,
our footsteps light,
that
one wise God created all.
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.
Cherokee
Prayer
loose
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
As
I walk life's trails
imperiled
by the raging wind and rain,
grant,
O Great Spirit,
that
yet I may always
walk
like a man.
This
prayer makes me think of Native Americans walking the Trail of Tears with far
more courage and dignity than their “civilized” abusers.
Cherokee
Proverb
loose
translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Before
you judge
a
man for his sins
be
sure to trudge
many
moons in his moccasins.
Sunset, at
Laugharne
for
Dylan Thomas
At
Laugharne, in his thirty-fifth year,
he
watched the starkeyed hawk career;
he
felt the vested heron bless,
and
larks and finches everywhere
sank
with the sun, their missives west—
where
faith is light; his nightjarred breast
watched
passion dovetail to its rest.
*
He watched the gulls above green shires
flock
shrieking, fleeing priested shores
with
silver fishes stilled on spears.
He
felt the pressing weight of years
in
ways he never had before—
that
gravity no brightness spares
from
sunken hills to unseen stars.
He
saw his father’s face in waves
which
gently lapped Wales’ gulled green bays.
He
wrote as passion swelled to rage—
the
dying light, the unturned page,
the
unburned soul’s devoured sage.
*
The
words he gathered clung together
till
night—the jetted raven’s feather—
fell,
fell . . . and all was as before . . .
till
silence lapped Laugharne’s dark shore
diminished,
where his footsteps shone
in
pools of fading light—no more.
Herbsttag (“Autumn
Day”)
by
Rainer Maria Rilke
translation/interpretation
by Michael R. Burch
Lord,
it is time. Let the immense summer go.
Lay
your long shadows over the sundials
and
over the meadows, let the free winds blow.
Command
the late fruits to fatten and shine;
O,
grant them another Mediterranean hour!
Urge
them to completion, and with power
convey
final sweetness to the heavy wine.
Who
has no house now, never will build one.
Who's
alone now, shall continue alone;
he'll
wake, read, write long letters to friends,
and
pace the tree-lined pathways up and down,
restlessly,
as autumn leaves drift and descend.
Hearthside
“When
you are old and grey and full of sleep...”
— W. B. Yeats
For
all that we professed of love, we knew
this
night would come, that we would bend alone
to
tend wan fires’ dimming bars—the moan
of
wind cruel as the Trumpet, gelid dew
an
eerie presence on encrusted logs
we
hoard like jewels, embrittled so ourselves.
The
books that line these close, familiar shelves
loom
down like dreary chaperones. Wild dogs,
too
old for mates, cringe furtive in the park,
as,
toothless now, I frame this parchment kiss.
I
do not know the words for easy bliss
and
so my shriveled fingers clutch this stark,
long-unenamored
pen and will it: Move.
I
loved you more than words, so let words prove.
who, US?
by Michael R. Burch
jesus
was born
a
palestinian child
where
there’s no Room
for
the meek and the mild
...
and in bethlehem still
to
this day, lambs are born
to
cries of “no Room!”
and
Puritanical scorn ...
under
Herod, Trump, Bibi
their
fates are the same—
the
slouching Beast mauls them
and
WE have no shame:
“who’s
to blame?”
It is always an honor to be published by Setu!
ReplyDeleteWonderful poetry...truly enjoyed reading the poems. Thank you.
ReplyDelete