Epigrams 6 Poem by Michael Burch

epigrams 6

These are humorous epigrams: puns, wordplay, quips, zingers, japes, jests, gags, giggles, one-liners, irony, etc.



State of the Art
by Michael R. Burch

A poet may work from sun to sun,
but his editor's work is never done.

The editor's work is never done.
The critic adjusts his cummerbund.

While the critic adjusts his cummerbund,
the audience exits to mingle and slum.

As the audience exits to mingle and slum,
the anthologist rules, a pale jury of one.



Incompatibles
by Michael R. Burch

Reason's
treason!
cries the Heart.

Love's
insane,
replies the Brain.



Grave Oversight
by Michael R. Burch

The dead are always with us,
and yet they are naught!



Mate Check
by Michael R. Burch

Love is an ache hearts willingly secure
then break the bank to cure.



Imperfect Perfection
by Michael R. Burch

You're too perfect for words—
a problem for a poet.



Truths are more likely discovered by one man than by nations.
—Rene Descartes, translation by Michael R. Burch



Dawn
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth, Laura and all good mothers

Bring your particular strength
to the strange nightmarish fray:
wrap up your cherished ones
in the golden light of day.



Childless
by Michael R. Burch

How can she bear her grief?
Mightier than Atlas, she shoulders the weight
Of one fallen star.



Ironic Vacation
by Michael R. Burch

Salzburg.
Seeing Mozart's baby grand piano.
Standing in the presence of sheer incalculable genius.
Grabbing my childish pen to write a poem
& challenge the Immortals.
Next stop, the catacombs!



A question that sometimes drives me hazy:
am I or are the others crazy?
—Albert Einstein, poetic interpretation by Michael R. Burch



'Lu Zhai' ('Deer Park')
by Wang Wei (699-759)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Uninhabited hills...
except that now and again the silence is broken
by something like the sound of distant voices
as the sun's sinking rays illuminate lichens...

Wang Wei (699-759) was a Chinese poet, musician, painter, and politician during the Tang dynasty. He had 29 poems included in the 18th-century anthology Three Hundred Tang Poems. 'Lu Zhai' ('Deer Park') is one of his best-known poems.



Untitled

I sampled honeysuckle
and it made my taste buds buckle.


My objective is not to side with the majority, but to escape the ranks of the insane.—Marcus Aurelius, translation by Michael R. Burch



Brief Fling
by Michael R. Burch

"Epigram"
means cram,
then scram!



Clodhoppers
by Michael R. Burch

If you trust the Christian 'god'
you're—like Adumb—a clod.




beMused
by Michael R. Burch

Perhaps at three
you'll come to tea,
to have a cuppa here?

You'll just stop in
to sip dry gin?
I only have a beer.

To name the 'greats':
Pope, Dryden, mates?
The whole world knows their names.

Discuss the 'songs'
of Emerson?
But these are children's games.

Give me rhythms
wild as Dylan's!
Give me Bobbie Burns!

Give me Psalms,
or Hopkins' poems,
Hart Crane's, if he returns!

Or Langston railing!
Blake assailing!
Few others I desire.

Or go away,
yes, leave today:
your tepid poets tire.


The Song of Amergin I
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

I am the sea breeze
I am the ocean wave
I am the surf's thunder
I am the stag of the seven tines
I am the cliff hawk
I am the sunlit dewdrop
I am the fairest flower
I am the rampaging boar
I am the swift-swimming salmon
I am the placid lake
I am the excellence of art
I am the vale echoing voices
I am the battle-hardened spearhead
I am the God who gave you fire
Who knows the secrets of the unhewn dolmen
Who understands the cycles of the moon
Who knows where the sunset settles...



Impotent
by Michael R. Burch

Tonight my pen
is barren
of passion, spent of poetry.

I hear your name
upon the rain
and yet it cannot comfort me.

I feel the pain
of dreams that wane,
of poems that falter, losing force.

I write again
words without end,
but I cannot control their course...

Tonight my pen
is sullen
and wants no more of poetry.

I hear your voice
as if a choice,
but how can I respond, or flee?

I feel a flame
I cannot name
that sends me searching for a word,

but there is none
not over-done,
unless it's one I never heard.

I believe this poem was written in my late teens or early twenties.

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Published as the collection 'Epigrams 5'