{"id":8287,"date":"2023-04-15T18:12:38","date_gmt":"2023-04-15T18:12:38","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/?p=8287"},"modified":"2023-04-15T18:12:38","modified_gmt":"2023-04-15T18:12:38","slug":"the-hearthside-poems-by-michael-r-burch","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/the-hearthside-poems-by-michael-r-burch\/","title":{"rendered":"The Hearthside Poems by Michael R. Burch"},"content":{"rendered":"
\r\nSomething<\/strong>\r\n\r\nfor the children of the Holocaust and the Nakba<\/em>\r\n\r\nSomething inescapable is lost\u2014\r\nlost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight,\r\nvanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars\r\nimmeasurable and void.\r\n\r\nSomething uncapturable is gone\u2014\r\ngone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn,\r\nscattered into a haze with the faint rustle of parched grass\r\nand remembrance.\r\n\r\nSomething unforgettable is past\u2014\r\nblown from a glimmer into nothingness, or less,\r\nwhich finality has swept into a corner ... where it lies\r\nin dust and cobwebs and silence.\r\n\r\n\r\nStyx<\/strong>\r\n\r\nBlack waters\u2014deep and dark and still.\r\nAll men have passed this way, or will.<\/em>\r\n\r\n\r\nSpring Was Delayed<\/strong>\r\n\r\n\r\nWinter came early:\r\nthe driving snows,\r\nthe delicate frosts\r\nthat crystallize\r\n\r\nall we forget\r\nor refuse to know,\r\nall we regret\r\nthat makes us wise.\r\n\r\nSpring was delayed:\r\nthe nubile rose,\r\nthe tentative sun,\r\nthe wind\u2019s soft sighs,\r\n\r\nall we omit\r\nor refuse to show,\r\nwhatever we shield\r\nbehind guarded eyes.\r\n\r\n \r\nInfinity<\/strong>\r\n\r\nfor Beth<\/em>\r\n\r\nHave you tasted the bitterness of tears of despair?\r\nHave you watched the sun sink through such pale, balmless air\r\nthat your soul sought its shell like a crab on a beach,\r\nthen scuttled inside to be safe, out of reach?\r\n\r\nMight I lift you tonight from earth\u2019s wreckage and damage\r\non these waves gently rising to pay the moon homage?\r\nOr better, perhaps, let me say that I, too,\r\nhave dreamed of infinity . . . windswept and blue.\r\n\r\n\r\nHearthside<\/strong>\r\n\r\n\u201cWhen you are old and grey and full of sleep...\u201d <\/em> \u2014 W.  B.  Yeats\r\n\r\n \r\nFor all that we professed of love, we knew\r\nthis night would come, that we would bend alone\r\nto tend wan fires\u2019 dimming bars\u2014the moan\r\nof wind cruel as the Trumpet, gelid dew\r\nan eerie presence on encrusted logs\r\nwe hoard like jewels, embrittled so ourselves.\r\n\r\nThe books that line these close, familiar shelves\r\nloom down like dreary chaperones. Wild dogs,\r\ntoo old for mates, cringe furtive in the park,\r\nas, toothless now, I frame this parchment kiss.\r\n\r\nI do not know the words for easy bliss\r\nand so my shriveled fingers clutch this stark,\r\nlong-unenamored pen and will it: Move.\r\nI loved you more than words, so let words prove.\r\n\r\n\r\nLove Has a Southern Flavor<\/strong>\r\n\r\nLove has a Southern flavor: honeydew,\r\nripe cantaloupe, the honeysuckle\u2019s spout\r\nwe tilt to basking faces to breathe out\r\nthe ordinary, and inhale perfume ...\r\n\r\nLove\u2019s Dixieland-rambunctious: tangled vines,\r\nwild clematis, the gold-brocaded leaves\r\nthat will not keep their order in the trees,\r\nunmentionables that peek from dancing lines ...\r\n\r\nLove cannot be contained, like Southern nights:\r\nthe constellations\u2019 dying mysteries,\r\nthe fireflies that hum to light, each tree\u2019s\r\nresplendent autumn cape, a genteel sight ...\r\n\r\nLove also is as wild, as sprawling-sweet,\r\nas decadent as the wet leaves at our feet.\r\n\r\n\r\nRemembering Not to Call<\/strong>\r\n\r\na villanelle permitting mourning, for my mother, Christine Ena Burch<\/em>\r\n\r\n \r\nThe hardest thing of all,\r\nafter telling her everything,\r\nis remembering not to call.\r\n\r\nNow the phone hanging on the wall\r\nwill never announce her ring:\r\nthe hardest thing of all\r\nfor children, however tall.\r\n\r\nAnd the hardest thing this spring\r\nwill be remembering not to call\r\nthe one who was everything.\r\n\r\nThat the songbirds will nevermore sing\r\nis the hardest thing of all\r\nfor those who once listened, in thrall,\r\nand welcomed the message they bring,\r\nsince they won\u2019t remember to call.\r\n\r\nAnd the hardest thing this fall\r\nwill be a number with no one to ring.\r\n\r\nNo, the hardest thing of all\r\nis remembering not<\/em> to call.\r\n\r\n\r\nSunset<\/strong>\r\n\r\nfor my grandfather, George Edwin Hurt Sr.<\/em>\r\n\r\nBetween the prophecies of morning\r\nand twilight\u2019s revelations of wonder,\r\nthe sky is ripped asunder.\r\n\r\nThe moon lurks in the clouds,\r\nwaiting, as if to plunder\r\nthe dusk of its lilac iridescence,\r\n                                                                                   The \r\nand in the bright-tentacled sunset\r\nwe imagine a presence\r\nfull of the fury of lost innocence.\r\n\r\nWhat we find within strange whorls of drifting flame,\r\nbrief patterns mauling winds deform and maim,\r\nwe recognize at once, but cannot name. <\/pre>\n
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\nMichael R. Burch<\/strong> is an American poet who lives in Nashville, Tennessee with his wife Beth and two incredibly spoiled puppies. He has over 6,000 publications, including poems that have gone viral. His poems, translations, essays, articles, letters, epigrams, jokes and puns have been published by TIME, USA Today, BBC Radio 3, Writer\u2019s Digest\u2013The Year\u2019s Best Writing<\/em> and hundreds of literary journals. His poetry has been translated into 14 languages, taught in high schools and colleges, and set to music by 23 composers, including two potential operas if the money ever materializes. He also edits www.thehypertexts.com<\/a>, has served as editor of international poetry and translations for Better Than Starbucks<\/em>, is on the board of Borderless Journal<\/em>, an international literary journal, and has judged a number of poetry contests over the years.
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Something for the children of the Holocaust and the Nakba Something inescapable is lost\u2014 lost like a pale vapor curling up into shafts of moonlight, vanishing in a gust of wind toward an expanse of stars immeasurable and void. Something uncapturable is gone\u2014 gone with the spent leaves and illuminations of autumn, scattered into a … Read more<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[587,808,796,366,754,401],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8287"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=8287"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8287\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8290,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8287\/revisions\/8290"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=8287"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=8287"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.artvilla.com\/plt\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=8287"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}